61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2) (7 page)

Then again, just being in Londinium presented a risk in itself. The city had grown large enough that the Council had probably gained enough interest in the region to put a portal here. Nothing fancy, of course. The building would just resemble a dilapidated structure somewhere in the city walls. It wouldn’t look like much, but it would be a gateway to untold numbers of the Council’s minions.

Theron made a mental note to be extra careful. If he spotted any sign of the Council, he would leave. But for now, the bait was too tempting not to try and get a bite.

Taras. That damned former legionary who’d somehow managed to turn Theron’s world upside down by being alive when he was supposed to be dead. True, Theron’s own carelessness led to
Taras’s
transformation, but if the bastard had just taken him to Jesus’ tomb when he asked, Theron would still be in good standing with his people. He could have gone to the tomb, taken the rabbi’s head, and then presented it to the Council as proof of a job well done. He would still be Lead Enforcer, and privy to the Halls of the Bachiyr, with his own apartments and amenities. He would still be able to enjoy all the benefits of his once lofty status.

Instead he was strolling through a doomed city in stolen peasant’s garb and trying not to arouse the suspicion of a few human guards. Humiliating.

He stepped off the cart and into the street, taking a good, long look at the people leaving the city. Not a single one of them glowed, he noted with more than a little relief. Apparently the fires of faith that burned so brightly in Jerusalem after the death of Jesus had not reached this far. Good. Doubtless the Roman gods ruled here, or possibly the gods of the local people. Either way, it would make his job easier. If he didn’t have to contend with any faithful Jews or any followers of the dead rabbi, then he should be fine as long as he didn’t linger. The Iceni could arrive any day. He gave himself one night to find Taras. If he could not locate Taras in that time he would leave the city and try again some other night.

He walked away from the horses and cart, leaving them tied to the post, threading his way through the exodus of people leaving Londinium. The man back in Spain had said something about the Market district. That made sense. Markets were usually crowded and busy, full of people who had more important things to do than watch a stranger. There would be plenty of people to feed from in a city like this: prostitutes, beggars, thieves. Lots of humans no one would miss. And most of them would be in the Market district.

Theron stepped slowly through the city. He had plenty of time. The sun had only set two hours ago. The peasant who owned the cart had filled his belly well, so he didn’t need to feed. He could take his time and learn the layout of the streets, which would be especially handy if he had to make a fast getaway. As he watched yet another family leave their home, carrying their possessions over their shoulders, he realized that the need for a fast escape might be a distinct possibility.

***

Boudica stepped from the tub, the warm water running down her body and pooling on the floor. Her youngest daughter Lannosea waited nearby with a soft robe, and she slipped her arms into the sleeves, wincing as the fabric touched the scars on her back. The pain was only mental, she told herself. The tissues had healed months ago. Still, whenever anything touched the sensitive scar tissue, it reminded her of those days immediately after the flogging when her skin felt like it was on fire, and the slightest touch was agony.

Her daughter’s eyes dropped to the ground. She didn’t like the reminders, either. Boudica had been flogged by the Romans, but her daughters had been beaten and raped at the hands of the guttural legionaries. All in all, the queen felt she’d gotten off easier than they.

She remembered every detail. The smell of the Romans’ sweat, the bitter smell of burning pitch, the sound of the whip, the pain in her back, even the grunting of the Roman officers as they took from her two daughters what their future husbands should have gotten. The Romans laughed as the girls cried, then they invited the other men to join them. So many men had their way with her daughters that she lost count. The memories would never fade, she knew. She would feel and hear those indignities until her last breath. But before she went to her grave, she meant to send as many Romans as possible to theirs.

She dried off, and was just getting dressed when her oldest daughter, Heanua, came into the chamber. Unlike Lannosea, the Roman brutality had not weakened Heanua to the point of meekness. Instead, Boudica saw a fire in her eyes to match her own.
Heanua will seek her revenge until long after I am gone,
she thought proudly.

