TORMENT (47 page)

"Show me who you are."

The
Europhid
glowed
a gentle blue and then faded.

Willard set his confusion aside. Something…or someone had asked for his aid. As his instincts took over, he responded the only way he knew how. "What do I need to do?"

"Touch me."

Willard felt a stab of distrust. He squinted and said, "And what will you give me in return?"

"Hope," the voice said.
"Life."

The last word was weak, fading. Willard reached out with his hand before he could weigh his options. He could sense the creature fading. His finger brushed up against the
Europhid
and a shock, like electricity ripped through his body. He shook as though claimed by an epileptic seizure and felt his mind, his very thoughts, merge with another's.

When the shaking subsided and his mind cleared, Willard looked back to the blue
Europhid
. It was withered and colorless—dead. With a hard heart, Willard knew he had failed. But then a new emotion filled his body.

Hope.

"Are you there?" he asked.

No response came. Other than the bubbling of rising digestive gases, not a sound could be heard. Willard wondered if he had had a hallucination brought on by stress.

It felt so real
, he thought. But the voice was inside his head, which only supported the idea that his experience had been a delusion. The blue
Europhid
, which shimmered lightly with life only moments ago
now
looked decomposed and long dead.
 
Willard concluded without a doubt that the
Europhid
had not communicated with him.

It was just a damn plant anyway!

Willard focused his thought on the task at hand, escaping from the gargantuan bowels. The feeling Willard couldn't shake, even after determining he'd hallucinated the talking
Europhid
, was the nagging sense of hope—the knowledge that he knew what to do. Without questioning why, Willard turned to the far wall and gunned the propulsion unit forward. He sped through the digestive fluid, not being able to see any exit, but believing,
knowing
, it lay ahead.

###

—SAMPLE—

33AD by David McAfee

Available for $2.99 on Kindle at:
http://www.amazon.com/33-A-D-ebook/dp/B003BIGNRW

DESCRIPTION:

Jerusalem, 33 A.D. The vampires of the era have long sought to gain a foothold into Israel, but the faith of the local Jewish population has held them in check for centuries.
When one of their own betrays them to follow a strange young rabbi from Galilee, the elders of the vampire race dispatch Theron, a nine hundred year old assassin, to kill them both.
The rabbi's name is Jesus. Killing him should be easy.

EXCERPT:

Chapter One

Jerusalem
, 33A.D.

Ephraim darted around his modest wood-and-mortar home in the
Upper
City
, grabbing as many of his possessions as he could carry – mostly clothing and a few personal items – and shoving them into a large burlap pack. Every now and then his brown eyes shifted to the door, waiting for a knock. Or worse, no sound whatsoever. The latter worried him the most because it would mean the servants of the Council had found him. A Psalm of Silence only carried for about twenty paces, so if the world around him went suddenly quiet, he would know those who hunted him were very, very close.

As an Enforcer, or at least a former Enforcer, Ephraim knew the inevitable result of breaking the laws of his people, a race not known for mercy. Now, as he packed, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d felt the need to tell the Council about his indiscretions. Bad enough he’d defied them, but he also gave them all the information they needed to punish him.
And for what?
A strange feeling in his heart?
A pang of conscience?
Was he mad? In retrospect, it seemed possible, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. His elders wanted him dead, and unless he hurried they would get their way.

A worn, woolen tunic hung halfway off his bed.
I’ll need that
, he thought as he reached for it. He couldn’t afford to leave a single piece of clothing behind. He stuffed the tunic into his bag and turned to regard a large chest on the wall opposite the bed. He reached down and flung the lid open, breaking one of the hinges in the process, and started grabbing more clothes.
I’ll need that.
And that.

Then his fingers closed on something small and hard. He didn’t have to look at it to know it was his ceramic wolf’s head figurine, a symbol of his former rank.
I won’t need that.
Ephraim tossed it over his shoulder, where it shattered on the hard floor. He didn't pay it any attention as he picked up a short, fat bladed knife.
I’ll need that, too.
It joined the many tunics in his bag. Just as he picked up a pair of worn breeches, a noise outside his door caught his attention.

What was that?
Ephraim froze, craning his ears and trying desperately to catch the elusive sound. He stood silent and still for sixty long seconds, muscles tense and booted feet nailed to the floor. The breeches hung from his fingers like a mouse in a raptor’s claw. He eyed the sickle-shaped sword on the opposite wall, ready to spring over and grab it if necessary. Although the sword was very old, he kept it sharp and in perfect balance, not easy to do with a
khopesh
.

When the noise didn’t return, he shook his head.
The wind,
he told himself, and returned to the task at hand. He had to hurry. They were coming.

He couldn’t allow himself to be captured by the Council’s minions. They would make him talk, and that would be bad. Not just for himself, but for his newfound friends, as well. The elders of the
Bachiyr
race had many methods by which to extract information, even from one of their own.
All of them brutally effective.
If they caught him, they would find a way to make him talk. Sooner or later Ephraim would tell them anything they wanted to know, the only real question was how long
would it
take to break him.

