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

learned to nurture in others. Not that it needed much upon which to thrive. It was a resilient little beast.

Erota backed out from Dalia’s pore. Time, she decided, to find her way back to her own slumbering body on the bench in Avram Iancu Square.

One problem: as a tick, she had no idea of her present whereabouts. Her sensory clues consisted of little more than hair follicles, pungent smells, and varying temperatures. Road signs were beyond her range of comprehension.

Where was she now?

At 986 Armpit Avenue, just north of Flab Circle.

To return to the park bench, she could always hop onboard another human, but there would be no guarantee of going in the right direction. From her tiny perspective, she could look for an animal—a squirrel, or a fluttering sparrow—and hope to guide it, using visual markers from her knowledge of the city.

But what if the squirrel was struck by a car? While it was only the loss of a permanent host that resulted in banishment, Erota would still be left floating in the ether, navigating shadows and capricious wind currents on her trek to the plaza.

This was why she avoided using secondary hosts. Too many drawbacks.

Since modern history’s beginning on this pathetic celestial sphere, many Collectors had cashed in on the human species’ advantages. There was nothing more efficient and flexible than a two-legger with half a brain.

It was settled, then. She detected nearing warmth, saw an outline that looked promising. Her legs gripped the cloth of Mrs. Amit’s coat and prepared for the jump.

The tick showed no interest.

Now, she directed. Go. Don’t just sit here.

The warmth faded as the outline moved on by. Maybe the gap had exceeded the tick’s ability. Then the hard-bodied creature was descending, down, down, down, until Erota found herself on a vast expanse of cloth that tossed like an ocean wave, back and forth.

The fringe of the woman’s dress? That had to be it.

Another figure approached, brushing alongside in splotched shades of rust and dark brown. The heat grew intense, as measured through Erota’s sensory organs. She peered across the divide and decided this must be a cat.

She made visual contact with a pair of yellow feline eyes—Please, let me ride along—and found unreserved acceptance.

She was in. Good-bye, tick. Hello, tomcat.

Yellow Eyes needed no help finding his way through the late afternoon foot traffic. He padded along, slinking beneath parked vehicles, hissing at children who crossed his path. He owned the alleyways and low brick walls. At least one other cat showed signs of hosting a Collector, and Erota figured that the local cluster must be making good use of the numerous animals prowling the streets.

At last. There was the war monument, the square, the park bench.

And Domna.

“You’re a pretty thing,” Domna said, leaning down to scratch the cat’s chin, her cleavage visible in a low-cut blouse. “Sis, I hope that’s you. I’ve been fighting off these Latin lover boys for two hours now.”

Yellow Eyes snubbed Domna’s kindness and sprang instead into the lap of Erota’s slouched body. Nothing like door-to-door service.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

Arad

“Cal Nichols?”

“Just Nickel.”

“Buna seara.” Benyamin switched to English. “I didn’t expect you here.”

He perused Café Focsani’s seating area, where candles burned in bronze holders on lacquered tables, and dark chocolate and coffee aromas permeated the air. In the corner, a couple was deep in conversation, with eyes only for each other.

“Good to see you too, man. Thanks for showing up.”

“You still look like a kid.”

“The secret’s in good hair products,” Nickel said. “Buy stock now.”

“Hmmph.”

“Don’t be a stranger. Here, take a seat. I won’t bite.”

Bite? The word triggered latent fears, heightened by a flare of pain in Benyamin’s ankle. He transferred his distrust onto this foreigner with the flaxen hair and the face of eternal youth. He lowered himself into a seat, wary, yet comforted by the pistol nuzzled beneath his left arm.

After ordering, the two men faced each other over iced espresso drinks.

“Why did you come here?” Benyamin asked.

“Same reason as you. To work a deal.”

“On the phone, you had me fooled. You sounded Romanian.”

“Hey, in my line of work, you use whatever’ll get someone’s attention. You have any idea how hard it is to nab a minute of someone’s time nowadays? Shoot, I’d speak Pygmy to an Eskimo if that’s what it took.”

“Everyone’s busy trying to survive,” Benyamin said.

“Survive?” Nickel snorted. “If people only knew how easy they had it. Hundred years ago, we didn’t even know what a car was. Electric stoves? Forget it. A shower every stinkin’ day? Not a chance.”

“You Americans and your preoccupation with bathing.”

“All part of our puritanical background. Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

“Now you sound like my wife.”

“It was a joke, Mr. Amit. A touch of irony.”

“Ironing?”

“Always a good idea,” Nickel gibed. “If you’re dressing for success.”

Benyamin furrowed his brow and took a long draw from his glass. What was the purpose of this rendezvous? What was Cal Nichols up to?

He noted a JanSport daypack tucked beneath the American’s chair. The man had to be in his late twenties by now, yet he hadn’t aged a day since their meeting on the shores at Ein Bokek. He was wearing Converse tennis shoes, Bugle Boy jeans, and a T-shirt that read: All who wander are not lost . . . J. R. R. Tolkien.

“I would like to know how you found me.”

Nickel stabbed at his own chest with a thumb. “Intel broker, remember? I can track down just about anyone or anything.”

“Tell me, does this have to do with our findings at the Dead Sea?”

“Wow. You’re good.”

“I want no part of it,” Benyamin said. “Those are images I’d rather forget.”

“Me too.”

“Then why’re you here, Nickel?”

“Forgetting is not always an option.” The kid fetched a leather pouch from his pack, slid it across the table. “Go ahead, and take a look.”

Benyamin loosened the drawstring. Removed a jeweled armband.

Hammered from gold, the thick, open-ended hoop had a dull gleam. Precious gems studded the exterior, capturing beams from the overhead track lighting and refracting them