On the road to Antioch, 33 A.D.

Taras stumbled down the dusty path. His flagging strength made every step a chore, but he was determined to reach his goal before sunrise. A month of traveling at night-sometimes all night long-as well as the lack of fresh blood in his body had taken its toll. He’d tried to feed on some passersby along the way, but each time he tried he remembered Abraham’s torn and bloody throat, and he stopped himself. What kind of monster had he become? What would Mary think if she saw him murdering innocent travelers? In the end he was left with his hunger and his weakness, wandering though Israel with only his memories for company.

Gods, how he had loved her. Even though he’d seen her torn and bloodless body with his own eyes, he still had trouble accepting her death as fact. Often, he would catch himself looking up at the sound of a woman’s voice, always expecting to see Mary’s face staring back at him. Of course, it never was. Mary’s body remained in her tomb at the Mount of Olives, hundreds of miles to the south and east, while he was on the road to Antioch.

It should have been me, he thought. He would trade places with Mary in a heartbeat if it would bring her back. Surely death would be better than his life now, if only he had the courage. What was it Jesus had told him that night outside her tomb? There is always an option, even if it’s not always a very good one. None of Taras’ options were particularly good. He could swallow his fate and start killing more people, or he could die. At the moment, only the latter seemed to offer any type of rescue.

By the time he reached the outskirts of Antioch he could barely stand. Still he managed to find just enough strength to take one more step, and then another, and another. But it couldn’t last. Without blood, he would eventually fall over and be unable to rise. Then the sun would come and burn him to ashes.