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

overtook the Man from Kerioth. As spreading sunlight tore his resolve into strips, he clawed at his robe. Where was the dagger? The one he’d swiped from the ground after the Nazarene’s arrest. He would grab hold of the dagger, lift it to the noose, and cut himself free. Whereas Peter the disciple had failed to protect his master with this blade, the Man from Kerioth would put it to good use.

Live by the sword, or die by the sword.

Yes, if he could only . . .

His fingers found the hilt.

If he could . . .

The dagger slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the ground below. For the second time in one day, it’d betrayed the intentions of the one who had held it. He knew then he was finished.

Coated with a salty paste, his tongue ballooned in his mouth and his lips expelled a red-black mist. He kicked, spun back around. Heard a splintering sound. Felt his body lurch. Even as his mind grasped what was happening, the branch holding him surrendered to his weight in a prolonged crack that reverberated over parched ground.

For one moment, one blessed second of weightlessness, he tasted air—sweet, golden wine—sliding over his tongue.

Then his own bulk worked against him.

And he plummeted.

His knees buckled against the earth and pitched his torso forward, where it tore over a jagged stone. Like a street vendor’s ripe fruit, his belly split and gushed open. Landing across his back, the broken limb shoved him further down upon the rock.

Agony exploded from his center, coursing through his extremities. He let out a raspy cry as his sour juices trickled into the field. So this was how it would end? With only dust and blood to mark his time on Earth?

Alongside his head, he saw a beetle scramble through clods of dirt—attracted, in all likelihood, to the stench of entrails. Soon the flies would be arriving as well. Minions of Beelzebub. Of decay.

A way back, even still . . .

Too late for that now.

Curse the Nazarene. Curse him and his loyal fools.

The Man from Kerioth began to curl and convulse in the wash of daylight. As his energy ebbed, the field’s throat opened beneath him and drank of his blood in long, thirsty swallows.

THE FIRST DROP:

REVENANTS

There was dust that thick in the place that you might have slep’ on it . . . an’ the place was that neglected that yer might ‘ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it.

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

I remind you of the angels who did not stay within the limits of authority . . . but left the place where they belonged.

—Jude 1:6

Journal Entry

June 21, 2010

The envelope showed up yesterday, brought over to Lummi Island on the ferry.Inside there was an old map marked with Hebrew writing. No return address, just a stamp and a Romanian postmark.

Have Those Who Hunt already found me? I thought this place was safe here in Puget Sound, worlds away from Seattle and all its hustle and bustle. Long as I can remember, this house has been my home. I’ve got shelves of books to read, great views of the sunset, and fresh crab on a daily basis. Still, sometimes it feels like a prison.

I’ve read in the Mosaic Law that the life is in the blood, and even Abel’s blood cried out from the ground after Cain killed him. As soon as I saw the four red stains on the map, I wondered: could there be memories in these droplets?

Part of me said I should be disgusted by the idea. This morning, though, I couldn’t help it. I put my tongue on that first crusty spot, and waited. I thought maybe I’d find a reason for my exile here, or at least more about Those Who Hunt. Was it wrong of me to at least try?

Within seconds, my saliva was working like lemon juice on invisible ink, bringing all kinds of stories into focus—secrets, and dark mysteries; a Romanian girl’s face, and the fangs of some hellish beast.

I grabbed sheets of paper and started writing it all down.

CHAPTER

ONE

Summer 1989—Cuvin, Romania

Gina’s dog gave a sharp yip, rose from the front step of the whitewashed cottage, and hobbled forward on the three legs with which he’d been born. He sniffed the hot afternoon air and growled, his copper-colored fur rising like bristles on his back.

“Hush, Treia,” Gina said. “It’s only me.”

He met her at the step and set about investigating her shoes, her shins.

“It’s okay. That smell, it’s just Teodor.” She set down a sack of red potatoes and patted her dog’s head. “Look what he got me.”

Treia’s attention turned to her hand, where the juice of fresh black-berries stained a brown paper bundle. He caught the first offering from her fingertips and chased the second across the stone pathway.

“And all it cost me was a kiss,” Gina whispered.

A kiss that had tasted like goat’s milk on Teo’s lips, like cut grass. Not unpleasant. Not at all. The flutters in her tummy had told her she was becoming an adult, and it was true that she would be turning twelve in a matter of hours. A woman, by Jewish standards.

“Gina,” her mother called from inside. “Bring the sack here. How am I to make ciorba without potatoes?”

“Sorry, Mamica.”

“Why the delay? I hope you weren’t talking to that boy again.”

Gina pushed the bundle into the pocket of her handmade dress, then carried her burden into the kitchen area where Nicoleta was bent over the oven. Scents of parsley and celery root laced the air. Lunch would be stuffed cabbage and vegetable soup.

“Set it down.”

She obeyed. Took a moment to scratch at a bite below her ear.

“I can’t do it all,” her mother said. “You must shoulder your responsibilities, you know this?”

“Da, Mamica.”

“You’d think you were from Bucharest or Timisoara, a regular city girl, spoiled and soft.” Her mother dumped potatoes beside a mound of sliced carrots. “Take a look at me. I travel once a week to study at