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

“Did you get what we’re after?” Sol inquired.

Ariston wiped a hand over his mouth, licked the sticky smears from his palm. “A woman and her daughter. Here in Cuvin.”

“Two females? They can’t be our link, then, can they?”

“I saw men also. One in particular. But he wasn’t Lettered, only the girl.”

“That can’t be right. The Nistarim are comprised of males only.”

“Where, my son, do you think all menfolk come from?” Ariston swiveled on thick legs, eyes panning, nostrils flaring. “Call the others. Their house can’t be far away.”

The Akeldama Cluster neared the dwelling with caution.

This was it, the location Ariston had sifted from the prefect’s memories—the same red roof and whitewashed exterior, the blue shutters, the flower boxes. He detected no signs of life, no lights from the screened windows. Large-winged raptors wheeled overhead, and a clothesline shivered in a breeze that swept down from the Carpathian foothills.

Ariston motioned Eros and Megiste to lead their household around the back, and they did so with a smooth elegance that belied the purpose of their visit. With his own brood posted at the gate, Ariston moved with Barabbas up the stone path, where they found a sweet aroma wafting about them.

An indicator of the Concealed Ones’ presence?

“Let’s introduce ourselves,” Ariston said.

His acolyte’s knuckles boomed against the front door. Each knock seemed to shake another serrated section from his fingertips, till the same nails that had scooped out an eyeball at the Akeldama were tapered tools primed for disemboweling.

Only silence from within.

Another knock.

Nothing.

“Let’s go take a look,” Ariston said.

Barabbas barreled forward, and the door frame splintered.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Gina was afraid. And angry. Here she was, in the back of a car, speeding away from her birthplace. What was she to make of this?

Only minutes ago her mother had burst into the house—“Didn’t I tell you I’d be back?”—with urgency etched into her face. They were leaving, she’d explained. Immediately. Romania was in turmoil, a storm was approaching, and they had to flee. A new life would be theirs across the border, and beyond.

Gina suspected there was more to it than that, but what could she say?

She packed her things into a burlap sack, then tucked Treia under her arm. Her mother took away the dog and set him down on the street. He would make do, she said. He was a survivor, after all.

Though Gina trembled with indignation and grief, she knew protest was futile. Outside, Treia whined. He hobbled back for a view of Gina on the Dacia’s weather-cracked backseat, and Gina pressed her nose to the glass with eyes misting over.

Her mother said, “You stay down, angel. Out of sight.”

Nicoleta then slid into the front beside the Provocateur. He was stone-faced, wearing a threadbare suit jacket, with tufts of his wheat-colored hair curling from his cap. He pumped the gas pedal until the engine kicked over.

As the car accelerated, leaving Treia back on the walkway, Gina lifted her head and spotted Teo beneath the streetlamp.

He looked up. Waved.

She debated mouthing the words she’d always wanted to say to him, and yet over the years she’d learned that her desires were secondary, and so she tucked her head between her knees and closed her eyes. Even though one teardrop hit the floorboard at her feet, she never made a sound.

I’m sorry, Teo. Please . . . Save another kiss for me.

When she at last dared another peek, Gina glimpsed road signs pointing to Lipova. She was being uprooted. Torn from her home. Farmlands and plains were changing to hills and forests, and birds of prey patrolled the valley from high above.

Where was the Provocateur taking them?

Like the grinding of the vehicle’s gears, Gina felt something shift inside.

Next time, she decided—if there was a next time—she would not sit silently, docilely, obediently. Regardless of the consequences, she would let her feelings show. She would not be treated forever like a young girl.

The Akeldama Collectors swarmed through the humble dwelling, through the living and kitchen areas, the alcove, the windowless bedroom. Although olfactory markers stimulated their saliva glands, the place lacked the warmth of human inhabitants. Mother and child were gone.

Ariston swore in disbelief.

Where were they? On an errand? A visit to a friend?

He perused a handful of old mail and saw the family name of Murgoci. He wondered how hard it might be to track down others with that name.

“We missed them, didn’t we?” Megiste draped herself across the scarred wood of the kitchen table, arched her back, and moaned as though intoxicated by the scents. “I’m sooo disappointed, and after an entire day in the backs of trucks and old buses and that farmer’s smelly wagon.”

“I’m sure they’re close,” Barabbas said. His eyes were glued to her.

“You’re wrong. I’m telling you, they’ve taken flight.”

“How do you know?”

Megiste let her tunic slip from one shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. With Helene at his side, Ariston tried to ignore the woman’s fluid gyrations—no use in stirring jealousies. He did notice, however, a shared look of disgust, a rare moment of alliance, between his wives Helene and Shelamzion. Shelamzion cupped a hand over demure Shalom’s eyes to shield her from this wanton display.

“I’m sooo very thirsty. Where will I drink next? Hmmm, Barabbas?”

“Megiste, enough of this,” Eros said. “How can you be sure that they’ve fled? There are clothes still here, cushions and blankets. Even food.”

“And that scent,” Ariston noted. “I’m sure they were here not long ago.”

“Oh, but nooo woman would pack up all her facial powders and per-fumes unless she intended to stay away for a while. Am I wrong?” The priestess lifted herself to her knees at the table’s edge, auburn curls framing high cheekbones. She traced two fingers down Barabbas’s beard. “And please, pretty please, no comments about my own lack of ornamentation. I will find a way to make do again.”

She was right, Ariston admitted to himself. The Murgoci mother and daughter were gone from here. He should’ve known it