Lannosea and Taras had both passed this way.
Do not come looking for me again, Taras had said. The next time we meet, I will kill you.
No chance of that, he thought. I am finished with you, Roman. Theron had initially considered chasing after the tall Roman. However, his weakened state and his practical nature stopped him. He would gain nothing by going after Taras again, and in his current condition, he would probably lose. Better to keep going and live long enough to experiment with this new method of using blood. He had a feeling that altering the thickness of his wrists was just the beginning. How much more could he do that the Council had never taught anyone? The implications were staggering.
Perhaps someday I will come for you again after all, Taras.
But not any time soon. First, he would need to live long enough to develop this newfound power, and in order to ensure that, he needed blood. Lots of it. He’d lost quite a bit to Taras’s claws in the tunnel, and he would need extra blood to use in his experiments. So he continued walking among the trees, looking for any sign of people.
Before long, he spotted a flickering orange glow among the trees.
A campfire.
He stalked to the edge of the fire’s light, stopping on the edge of a clearing in the woods. Ahead, two men sat drinking around the fire. Neither of them carried anything so much as a sack of clothes. Wherever they had fled, they had done so in a hurry. The clothes on their backs were tattered and black with ash, and both of them bore numerous scrapes and scratches on their arms, legs, and faces. Running through the woods, Theron realized. Probably survivors of the Iceni attack.
Both men were injured, by the looks of it. One sported a bloodstained bandage around his head, and the other carried his left arm in a makeshift sling. They looked hungry and thirsty. They had probably not eaten since the day before. How they had managed to sneak past the Iceni surrounding the city was a mystery, especially unarmed. But they were alive, and they had blood.
That was all he needed.
When he was finished, he felt much better. The blood of two humans was more than enough to heal his wounds, with plenty left over for experimentation. He turned to the west. The Iceni army had gone that way, he was sure of it. Doubtless they would be marching down the long road the Britons called Watling Street. They could not be far away, probably less than a day ahead. Armies tend to move slowly.
Theron turned to follow them.
After all, he had made a deal with the princess.
Herris sat in an uncomfortable chair in Ramah’s private chambers, waiting for his second in command to regain his senses. The chair was hard, coarse stone, purely functional and utilitarian, much like all Ramah’s appointments. Nothing but the bare essentials, and even then only items chosen for their function rather than their appearance. By contrast, Herris’ own chambers were soft and plush, with every conceivable luxury. Ramah could have furnished his chambers with more style, but opted to keep the place as Spartan as possible. Stark, much like the Bachiyr himself.
When Ramah began to stir, Herris rose from the chair and stood by the side of the bed, watching as his old friend opened his eyes. Ramah sat bolt upright, reaching clawed hands for Herris’ throat almost too fast for the leader of the Bachiyr to see. But Herris, no novice to melee combat, threw up his right hand and knocked Ramah’s fingers aside.
“Calm, Ramah,” Herris said. “It is only me.”
Recognition dawned in Ramah’s eyes, and he withdrew his hands and put them at his side. “Headcouncil Herris,” he said. “I did not know it was you.”
“I should think not,” Herris replied.
“My apologies.”
“Unnecessary.” Herris waved his hand to dismiss the apology. “Do you know where you are?”
Ramah looked around the room. “I am in my chambers. How did I get here?”
“What is the last thing you remember?”
“I was trailing the traitor Theron in Londinium, as well as that blasted Roman, Taras. But Baella was there. She freed Theron while I battled her minions. I remember that Theron was captured by an army outside the city, and I was standing by a tree trying to think of a way to go in and get him when… when…”
“When what?”
“That’s where my memory stops,” Ramah said. “It must have been Baella. Only she could have snuck up behind me so effectively.”
Herris leaned over, putting his arms on Ramah’s shoulders. “Did you see her?”
“What?”
“Baella,” Herris said. “Did you see her? Could you describe her?”
Ramah blinked, then looked at his feet. “No,” he replied. “I did not see her.”
“That’s too bad,” Herris said, dropping his hands. “We would have liked to have the description to give to our Enforcers.”
“If I had captured Theron, he could have told us,” Ramah said bitterly.
“Perhaps,” Herris said, and turned to go. “Rest a while, then visit The Larder. I had the hunters bring in a fresh group of humans tonight, so there should still be plenty for you when you are ready.”
Ramah nodded, but didn’t look up. Herris couldn’t believe it, he’d never seen Ramah this way. He looked so lost, almost… defeated. But it couldn’t be helped, the disorientation Ramah felt was part of the spell she had used on him. The effects would have made him more tractable and open to suggestion when he awoke. Herris knew; he had taught the bitch the spell himself over four thousand years ago. The strange feeling would would wear off in a few nights and Ramah would be fine, Herris was just glad the Blood Letter had awakened to see him and not Baella.
He left Ramah’s chambers and closed the massive oak and steel door behind him. Only when he was outside did he allow himself a relieved smile.
Ramah hadn’t seen her face. He didn’t know.
His secret was safe.
His mood as he left Ramah’s chambers was a great deal better than it had been when he arrived.
Epilogue
Mistress Baella walked through the door to her keep. Feyo stood just inside the entryway, a large glass of red liquid in his hand. Blood for the Mistress, altered via a special psalm-developed by Mistress Baella herself-to still be viable long after the host was dead. She kept a store of it downstairs. She took the glass and quaffed it, then stormed through the room. Feyo followed close at her heels in case she needed him.
“It did not go well?” he asked.
Baella turned around and reached up to grab him by the shoulder, then she pulled, forcing him to bend down to her height. Her nails dug into his cheek as she grabbed his face and shoved it to the side, then buried her fangs in his neck.
Feyo did not struggle at all. They had been in this position many times before. He knew his role and dropped to his knees to give her a better angle. It only hurt for a moment, and afterward he slept for a night and a day as his body recuperated. But when he woke he would be as strong as five men, and faster than a deer. It was a good trade.
He realized something was wrong when he started to feel dizzy. Normally, Mistress Baella stopped drinking after a minute or so, but this time she’d gone on much, much longer.
Realization struck him like a hammer.
“No,” he whispered. He grabbed her head and tried to pull her mouth from his neck, but it was like trying to move a bronze statue. His arms bulged with muscle, enhanced by the strength she had lent him, but he could no more move her than he could move the mountain on which her keep was built.
“Why, Mistress?” he asked. His vision faded, and the strength left his limbs. In far too little time, his arms fell to his sides and his legs buckled. He simply lacked the strength to keep them functional.
“Why?” he asked again, just before he closed his eyes for the last time.