Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

side. No. She demanded that it feed on the deepest parts of him as well, stabbing it again, letting it bite through skin and ribs into the core of his undead being.

Just as she’d requested, Ariston was taking it all.

His scream shattered the cave’s stillness and ran unobstructed through the damp granite corridors.

Gina’s arm was sliced to ribbons, and yet—spurred by thoughts of Dov and Cal, of Jacob and Jed—she carved upward with the dagger, opening the torso of her enemy and scything the narrow space between them with crimson rain that splattered her face and ran down her lips.

She heard, in his cries, the sounds of swarming insects and beasts. Each voice, each bark and mewl and roar, each buzz and hiss and fluttering leathery wing, was an accusation—evidence of his abomination.

To the Collector, her weapon seemed to be a curse.

Apamea to Akeldama to anathema.

He staggered back, his eyes pools of shimmering agony. He was incapacitated, unable to see clearly. He wobbled. Dropped to his knees. Began to shrivel before her eyes.

The Restless Desert was a blistering sea of sand and mournful wails. The Collector was heading there now. Particle by particle, shadow by shifting shadow, he felt himself coming apart at the seams. His clothing was hanging loose over skeletal limbs and bare strips of sinew. He was being torn from his dying host, banished for a time undetermined: facilis descensus Averno.

In a final, blind, spiteful flail, he lurched forward in the withering body of Ariston and snapped his jaws at Gina Lazarescu, hoping to take along a fading memory of physical sustenance.

His right incisor scraped over her arm, failing to break the skin. He was left to feed on emptiness, on a wash of hot wind that worked over his cracked lips, his tongue, and down his throat.

Down, down . . .

Into arid, unquenchable sand.

Drenched with sweat, Gina was about to collapse. She reached to cut the rope from her other wrist, then switched the knife into her right hand. She curled unfeeling fingers around the ancient hilt and moved the edge to her scarred neck, where she cut away the bitter vine.

Weak and wobbly, she stumbled forward even as the creature on his knees began to shrivel before her eyes. She tore away from his last attempted bite, left him snapping on air.

Was that movement she detected from the mouth of the cave? Were others out there, waiting?

She was free, for now. The first step . . .

Journal Entry

June 29

The weather’s still decent, but soon enough it’s going to be another cold, soggy winter. I can’t stay here. I’ve been stuck on this island too long, trapped by fear and thoughts of what others will think of me. How’ll they react to the way I look? Will they think I’m disgusting?

It’s time to face whatever’s out there. Hiding from the dark won’t make it go away, and Lummi Island will still hold its secrets—the ones I’ve tucked away for later.

Just thinking about leaving makes me weak, but I’ve got to do it. The lessons I found in Gina’s last droplet will keep me going. Even though I’m starting to get an idea of my part in all this, it’s almost too hard to believe. There’s so much I don’t know, and I’m really hoping I’ll find Those Who Resist. Maybe they can explain more.

So here it is. I’ve written everything down. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come in handy. Sometimes you do a bunch of work that never gets noticed, and other times when you think it’s all over and you might as well just bag it all up for good . . . that’s when the unexpected happens.

Death isn’t really the question. I can see that now. I guess we all have our thorns, and they eat us alive—day by day, this slow digestion. I know as a fact I can’t do this on my own. Some might call me weak, but I think true strength comes through confession. And, in this struggle against the Collectors, it seems to be the only way.

I’m going to take Cal’s word for it. I believe the answer dies within.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dave Robie and BigScore Productions (literary agent)—for the belief and tenacity to represent my work.

Allen Arnold, Amanda Bostic, and Ami McConnell (Thomas Nelson’s A-Team)—for bringing a dead dream back to life.

Leslie Peterson (Write Away Editorial), Amanda Bostic, Becky Monds, Jocelyn Bailey (Nelson editors)—for sharpening this story so that it would have teeth when necessary and only a soft nibble when that worked better.

Jennifer Deshler and Katie Schroder (marketing team)—for going the extra mile to spread the word.

Mark Ross (packaging manager)—for coming up with a cover that rocks.

Anne Horch (editor)—for early support of this novel and for bolstering my initial vision.

Carolyn Rose Wilson (wife)—for sticking with me through the thick and thin, the lean and the mean, and for giving lots of good loving.

Cassie and Jackie Wilson (daughters)—for sharing great music, scary movies, lots of laughs, and plenty of patience.

Mark Wilson (dad)—for that first trip to Romania in the early seventies, and for helping this technical ignoramus put together a website.

Linda Wilson (mom)—for recent travels together in Israel, and for a continual flow of ideas and prayer for this series.

Shaun and Heidi Wilson (brother and sister)—for sharing gypsy memories, hand-crafted chess sets, and experiences in then-forbidden countries.

Silvia Krapiwko (researcher) and Zvi Greenhut (archeologist) at the Israel Antiquities Authority—for allowing a surprise visit and for providing the details.

Joe Keleher and Ceridwen Lewin (friends, writers, and fellow travelers)—for joining my alleyway escapes from the vampires of Busteni and Bucharest.

Stephan and Angela Khuen (friends and fellow travelers)—for some funny moments together in Timisoara and Arad, and for more adventures to come.

John Hulley and Polly Seligum (gracious hosts from different cities)—for hospitality and transportation in Israel, and for the vigorous exchange of ideas.

Hillary Kanter, James Beardsley III, Vennessa Ng, Ellie Schroder, and Dana Baker (friends)—for facilitating my trip back to Romania after twenty years.

Gabriel and Estera Fira (my Romanian family