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

as langsuyaras, and haunted nearby Carpathian villages as strigoi mort.

Erota had unearthed similar lore from nearly every culture. While some of the life-leeches were urbane, others gruesome and obscene, all of them reflected the Collectors’ goals: to feed, breed, persuade, and possess.

However, only these from the Akeldama were truly undead Collectors.

So what if history had its spine-chilling tales based on a few corrupted souls? All of it worked in their favor. Fear was a catapult, crashing boulders through humans’ psyches, launching diseased corpses into their palace courtyards to drive out all that was noble.

People—so malleable, susceptible.

Those who lived in fear saw demons behind every bush, while those who trusted in logic alone were blinded to danger by their selfcongratulatory intellects.

Easy victims, all.

Erota sensed Ariston’s frustration in his hurried steps, in the way he bit into his thick bottom lip. As they moved around the Cetatea’s earth-covered casements, she drew alongside and handed him the roll sheet. “Sir? Is there some other task you’d like me to oversee?”

He shook his head.

“You seem preoccupied,” she said. “Perhaps a few minutes alone?”

“Hmm?”

“With me?”

“No.” His nut-brown eyes darted toward his wives, then caught a gleam of the setting sun as they turned back to Erota. “But thank you. I’m . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’m still baffled by our cluster’s failures in Arad and Kiev.”

“Failures?”

“We’re still no closer to the Nistarim. To be honest, I thought I was operating under some sort of special guidance when I first escorted my household to this city.”

“Special in what way?”

“I’m not sure. The coincidental nature of it all, I suppose. From the sands of Arad in Israel, to Romania’s Arad. From Jerusalem’s Golgotha, to—”

“The Hungarian Golgotha.”

Erota called up the fortress’s alternate name from her research. Now empty, these battlements had once held troops and prisoners of war, and in 1849, thirteen Hungarian generals had been hanged for their part in a revolution.

“Exactly,” Ariston said. “I took those as signs.”

“From the Master himself ?”

His brow furrowed.

“If it’s any encouragement,” she said, “we haven’t given up in Kiev. Hasn’t been easy, though. Many of the inhabitants still carry traces of Chernobyl’s radiation in their blood—barely drinkable. And even though Eros pushes us to search the land, to rake through the streets, we keep coming up empty-handed. As though they vanished into thin air.”

They: the mother and daughter from Cuvin.

“Did I misread the signs?” Ariston mused. “I ask myself that each day. Is it true that some among you are now talking of a return to Israel?”

“Well, the Nistarim’s roots are in Jewish legend, after all.”

“And you think some of them are hiding in the Holy Land?”

“Seems possible, sir.”

“Bah. They’ve probably moved as far from there as they can. Why, even here in Romania we have a good number of Jews. Some meet at the synagogue only blocks away, near Avram Iancu Square.”

“I’ve seen it. Still, the long Ukrainian winters are driving us batty, and the weather’s a lot better down south.”

“Bear with me awhile longer, if you will. I’m not deaf to the murmurings, and for this reason I have Megiste exploring new tapping methods for our repertoire. She plans to give a demonstration at our next meeting. An unsuspecting male. In the meantime, let the others squabble. We have work to do.”

“And if one doesn’t work, he doesn’t eat.”

“A functional phrase, to be sure. Good for heaping guilt on the lazy, and stirring arrogance in the industrious. Here,” he said. “Watch your head.”

Ariston and the other Collectors ducked into subterranean darkness and shuffled along stone-cold walls, stirring the susurrus of those who had given their lives for this land. With both the dead and the undead in attendance, the stage was set for a meeting of black sedition.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Chattanooga

Gina cracked her neck, used a handful of Kleenex to wipe away the sticky trickle from her ear. She felt only dull pain.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” her mother said.

“What’s there to tell, Nikki? I got hit by a delivery van, I think.”

They sat on opposite sides of the frayed couch, a garage-sale bargain from the north end of town. Gina leaned forward to adjust the boot buckles that had come loose in the collision. Middle-aged Nicoleta sat primly, as though afraid of touching her back to the ratted cushions. Over the dining bar, track lighting revealed Count Chocula chunks in a half-empty bowl of milk.

Although Gina’s boyfriend was down at the Chamber of Commerce, where he worked as a graphic designer, the scent of his CK One cologne permeated the apartment and provided emotional support.

This was her territory. Their territory.

“Where did this happen?” Nikki demanded. “Were you able to jot down a license plate?”

“You mean, while I was hurtling through the air? No.”

Her mother’s thin nostrils flared.

“I was coming out of Rembrandt’s, okay? What’s it matter? I’m tough. Didn’t you used to tell me a story of how I walked away from some horrible bike accident?”

“That was different. Not nearly as serious as this.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, you’re bleeding.”

“That used to be your fault,” Gina said. “But hey, I’m still here. I survived.”

“Don’t you think we should go down to the hospital and have you checked out? You never know with these things. Did anyone call the police?”

“Relax a little. Made it back on my own two feet, didn’t I? Anyway, I can’t afford to miss any work. I’ve got to be there in an hour.”

“Work is important.” Nikki leaned forward. “Please, though—allow me to at least bandage that ear for you. We should cleanse it to avoid infection.”

“I’ve already had enough mothering for one day. Jed can look at it later.”

Despite her mother’s disapproval, Gina had moved in with Jed Turney after graduation. She’d never clicked with kids at school, always the outsider, the girl stuck between two cultures. Always stuck in Nikki’s shadow.

Which was where Jed came in. A decent guy, a middle child, a creative sort, he understood her in ways few others did. He drew