Merkorius Decius, Centurion of the 34th Legion, paced the top of the great wall. That wall, built decades ago in the far north of the land called Britannia, in the far north of the Roman Empire, was far- too far- from the villa in Rome where he had been born. He shivered under his cloak. Cold and bored, he paced where he had paced as a night sentinel a hundred times before.
Stopping for a moment, he rubbed his numb hands together and looked over the moon lit battlements to the savage, barren land where Rome had drawn Her boundary. Let the barbarian’s keep it, he thought bitterly.
He renewed his pace, increasing it to a heavy, rapid march which he hoped would warm his frozen bones. His foot steps hid the sound of a grappling hook striking the wall by the furthest tower.
Merkorius marched on, his mind clouded by boredom and frustration. There was another hour before another man took his place. Another hour of marching alone, back and forth, in the biting wind, under the dark sky, with nothing but-
A monster.
A monster leapt towards him. A thing of human shape, as tall as he but more slender, long dreadlocks flowing from its head like snakes, its body naked but covered in mad spirals and symbols.
He struck out with his sword, but the thing took his hand- held it- twisted it. The gladius- his sword- fell clattering on the stones. It held him close. He felt its hot breath against him, saw its icy green eyes pierce his soul.
For a moment he thought that this naked, painted, tattooed, long haired thing was a woman, not a monster. With the calm and clarity of one who know that he will die, he saw flashes of unmistakable feminine lips, pert breasts, slender legs.
But then it had to be a monster, because it bit into his neck like a wolf.
Caledonia woke the next evening. Rising from her bed, she lit a candelabra, then lit a cigar from one of the three burning candles, inhaled deeply from it and let the smoke clear her mind.
A Pre Raphaelite artist would have given his left hand to have been able to paint the scene. Her hair was molten gold mixed with lava in the candle light. The impeccable white skin, radiating inner strength, which- like the darkness around her eyes- needed no make up to enhance it. The intricate knot work of the blue tattoo which encircled her right thigh- which few men ever saw and lived. The cigar smoking on the brass ashtray on its slender dark wood stand. The layers and layers of black velvet which covered the massive bed and the black out curtains of her window. The white lilies in the vase and the decomposing red roses on the carpet.
She returned her attention to the cigar. (A long, thin Cuban cigar which she far preferred to the Mexican cigarillos which she smoked on nights out.) Caledonia was tired after an eventful night and a day of unquiet dreams, and it helped. She blew a smoke ring out into a gloriously gothic scene, which was ruined by the ringing of her phone.
‘Hello,’ she answered, her voice dry.
‘Hello lady,’ Molly replied.
‘How are you?’
‘Quite Well. What about you? What happened with that lad last night?’
‘Guess.’
‘Oh, Caledonia… I don’t know why you bother.’
‘You know exactly why.’
On the other side of the city, Molly paused to think. Caledonia took a long drag of her cigar.
‘Lady, we need to talk. Come to my house tonight, please.’
‘Aye, alright. I shall be there in an hour.’
‘What did he taste like?’ Molly asked her friend, who sat opposite her on a faded black leather sofa.
‘Like beer and sweat and man.’
Caledonia inspected her friend. She like the coils of smoke that danced from the end of her cigarette. She liked the way her long, wavy black hair glistened in the lamp light. But she did not like the look on her friends face, the neutral expression on her full lips and the pity in her eyes.
‘And was it worth it, Caledonia? Was he worth it, lady?’ Molly asked.
‘I desired to drink.’
‘Why not find a decent man to drink?’
‘You know as well as I do how rare a decent man is… And if I found one, what if I broke him? What if I killed him?’
‘What if you did not?’
‘Aye, what then? What if I kept him forever and nothing ever changed- what then?’
‘You still miss him, don’t you?’
Silence fell on the room like a blanket of snow.
‘Are you okay, Caledonia? You seemed tired,’ Molly eventually said.
‘I’m alright, thank you Molly, but I have not been sleeping well.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Aye.’
‘We all have them.’
‘No, not just the memories. I dreamt that something was following me, stalking me.’
‘Do not be afraid, lady. We are the ones who stalk; we are not the ones who know fear.’
‘Aye’.
She lit another cigar.
‘Would you come hunting with me tonight?’ Molly asked.
‘Again? When did you last drink?’
‘There was that girl last month, and then that man last year…’
‘Your donor?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘You must be thirsty… I am not, but I’ll join you if you like.’