As he packed, his hand brushed against a small figurine of a lamb from the shelf above his bed, knocking it off and sending it toppling through the air. “Damn!” He reached out to catch it and missed, but his fingertips brushed the delicate figurine just enough to alter its course so that, instead of following the wolf’s head to the hard floor, the lamb plopped down amidst the soft linens on the bed. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief when the delicate figure didn’t break, and reached down gently to pick it up. He didn’t miss the irony that he, the predator, had thrown away the wolf figurine and kept the lamb.

Former predator,
he amended, shaking his head.
I am not like that anymore.
He stared at the lamb for several precious seconds, remembering what it symbolized and making sure, in his heart, he’d made the right decision. Satisfied, he placed the tiny item into a small velvet bag and tied it shut,
then
placed the bag into his pack, stuffing it between the folds of a coarse brown tunic. He tied the pack closed and set it on the floor in front of him.

Ephraim then stepped over to the far wall and eyed his ancient
khopesh
, which he had wielded for over a thousand years, though the style of blade had largely gone out of use eight centuries ago. He reached a tentative hand up to the sword, but his fingers froze before they touched the handle. Ashamed, he pictured the faces of his many victims, heard again their anguished screams, and saw their mouths stretched wide in agony. The smell of their blood returned to him, sending an unwelcome rumble through his belly. Far from the pleasure these memories once brought, Ephraim now felt only shame.
How many?
He wondered.
How many have I killed with this very blade?
He had no idea, but the number must surely be huge.

“So great is my sin,” he whispered. He could not shed tears, none of his race could, but his face felt hot and flushed, nonetheless. He drew his hand back, unwilling to touch the ancient sword, his most trusted companion for centuries, now too poignant a reminder of who he used to be. With a sigh, he turned from the wall and walked over to the bed, determined to leave his past at his back.

Now ready to go, he just had to wait for his friend to come and help sneak him out of the city. Ephraim sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Malachi’s knock. He hoped it would not take long.

Please hurry, Malachi,
he thought.
Time is running out. They are coming.

* * *

Above Ephraim, crouched amidst the pressed oak beams that supported the structure’s ceiling, a single pair of eyes looked down at the one-time Enforcer. The Council's agents were not
coming
, as Ephraim feared. They – or rather,
he
– had already arrived. If he had looked up, he might have seen the dark shadow hiding among the lighter ones in his ceiling, but he never so much as glanced upward. His visitor thought lack of sustenance to be the cause of Ephraim's inattentiveness, and he shook his head in disbelief. From his dark vantage point, he watched the scene unfold, memorizing the layout of the room for future reference.

Earlier that evening, before he had left the Halls, the Council told him what to expect. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to believe that one of their own, particularly one with as glorious and faithful a history as Ephraim, could be capable of such treachery. Until he witnessed Ephraim’s hurried packing and the incident with the wolf’s head – an article of rank sacred to the
Bachiyr
– he’d hoped to discover his superiors mistaken. The longer he waited on high, however, the more he came to realize they were right.

They are always right,
he thought to himself.
I should have known better than to doubt. Just because he’s a friend—
he stopped himself there, not wanting to diminish his readiness. He couldn’t waste time thinking of past friendships and obligations. He had a job to do, and reminiscing would only make it harder and might even cloud his judgment, which could not be allowed. He had to be clearheaded and alert for the next few minutes.

Long enough to kill Ephraim.

First, however, he had to wait and observe a short while longer. The treacherous dog would die, certainly, but not before his visitor discovered who he’d betrayed them to. Ephraim’s message to the Council had been vague in that regard; most likely a deliberate omission. To that end the watcher held himself in check through his growing anger while his thick, sharp nails dug furrows into the wooden beams. He held still, relishing the tantalizing scent of fear that emanated from his former friend, and waited for the knock that would signal Ephraim’s allies had come to save him. On that, the Council’s orders were very clear.
We must know who the traitor is in league with. That is of utmost importance,
Theron
.

Theron
had never failed the Council before, not once in over nine hundred years, and he didn’t intend to start now. As much as he wanted to drop from the shadows like an evil beast from a child’s tale, he waited.
Patience,
h
e counseled himself.
Not yet.
Waiting was the essence of his craft. He was a professional. If you wanted to put a fine point on it, he was
the
professional. The Lead Enforcer for the Council of Thirteen, albeit newly appointed. These
days, that
mostly meant he acted as their primary assassin, although every now and then the Council sent him for capture rather than elimination. But those occasions were few.

And this wasn’t one of them.

So until Ephraim received his visitor,
Theron
would sit, out of sight, and wait for the sound of knuckles on the door. However long it took. But once he had his information, then… well,
then
the fun would begin.

He didn’t have to wait long. About five minutes after Ephraim finished packing a loud knock thundered through the house, violating the silence with a hollow boom. Ephraim jumped at the sudden sound, but
Theron
had heard the visitor’s boots crunch on Ephraim’s gravel walkway and was expecting it. He smiled as he watched his intended victim’s face go from terror to joy.

“At last!”
Ephraim said. “You certainly took enough time to get here.” He walked over to the door and grasped the handle. Then, just as he was about to raise the wooden latch, the relief fled his face, replaced by a look of wariness and renewed fear. “Who’s there?”

“Ephraim, you dog. Open the blasted door. We don’t have time for this.”