Thinking about that-and his part in the man’s execution-caused the rumblings of his hunger to fade further, leaving only a queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He’d killed so many people already, and none of them had deserved to die. But he was weak. He couldn’t help it. Yet somehow he had managed to avoid killing for the last twenty nights, ever since he left the Mount of Olives and Mary’s tomb for the last time. Every time he found a new victim, he would think of Mary, and he would lose his stomach for the kill and walk away. He knew it was the right thing to do, but the lack of blood was taking a heavy toll on his mind and body.

Taras turned around and walked down the alley, using the wall for support. If anyone had seen him, they would probably take him for a drunk, as well. His unsteady steps faltered at every turn, and more than once he had to pick himself up off the dusty, dirty street and force his body to keep moving.

Twenty nights without blood. How much longer could he last? Perhaps it would soon be irrelevant. Maybe he would fall to the street and lie there until the sun burned his corpse to ash, mingling it with the dirt of Antioch’s busy streets. Maybe that would be better. Maybe that’s what Jesus had meant when he said Taras had options.

An hour later Taras reached his door, a creaky, rotting piece of oak that led into a crumbling, abandoned dwelling on the outskirts of the city. He had discovered this long abandoned section of Antioch after leaving the tavern district the night before, and found it to be a perfect place to wait out the day away from human eyes. Here, all the buildings stood in a similar state of disrepair, and his dwelling looked no different than the many others that lay around the place falling into ruin. With one exception.

His had a cellar dug into the earth. A stout oak door, unweathered by the elements because it remained inside four walls and under the tattered roof, led down into the cool, dark place where Taras slept away the daylight. It wasn’t perfect. Other homeless people wandered this area of the city, as well. Sooner or later, a vagrant or brigand would find his hole and try to use it for his own purpose.