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

toward him. He looked unfinished, somehow. Like cement that hadn’t yet hardened.

Others issued from the cave behind the towering man, spurred along by the drumming of two children with bones in their fists.

Ariston enjoyed the clattering in his ears as his daughters, Salome and Shalom, played with charred bones lifted from the front burial chamber, cremated remnants from a civilization after their own.

“Hello,” Ariston called to the humans.

They remained motionless. Around him, Collectors awaited his signal.

He told them, “We’re all in need of blood, are we not? Let’s say we enjoy a good mikveh, a ritual baptism, to cleanse us on this night of our release. Blood instead of water. Death instead of life.”

They uttered their support for this violation of a sacred ritual.

Very well then.

In a gesture meant to show respect for those who might soon provide sustenance, he turned to the humans and raised a hand in greeting.

Head still down, Lars caught a glimpse of the wave. It was followed by rusty words that sounded as though they could be Hebrew.

“Shalom,” Lars responded. Hello. Peace to you.

At least these intruders had spared him from his coworker’s threats.

“Shut your trap,” Thiago growled at him, then aimed his impatience at the others. “What were you doing in that cave? Get out of here. Now. Well, the ladies there, they can stay. But you men, spare us the details and go put on some clothes.”

The man who had waved mouthed a single word.

Time slowed.

Click-clackkk . . .

Then, as though given an order, the towering individual beside him was advancing, muscles taut as steel bands along his upper arms and hairy pectoral region. With each step his fingernails elongated, intensifying in color, curved and pale green.

“What the—”

Thiago’s gruff curse was chopped short. His fingers relaxed on Lars’s neck, and the belt dropped from his other hand to the ground.

An odd sense of relief tempered the Norwegian’s terror. Had this group been summoned to his aid? Protectors of the weak? Now the squat man was coming his way, perhaps to drag off the bullying coworker.

Then something moist landed in the dirt by Lars’s knees.

Although the single eyeball stared up at him with the undeviating attention of a Cyclops, there were no signs of life left in Thiago’s granite stare.

Lars tried to yell.

A clawed hand choked off the sound, and the fingers that wrenched through his blond hair tilted his head back like the lid on a beer stein.

Needlelike sensations pricked his neck, then sank deeper, injecting pleasure and pain in a heady concoction that had him believing, if only briefly, he was back at the bar. He was in one of those strobe-light TV commercials, the life of the party, with men feeding off his jokes and women lapping up his silver-tongued flatteries. He felt wanted, appreciated.

His lips spread into an eerie grin.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Judean Hills, Israel

The Houses of Ariston and Eros traveled through arid darkness. They had given a speedy burial to the first victim of their feeding frenzy, and they carted along the second with the intention of dumping him far away, thereby diverting attention from Jerusalem.

Barabbas shifted the bloodless body over his shoulder. “Lord Ariston, where are we taking him?”

“The place I have in mind still exists,” Ariston said. “I’m quite certain.”

The eighteen revenants continued through the night. By inhabiting bodies from a previous age, they again had full use of the five senses yet only limited ability to categorize their findings.

They detected peculiar hums and chimes as they skirted townships. They walked along black roads smoother than Roman thoroughfares. Occasionally, metal chariots whipped by without horse or donkey, and at the front of each vehicle, lamps shone forth brighter than any of them had ever seen.

Civilization had advanced. That was to be expected. Nevertheless, Ariston knew his cluster would have to make quick adjustments if they were to function in this strange new era.

Another vehicle roared by.

“Toyota,” Eros said, fumbling with new lettering and sounds.

“What’s the word you speak?”

“I saw it on a passing chariot. The owner’s name, maybe?”

“No.” Ariston came to a stop beside an acacia tree. “I’ve seen it on others as well. It could be the name of the current king. The chariots might all be part of his fleet.”

Eros furrowed his brow. “King Toyota?”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

“I suppose so. It’s clear we have much to assimilate.”

Like the rest of his household, olive-skinned Eros carried himself in a manner that bespoke physical prowess and grace, and his words fell from his tongue with lush confidence. Ariston couldn’t help but notice that the females of his own family reacted with keen interest.

Now was a good time to point out the obvious . . .

“Speaking of assimilation, we all need to acquire some clothing.”

A few of the revenants groaned.

“It’s the only way we’ll be able to blend in.”

Barabbas spoke up. “There were robes draped over a line on the out-skirts of that last city—Hebron, if my memory’s correct. Would you like me to gather them up, sir?”

“Your hands are already full.”

“We can do it.” Salome wore a crooked grin. “Me and Shalom.”

“Very well,” Ariston said. “But be sure you’re not spotted. And don’t delay.”

He clapped them on the backs of their necks and found himself awash in fatherly pride. He blanched at this show of emotion. How revolting. Who had time for such hereditary human concerns? Whenever Collectors tried to nullify the Separation’s effects, this was the challenge: the struggle between them and their hosts.

“Shalom, you watch after your younger sister,” Shelamzion interjected, as the girls wandered off into the darkness.

Even more pathetic.

Ariston tried to hide his sneer from his first wife.

When their daughters trudged back into view twenty minutes later, the moon had pulled wisps of cloud across its face as though veiling itself from the coming shame.

And shame there was.

“Look at this hideous garb.” Ariston spun once, scowling at Shalom. Not only was his new robe tight across his belly, it lacked sleeves and reached no further than his knees. His