Free 61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2) by David McAfee

not quite sure what to think. Could she be telling the truth? Could he really be free live without always having to look over his shoulder? He thought about the fight he’d gotten into earlier with the female vampire and her two cronies. The Council’s minions were getting better every time, eventually he would face one he could not defeat. To not have to worry about such a thing any more...
    “You can do that?” he asked.
    Lannis nodded. “I can. And I will. As long as you help me catch Theron.”
    “What will you do with him?”
    Lannis eyed him. Her straightforward gaze caused the hairs on the back of his neck to twitch. Was she angry? Or was she merely considering how much to tell him?
    “You want to kill him, don’t you?” she asked.
    Of course Taras wanted to kill him. It was almost all he’d thought about for the last twenty-seven years. But...
    ...but he wanted his freedom more. He nodded, but he lacked the conviction to make it firm.
    “I thought so,” she said. “It is none of your concern what we do with him, Taras. Your job is to lead him to me, not to ask questions.”
    “Very well,” Taras said. “I agree to your terms, Lannis.”
    Her fist shot out faster than his eyes could register. The pain on the side of his head flared bright white, and his vision clouded over. When it cleared, he found himself lying on the floor in a small puddle of blood. Lannis stood over him, her expression calm, but the illusion of serenity was spoiled by the bright red blood on her hand. His blood.
    “What...?” he began.
    She shushed him and pressed her finger, still covered with his blood, to his lips. “ Shhh . That was a lesson. If you are going to join the Bachiyr society, Taras, from this point on you must address me, and all other superiors, with respect. You will refer to me as Councilor Lannis, or next time I will not be gentle.”
    Taras nodded from his position on the floor, silently wondering what the Hell he’d just gotten himself into.
     

8
     
    Boudica stared at the walls of Londinium. Her horse shuffled, nervous, as though it sensed her reckless mood. She was not above racing into the city, sword drawn, and cutting down every person she found until they managed to kill her. The problem with that plan—as it was with the last two cities—was that her death would accomplish nothing. She would be able to kill a handful of Romans, maybe even a dozen, but they would stop her. If they didn’t kill her on the spot she would stand trial and they would kill her later, probably after raping her and beating her again.
    The scars on her back burned. The wounds had healed, but faint memories of the pain whispered across the scarred tissue, reminding her that there was more at stake.
    As if she could ever forget.
    To her right, another horse snorted. She turned to look at Heanua, seated astride a large black mare. Her daughter’s eyes glittered with the reflected light of Londinium’s many torches. A soft black cloak covered her from head to toe, tied at the waist to prevent it from fluttering in the breeze. She knew Heanua would be more than willing to ride into the city with her and hack a bloody path through its inhabitants. Her hatred of the Romans burned almost as brightly as Boudica’s.
    But they both knew it would have to wait.
    The reason was simple mathematics. They could kill perhaps two dozen Romans on their own or wait until her army arrived and tear down the city board by board, slaughtering every one of its twenty thousand inhabitants, or at least those that remained. Reports had come in that Suetonius had abandoned the city, leaving behind a token force and a few thousand civilians who chose not to leave.
    They would regret that decision, she vowed.
    More important at that moment was the fact that Heanua sat at her right hand, but the space to her left—where Lannosea would normally be—stood empty, a sad reminder of what her family had become. “Where is Lannie?” she asked.
    Heanua