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

Well, yes, she felt good about that. Rather smug, in fact.

That’s when she spotted the dog, a mangy beast with a predatory stare above bared yellow canines. It crouched, hairs bristling and ears laid back.

“Good girl,” Dalia said.

The creature snapped its fangs.

Dalia backed her way around a parked car, clutched the bagged per-fume to her chest, and fled in a stiff-legged gait toward the nearby square.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

Chattanooga

Gina stared at the pregnancy test, watched the indicator window respond to the hormones in her urine. Although these things could be inaccurate, it was hard to deny matching responses from three separate brands.

Knocked up? Check.

With child? Check.

El prego? Read the rosy-red plus sign and weep.

In this same bathroom where the little tyke had first made his or her presence known, Gina felt a gasp/cry/laugh catch in her throat.

Would she be a good mother? Or another Nikki?

She clasped a hand over the thin scar on her arm. Then, reaching down, she plucked her dagger from its sheath, let it rattle into the sink, where its blade bounced coins of light from the overhead vanity. She thought of hiding the weapon, even burying or locking it away.

What if being a parent made you go loony? What if you found yourself doing anything in your power to curb your child’s negative inclinations? Could an infant’s needs in the womb throw off your own chemical balance, until later, after the delivery, you found yourself capable of doing crazy things, out-of-control things, like those mothers you saw on the news, who caved beneath the expectations?

Nikki had been over the top in her attempts to shield Gina, to enforce religious extremes upon her. Gina knew she would not do that to her child.

Faith was to be shared, not shoved.

Though part of Gina wanted to toss out belief along with the superstitious ways of her mother, she could not deny a sense of the divine hidden deep within her. She feared embracing it. Would it burn her? Would it demand more than she was capable of ? Would it corrode her mind and encourage an existence bereft of intelligent interaction?

Scarier still, would it mold her into a fanatic?

Gina knew she could never allow that, could never wield a knife and tell her child it was God’s will. She would rather die first.

As of yet, no one knew she was pregnant. With a withdrawal from her savings and a “routine” doctor visit, she could sweep this away. Her stomach was still flat and tight, her breasts still small, with no indications of becoming milk wagons.

Would they ever get bigger? She seemed to be a late bloomer.

She braced her arms on either side of the sink and, despite the internal tug-of-war she’d anticipated, felt nothing. With so much at stake, she was immobilized.

She didn’t have to rush, she told herself. She could just sit tight. For all she knew, this baby could be fated for greatness. Wasn’t that a reason for keeping a child? Imagine if Bach had never entered the world? Or Shakespeare?

I could also be carrying the next Hitler.

Gina broke away from that thought, disturbing on so many levels.

She turned instead to the mystery of chess, where no two games were alike, where risk was involved at every turn, and brilliancy often revealed itself in the most desperate of moments. She pictured herself sitting at the checkered board, then toppling her king in resignation before committing to even one move.

But where was the adventure in that?

Nope. Not her style. The royal game, like life, was an act of calculated recklessness. Despite the best-laid plans, life surprised you. And when it did, you adjusted and made a decision and saw it through to the end.

A rule of chess: If you touch it, you move it. No take backs.

She ran her fingers beneath her shirt, resting her palm over her navel in hopes of detecting some proof of life. Her stomach was warm, expanding slightly as she breathed. Was there a baby in there? It seemed unreal.

“Hi there,” she whispered.

Even though she felt nothing, she believed.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

Arad

Any moment now. Erota was on the alert. In most scenarios, predators were superior to their prey—stronger, larger, faster—but none of that applied here. If all went as planned, Mrs. Dalia Amit would be herded in this direction shortly, an easy target for a diminutive hunter.

Erota was a tick. A hard-bodied Ixodes ricinus. From the park bench, she had eyeballed this opportunistic little beast and found herself a new host.

She was now clinging to a blade of grass in the lawn that bordered the plaza. Her world had shrunk in size, her perch swaying in a breeze that seemed like a hurricane wind but was probably the draft of a passing truck.

Thunderous vibrations. Were those approaching footsteps?

Drawing closer, almost here.

She quavered. Her front legs contained sensory structures that were sensitive to every variance in thermal and chemical stimuli. She felt the ambient temperature rising, even as the tremors reached earthshaking proportions. She registered tart odors that could be signals of fear—from Mrs. Amit?—or the aggression of a dog.

Do your job, little sis. Herd her right past this spot.

Beneath Erota, around her, the host was tensing for an ambush. The timing would have to be impeccable. Erota was trusting the tick’s natural instincts as much as her own. She knew these things could latch onto a victim’s skin in fractions of a second.

She smelled blood now. Recognized it as human.

Pumpity-pump.

The tick let go.

Tiny legs found purchase on a passing giant of a person. From this vantage point, everything lost perspective. The massive mound of flesh swung through the air, then pounded down—swung, pounded, swung. Erota could only assume they had hooked onto Dalia’s leg as she was chased by Domna’s snarling host.

The tick was moving up, up, up. After weaving between fields of course thread, it ducked into a humid patch of black hair and fatty rolls.

The armpit. A favorite location.

Together with her host, Erota dove headfirst into her work. There was little