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

as by his own self-delusion that had convinced him to expect anything otherwise.

“Explain yourself,” he growled at the black-hatted man. “Who are they?”

“They are Those Who Resist. Their blood has a tantalizing aroma, very rich and pure. So I can’t fault your daughter, see? But it goes down like a fire.” Mendel wagged his finger. “A flame that courses through the veins, raging, scouring. One taste, just one mouthful, and it’ll destroy you where you stand.”

“As we just witnessed.”

“Yes.”

Still unsettled, Ariston stared off over the crumbled ruins of Kerioth-Hezron. Long ago, their mentor had brought down the Nazarene with a kiss, yet the Nazarene’s reemergence from the grave had only fomented deeper admiration and interest. It appeared that his influence had done anything but fade.

“Ariston?”

“What?” he snapped at the robed man.

“I think perhaps . . .” Mendel lifted the brim of his hat. His stare collided with Ariston’s and, like one icicle jabbed at another, glanced off in a shower of black splinters and chipped courage. He cleared his throat. “I have a suggestion. You said you seek a place to settle. Perhaps a city such as Arad? And why not? We all tire of roaming, don’t we?”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“I only want to help, of course. And if I may be blunt, I’ve . . . we’ve already established ourselves here in this region.”

“Infantile rivalries. I see they still exist.”

“That’s going too far, Ariston. It’s only a matter—”

“Please, just speak your mind.”

“Are you aware that Romania, once home to the Dacians, has a city by the same name? It’s true,” Mendel said. “And some whisper of its regional link to one of the Nistarim.”

“Is that so?” Ariston’s interest was piqued.

“There’s even a low-ranking, small-town Collector who says he’ll divulge all the details—for a reward, of course.”

Could it be this easy?

“Hmm.” Ariston kept his tone flat and his eyes level. “I’m sure there’s no shortage of glory seekers who throw out such claims. Sounds like a low-ranking ploy to me. Hardly worth a grain of salt.”

“I suppose. And if there were any truth to it, you’d be biting off more than you could chew. Not that I mean to jest,” Mendel said with a sly gleam in his eye, “but it’s dangerous business dealing with the Concealed Ones. Even the most elite would have their hands full, so I’m sure you and your cluster would want no part.”

“There are less perilous pursuits, I’m sure.”

“My apologies,” Mendel said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Oh. I’m sure you were only trying to help.”

Already, Ariston was making plans. His cluster had spent the past few days regaining vitality and spying out this new civilization.

The time to hunt was upon them.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Cuvin

Broom bristles cleared leaves from the stone path. Gina worked her way from the door to the front gate, hoping to finish before her mother returned from the market. Always a list of chores. Same routine, day in and day out.

Whisk, whisk . . .

Gina understood that in this world she wouldn’t be given a single leu coin unless she did her part and did it well. She knew it in the same way she knew the ointment she slathered on her arms was scant protection from life’s true hazards. Things worse than mosquitoes were out there, on the prowl.

“Hello there.” Teodor approached on his bicycle.

She looked up through straggles of hair. Why couldn’t she get it to comb flat, sleek and shiny, like her mother’s?

Teo braked outside her gate. “You hungry?”

“Nicoleta is on her way home for dinner.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Here, Gina.” He leaned the bike against the lamp pole and extended a paper bag. “These are for you.”

“Red grapes. Did you pick them?”

“You’re even smarter than you look,” he said.

“How much do they cost?”

“Don’t be silly. Do you want them or not?”

“You don’t have to be rude about it, Teo.”

“If you don’t, that’s okay. I’ll eat them myself.”

“Take them, then,” she said, “if you’re so hungry.”

He snatched a grape from the bag, plopped it into his mouth, and bit down. The movement of his lips reminded Gina of that first kiss. She wondered now what he would taste like—sweet juice or tart wine?—and then chided herself for this schoolgirl daydream. Love could not be decided with one kiss. That was a notion found only in songs, books, and films from Hollywood.

“Delicious,” he said, catching her eye. “You should try one.”

“I need to finish sweeping.” Whisk, whisk. “See you tomorrow.”

“You’re all dusty.”

“Because I’m working right now, you oaf.”

“Look.” Teo mussed his straight hair. “We match.”

“Well, if that’s how I look, I shouldn’t even be seen outdoors. Anyway, my mother would be upset to know I was talking to a boy in public.”

“What about in private?” he teased.

“Ciao, Teo.”

He winked, unfazed by her exasperated tone, then straddled his bike and pedaled off, leaving behind the bag of grapes.

Later, she spent her evening replaying that moment. Why had she been so abrupt with him? Sure, he was Vasile’s nephew, but he was his own person. And cute, at that. As she chewed on the last of the grapes, she had the disheartening premonition that she and Teo wouldn’t be talking again for a very long time.

Late Summer—Constanta, Romania

The Collectors entered through an east-wing window of the Constanta Regional Orphanage. They found themselves in a narrow room with shelves full of assorted containers and supplies. To their newly revived senses, the smells were medicinal and pungent, and Ariston was reminded of a Syrian physician he had visited in the months before his own earthly death.

He opened the far door and poked his head into a corridor. Stale odors and muffled cries assured him they were in the correct building. According to Mendel, this government-run orphanage was a handy layover on the way through this communist enclave, a chance to fill depleted veins.

To Ariston, this place was much more.

These children represented an opportunity. They were throwaways, victims of Romania’s latest regime. This man—Ceausescu, was it?—he was only one more