Molly stubbed out her cigarette, and looked thoughtful, then angry.
‘I don’t want an audience,’ she said.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be patronising.’
‘I know, its okay. But I am thirsty, I should go out soon.’
‘Okay Molly. Good luck.’
‘Thank you lady. Good night.’
They stood and hugged each other.
‘Good night,’ Caledonia said as they went their separate ways.
It was a cool night, but the wind blew from the south and was warm. A few stars shone amid the red glow of the light pollution. A few Sunday night drinkers crossed Caledonia’s path as she strode through the middle of the city, then she was alone on the streets.
Then she heard the foot steps behind her. Or at least ‘footsteps’ was the closest thing which she could associate with that noise. It might have been a bone drum stick on a stone drum, or repeated thunder that was very, very far away, but it had the rhythm of footsteps.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The street was deserted. Nothing could hide from her in the dark.
She walked on, but the ‘footsteps’ became louder, closer.
‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,’ she said a chant she had learnt long ago, ’I shall fear no evil; for I am the shadow, and I am the death, and I am the evil, and it is my valley’.
It calmed her mind, but it did not stop the footsteps.
She was on her street now, a minute from her house. She fought the temptation to increase her pace. She could not be afraid, she was the stalker.
Still the footsteps came, like hooves on frozen ground or Captain Ahab’s peg-leg.
When she reached her front door she spun round, fangs bared, eyes blazing.
Nothing, silence, an empty street.
She went inside, slamming the door behind her. She needed a cigar.
Had there been some LSD or something in Damien’s blood? No. She would have known sooner. Something was wrong.
She lit a small fire in her front room and snuggled up in front of it like a cat.
She needed a cigar, and a nice book, and a good day’s sleep.
Then everything would be fine.
The ambers barely glowed in the fireplace when she woke the next evening. Her book, a romance by Sir Walter Scott lay open and half read beside her. Her long, black dress was creased and her hair slightly tangled. She yawned and stretched, her movement feline.
She had slept peacefully, the invisible stalker seemed a distant memory, but she was thirsty. Very thirsty.
She drank a glass of water, but that did little to help. All the water in the world would not quench her thirst. She needed to hunt.
After a quick shower, she dressed in comfortable jeans, a black vest and light weight boots. Practical hunting gear. She tucked her dirk- the razor sharp one with the ivory handle that he had given her so long ago- into her left boot. She had not used it for decades, she did like to use it- she did not need weapons, she was a weapon- but she did not like taking unnecessary risks.
And the dirk reminded her of him, and comforted her- but she did not feel like admitting that to herself.
Then she was on the street. The wind had changed, it blew from the north and was chill, but that did not bother her. Patchy clouds raced across the sky.
She reached the modern metal foot bridge which spanned the muddy river with its ridiculous arches. It looked like a sensible bridge had been built, then a giant had picked it up and twisted it and slammed down again.
She waited in the middle of the bridge, smoking a cigar.
The city glowed with street light and car headlights. Distant music could be heard from pubs and homes.
Two young men walked past. One of them smiled at her, the other just stared.
She ignored them. The road was busy and a woman and her child were about to cross the bridge.
Caledonia cursed her own inpatients. It was too early, she would have to wait awhile for a clean kill. The thirst ached like lust.
For almost half an hour no one came.
Then she smiled.
A middle aged man walked towards her. He wore a suit jacket over a shirt and blue jeans. He smelled faintly of alcohol and strongly of aftershave. He wore brown shoes. Caledonia remembered the days when gentlemen did not wear brown shoes, except on Sundays and at the market. From the way he looked at her, he was probably not a gentlemen.
When he was a yard away, she pounced.
Her left arm restrained his right arm. Her right arm went over his mouth and twisted his head to one side. He struggled, but she was stronger. She bit into his exposed neck, tearing the skin, ripping through veins and arteries, slashing his jugular.
He died and she drank.
That was how the world worked.
When she had drained him, she threw his body into the river and set off home.
The adrenalin faded before she had even left the bridge. Her thirst was satisfied, but she was not. He had tasted of aftershave, it was foul in her mouth.
Molly had been right. It was not worth it.
She started to think about him.
He had tasted good, so good that she had let him live, and then made him live forever.
Lost in thought, she wondered blindly. In a few minutes she found herself in a small graveyard. It was built on a hill with a church at the top, the castle- a great looming monster which still served as a prison- stood beside the church. She sat on the edge of a vandalised monolith amongst the graves and trees and remembered.
