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

than a thousand feet beneath Lookout Mountain, the tour’s highlight was Ruby Falls, an underground cataract plunging 145 feet into a shallow pool.

One more quick check. A personal matter.

She parted her dyed hair, studied her forehead. There, stenciled into her skin, stood the same crossed lines she’d seen in her apartment but which seemed to hide from view of everyone else. Everyone, with the possible exception of Cal.

And Teodor’s uncle, the village prefect. Look in a mirror, young lady, and tell me what you see. Do you see the proof of your role in this grand scheme?

How had that revolting man known? To what role had he been referring?

She forgot these questions as a set of tools went to work again at her innards, scooping, scraping. She was a pumpkin, her guts hollowed out, her facial features carved by pain into something horrifying. A candle ignited in her core, more intense than before, and dribbling waxen tears.

She fell back against the wall. She felt empty. There was nothing left in her stomach to offer as appeasement.

I won’t cry. I won’t. I have to get to work.

She dry-heaved into the sink, felt the burn in her throat. Her mind flashed to the incident with the delivery truck, and the internal damage that she might’ve suffered. Were there injuries to her organs?

Another gut-wrenching spike of pain.

God, please. What’s going on?

Arad

Erota found the spectacle both illuminating and delightful.

One by one, the thorns stretched the skin of Benyamin’s ankle. One by one, they broke through the ruptured scar tissue. The stock upon which the thorns grew was crusty and cracked, in appearance like an ancient taproot that had fermented in worm-ridden earth. It rustled through the flesh’s opening with the sounds of a snake passing through dead leaves. It writhed, as Helene pulled; it squirmed upon the chapel flooring, carving arcane shapes in the dust.

A tangled vine. A dragon’s tail of spiked protuberances.

“Take one, dear heart.” Helene snapped a thorn from its source and handed it to Ariston. “Try a taste.”

He released his wife and son, who both stumbled to the wall.

Erota watched him cup the triangular shape and lift it to his mouth. He sipped. Moaned. Drank deeper. The burgundy liquid dribbled from his chin.

“It’s been filtered,” he said. “The fruit of the vine.”

With his recent wine-making aspirations, Ariston of Apamea couldn’t pass up the opportunity to present himself as a connoisseur.

“Exactly,” Megiste said. “The vine starts as a minuscule seed, planted into a human soil with one delectable bite—an orally injected contagion, if you will. I believe these thorns started back in Israel, when you, Lord Ariston, first sipped from the man’s heel.”

“It’s been growing in him all this time?”

“He’s tried to fend off its effects with alcohol, with limited and temporary success. In ages past, we Collectors have always been able to pass on infections from other blood sources, but this is unique. It seems we have been enabled with a more prickly bite, shall I say? Could have something to do with the Man from Kerioth’s betrayal and the thorns crushed into the Nazarene’s skull.”

“So this is unique to our cluster, is that correct?”

“It seems to be, Ariston.”

“What is the method of injection? Is there anything special we must do?”

“The contagion’s always there. We simply do what we do best, tap-ping sources for our own survival. If the host has any ailment or weakness, any unchecked susceptibility, the seed will have soil to grow. As it does, the vines will twine through veins and arteries until the thorns latch into place. Once in position, they tap the entire body. Each thorn filters and draws out blood for our enjoyment.”

Erota’s breath quickened. Her thirst intensified.

“The best thing,” said the priestess, “is that we can come back for more.” She gripped the thick twisted stem. “We simply snap off this entire portion and drink, but the vine keeps growing.”

“You’ve verified this?”

“I’ve tested it on this man here for the last year. And still, as you can see, he is available for our nourishment.”

“You mean to tell me, Megiste, you tested this without my foreknowledge?”

Erota caught a brief meeting of the eyes between Megiste and her father, Eros, and she felt her pulse quicken at the hint of intrigue. Had anyone else noticed the look?

“I do think,” Eros purred, “that her actions in this case were warranted.”

“Sorry, sir. I surely didn’t mean to overstep my bounds,” Megiste added.

Beside her, Ariston seemed to forget any perceived slight as he savored the remaining liquid from the pointed vessel, his irises gaining in emerald radiance with each lusty swallow.

Helene touched his arm. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Better than I imagined.”

“Instead of draining the mortals only once,” she said, “instead of wringing them dry and moving on, we can drink for years to come. And, left unchecked, the seed can germinate in others, particularly any sickly family members or friends. Wherever the tiniest of openings presents itself, a thorn is sure to hook in. Sins of the fathers, as they say.”

“All of this,” Erota asked, “is initiated with one bite? One tapping?”

“Wonderfully simple, isn’t it? Here.” Megiste handed over a fresh thorn.

Erota was an unholy worshipper, receiving this emblem of communion from her priestess. Through the thorn’s smooth husk, she felt the warmth of vitality and vigor. Then . . . she drank. By drawing the liquid over her own tongue, she was sucking life from this miserable being.

The invaaaasive,

creeeeeping

demise of a human.

She was spellbound. Loved every succulent drop. She was caught up in the blasphemy, the dastardly bastardization, of this most spiritual of experiences.

The Blood of the Host.

Of the Hostage.

In the end, wasn’t that all these flesh-and-blood creatures really were? Hosts and hostages, habitations and infestations.

As Erota’s vision painted the chapel in iridescent green hues, as the other Collectors joined in the experience with cupped hands and smeared lips, she reveled in the thought of marriage, where she would have her own prey upon which to feed. In the process, she could heap