“My Queen,” Heanua said, bowing, “The messenger from the
Trinovante has arrived.”

“Does he have news?” Boudica asked.

“If so, he has not shared it. He will only speak with you directly.”

Boudica nodded. “Very well. Inform him I will be with him shortly.”

Heanua nodded and left the room, a slight eagerness to her step. If the messenger from the Trinovante brought the news they were hoping for, they would have plenty of weapons and warriors to attack Londinium.

The Trinovante, a neighboring tribe, held no love for the Romans. Under Roman rule their lands had been stolen, their taxes raised to shocking amounts, and their citizens were killed if they spoke against the treatment. Since the Iceni had given up their weapons years ago as part of the original treaty with Rome, Boudica had been forced to seek their assistance. Their neighbors were eager to help, and had been supplying weapons and warriors to help with the rebellion. Together, they’d already burned two of the region’s largest cities to the ground and killed thousands of Romans.

And Boudica had savored every moment.

She finished drying herself, then slipped into a long purple dress with white trim. The dress was for show, it would be useless to fight in such an outfit. But the soft purple cloth spoke of the wealth and power that Rome had stolen from her, and it was good to give the impression to her allies that she still held on to a piece of it.

Lannosea helped her put her arms through the sleeves. As had been the case since the Roman soldiers raped her, she went about her task in silence. Her eyes never ventured higher than Boudica’s shoulders. Tonight, Boudica had no doubt the girl would get little sleep, plagued as she was by nightmares. She never spoke of the dreams—or anything else, for that matter—but Boudica could guess well enough what terrors awaited her daughter when she closed her eyes at night.
 

She sighed, remembering a time not so long ago when Lannosea had been bright and happy, her eyes shining from her beautiful face, with a smile to rival the sun. The girl’s yellow hair gleamed in the sunlight so brightly that Boudica sometimes had to shield her eyes for fear of being blinded. She would have made a fine queen, with a kind soul and a strong mind. But now…she was not so sure.

Lannosea walked through the camp like a wraith, eating little and drinking even less. When she spoke, it was in short, quiet sentences, and then only when someone spoke to her first. The Romans had made her weak. At first Boudica tolerated the change, knowing that Lannosea needed time to heal her tortured mind. But now she had a rebellion to lead and a kingdom to retake. She could not afford to appear weak in front of the messenger, who would doubtless take his impression of the Iceni camp back to his king. She would have to make sure Lannosea was nowhere near when she received the man.

Boudica finished dressing, then stepped out of the chamber. She paused in the doorway to look back at Lannosea, and found her sitting on a soft chair, staring vacantly at the floor and wringing her fingers. Her eyes gleamed with ever-present moisture, as they had since that fateful night when Nero’s dogs showed their true colors. Boudica felt a moment of pity. If only she could talk to her youngest daughter. To somehow ease her suffering. Perhaps she should try again…

But the messenger was waiting.

She steeled herself, drew in a deep breath, and left Lannosea in the chamber. She would deal with Lannie later. When this rebellion was over and she had taken back her kingdom from the wretched Romans, she would present it to Lannosea as a gift. Then she could hold her daughter in her arms and give her the comfort she so desperately needed.

Right now she had a war to win.

6

Taras stepped into the damp, moldy building he’d been using for shelter during the day. The smell of moist wood and fungus filled the room like a rotting cloud. The previous tenant’s body lay right where he left it. Not a drop of blood remained in it, of course, but even if some remained it would have done him no good. Dead blood is useless to Bachiyr. He found that out several years ago after trying to feed on a recently slain robber. The dead man’s blood tasted different, foul. It hadn’t harmed him, but the spoiled blood was inert, as though missing an ingredient. He had no idea what that might be, but it didn’t matter. He just made sure to take his fill from every single victim. He sidestepped the corpse and wandered deeper into the place, headed for the bed chamber and what few possessions he would take with him.