His name had been Thorfast Grimlinson. Back when she still lived amongst the heather, he had sailed to her land from a land even further north. He and his ship mates had come to trade, back in the years before the great raiding had begun, before the war between Odin and Christ. He was the tallest man she had ever seen, with blonde hair down to his waist and eyes like the sea. He had told her that he was a bard, but the calluses on his right hand and the broken fingers on his left told of another trade.
He had before her lover hours after they had met. Then her food, then her immortal lover.
He called her ‘Caledonia’, after the land where she lived, because- he had said- she represented everything that was beautiful about that place.
For years he lived with her amongst the rocks and the heather. Then, when more of his people came, they had sailed together to his home, where the ice never melted and the sun shone at midnight in the summer and not at all in winter. They had raided together, feeding on the soft, rich lands of the south.
After centuries, they tired of the sea, and went back to the heather. Then they travelled across all of Britain, but Britain had changed and no one place was good enough to stay.
They travelled Europe.
French blood. German blood. Italian blood. Greek blood.
The New World was discovered, even though Thorfast’s people had been there long ago. America entertained them for years, then that too grew old.
They returned to the north of Britain. They saw the world tear itself apart in war. Twice. They saw The British Empire fade.
The world had changed beyond understanding. But when, every few years, they returned to Caledonia, the heather and the rocks were the same.
Then he had left. She was not sure why. They had argued. They had argued every few decades, and this one was no worse than before, but when she woke in the morning he was gone.
That had been two years ago.
Close to tears, she lit a cigar and walked home.
There were no dull, deep footsteps behind her, but she felt as though she was been followed.
She did not care.
On the following evening she woke to find a singularly sinister figure sat on the side of her bed.
Sitting bolt upright, her first thought was to bare her fangs at the intruder, to terrify him before she killed him.
A better look at him told her that this would not work.
The figure sat on her bed wore a tailored black suit, black shirt and a black tie, with black leather gloves and pointy black shoes. Its head was a skull with endlessly deep, dark eye sockets. She knew that there would be nothing but bones under its finery.
‘Good evening Caledonia,’ the thing said with a voice as deep as a well.
‘Good evening Death,’ she replied calmly as she got out of bed, adjusted her silk nightdress, and stood to face it. ‘What do you want?’
‘Your time has come.’
‘My time came and went a long time ago.’
‘You must die one day, now is as good a time as any other.’
‘Go to Hell,’ she said, taking a cigar from her bedside table and lighting it.
‘That is one place I can’t go. The same may not be said of you,’ Death looked like it was grinning, but skulls always look like they are grinning.
‘I don’t believe in Hell.’
‘For some there is a Hell, for some there is a Heaven, for some there is another life, for some there is oblivion,’ Death said sagely. ‘All must pass on to some place. You must pass on.’
‘Why?’
‘It is part of the harmony and justice and balance of this world. Things must die. There must be a judgement. Things must ascend or descend.’
‘I’ve been on this world for about two thousand years, and I’ve not seen much harmony or justice or balance. Things happen, or we make things happen. That’s about it.’
‘You are wrong, Caledonia, there are forces in this world that you cannot begin to-‘
Caledonia punched Death in the face. The skull cracked a little. For a second the deepest-pit eyes looked shocked, then the lipless mouth looked sad, then it just stared at her.
‘I don’t give a shit!’ she told Death. ‘Get out of my house.’
Death faded.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Caledonia could not face going out. She could not even face seeing Molly. She told herself that she would see Molly and Charlotte the next day. She just needed to rest.
She sat by the fire and read, and smoked, and drank a little whiskey.
Her doorbell rang as she dressed the next evening.
Cursing, she pulled on her dress and ran a brush through her hair, then went to answer it.
Her barbarian stood at the door. For a moment she wanted to slap him. Then she wanted to embrace him. She did nothing.
Two years apart. Thirteen hundred years together.
It had been too long. She was too shocked to know how to feel or what to do.
They stared at each other.
‘Caledonia…’ he said, his face like stone and his eyes shining. ‘Death came for me. It came for you first, didn’t It?’
‘Aye.’
‘I knew it, knew it when I saw the crack on Its skull.’
She smiled.
‘When it came for me, I knew I could not die without you,’ Thorfast Grimlinson said. ‘Don’t much like living without you either.’
‘Come inside,’ she led him by the arm. ‘We need to talk.’
THE END.
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