Taras didn’t own much. His fugitive lifestyle demanded that he travel light. He never knew when he would have to run. It seemed the time had come again. During his walk through the market district he’d felt a strange tingle on the back of his neck. It defied explanation, but his skin pricked and tickled as if a thousand tiny needles danced across its surface. He’d felt eyes on him, which was strange since most of Londinium’s people seemed to be on the way out of the city. But the oddest thing about it was the sense of familiarity. Of déjà vu. He’d felt it before, but couldn’t place it.

Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be good.

He stepped into the bedchamber—equally as moldy and damp as the outer room—and pulled his traveling bag from the hook in the wall. As he slipped it over his shoulder, a small scrap of pale blue cloth fell out and floated to the ground. A piece of the dress Mary died in. Taras eyed it for a moment, trying not to see the brown stain where her blood had dried. The blood had long ago vanished, leaving only the stain behind, but he could see it as if it were still wet and glistening in the moonlight next to Mary’s bleeding and broken body.

He reached down to pick up the strip, now dingy and dirty from years of being in his pack. The image of the blood brought a tinge of hunger to his belly, but he suppressed it easily. Memories of his dead love had that effect on him.

Mary.

He hadn’t thought about her for months. He almost wanted to think he was forgetting about her, which would make things easier for his heavy heart, but that would be a lie. If he lived another thousand years he would never forget Mary’s face. She had been everything to him. Taras had even ended his service to Rome just to be with her, yet she died that same night. He’d loved her and Rome more than his own life, and both had been stolen from him by a Bachiyr who’d used him to frame an innocent man.

His career in Rome and Mary were both gone, and his life, such as it was, remained intact. He was no longer a Legionary, or anyone’s lover, or even human. All that remained of the life he’d lost was the small patch of blue cloth in his hand, which he still carried everywhere he went. Theron had taken those things from him. He’d stolen them as sure as he’d stolen Mary’s ring from her finger as she lay dying in the alley. Taras had bought her that ring, a symbol of their forbidden love.

“I will find you someday, Theron,” Taras whispered to the empty room. He folded the strip of cloth and tucked it into his bag. “When I do, you will not get away again.”

“Marvelous,” said a female voice behind him. “I absolutely adore bravado.”

Taras whirled, claws at the ready, his pack dropped to the floor without a thought. He crouched low as he spun, making himself a smaller target for the vampire he knew must be swinging at him even now.

But the only other Bachiyr in the room stood ten feet away, leaning against the doorframe and wearing a smile that revealed the two bright, sharp points of her canines. Taras stood slowly, keeping his claws out and ready to fight.

“Put those away,” she said, nodding toward his hands. “You will not need them, and they would do you no good, in any case.”

Taras scoffed, and the woman sighed. She waved her fingers at him and whispered a few words in a language he did not understand. A strange tingle ran through his arms, and then his claws retreated back into his fists on their own. Taras stared at his vanishing weapons, willing them to slow or stop, but they didn’t. In only a few seconds his hands were normal again.

He looked up at the woman in his doorway. She winked, then yawned, revealing her fangs in gleaming white detail. “Now we can talk,” she said.

“Talk?” Taras asked, backing toward the window. Several wooden boards blocked it—Taras had added them to shield the place from sunlight—but he could break through them if he had to. “About what?”

“Something we both want, Taras. And stop moving toward the window. I could kill you before you broke the first board if I wanted. I’m not here for that.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. How the hell did she know who he was?

She stepped into the room with a silky, lethal grace, giving Taras his first good look at her. Her long black hair spilled in waves over her shoulders. Aristocratic, sharp features dominated her lovely face. Her black eyes glittered with amusement, and a faint trace of a smile tugged at the corners of her deep red lips. Her clothing clung to her like a second skin, leaving very little to the imagination. He found his eyes drawn to the shapely swell of her breasts. Had he still had need of breath, she would have taken it away. As it was, he could not help but stare at her dangerous beauty.