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

Erota’s brain reached out, a skeleton key working at the lock and failing to find a match. Not even close. Gibberish, gibberish. The phrases were reminiscent of the mindless repetition heard from religious sycophants everywhere: Please God, this . . . Please God, that . . . If You will only answer me, I promise I will . . .

However, this lady’s words were pointed. They stung Erota’s mind.

Ridiculous. She had no reason to put up with this mad blabbering. It was giving her a headache. Let the redheaded two-legger have this space if she wanted it so badly. Erota would look for greener pastures, thank you, and good-bye.

She fled into the passageway, where cigarette fumes and toilet odors embraced her like old friends—not always pretty, but familiar. She turned her mind to more profitable matters, such as her upcoming assignment as a desirable, vulnerable bride.

Atlanta. Hot-lanta.

Home to the Falcons and Braves, a thriving cosmopolitan city.

She’d been looking forward to the challenge of a new land, and in preparation she’d watched Gone with the Wind. Her father, Eros, had assured her that corsets and hoop dresses were no longer part of the attire. He impressed upon her, though, that a Southern belle was still expected to carry herself with a certain decorum.

How tedious. As if Erota wasn’t tired enough of the vapid existence she had endured in Ukraine.

During the long wait outside the Akeldama tombs, she had hoped for much more. The Man from Kerioth had bled his traitorous soul into that dirt, and Ariston had promised something significant for those who accessed the hillside’s dead.

She’d bought into his whole spiel. And this was all she got from it?

In a matter of hours, the House of Eros would be back in Kiev, filling nine-to-five jobs, attending schools, sweeping streets, and lounging in front of TVs. They would feign normality in hopes of going unobserved. Sure, there would be midnight forays for food. They might even—if they were fortunate—stumble upon a connection to the fabled Concealed Ones. Maybe a lone lamedvovnik, with the letter Tav imprinted on the forehead.

But such hope had made Erota weary. She wanted recognition. She longed for a place of prominence and power. How long till the fulfillment of her dreams brought such things about?

In the ears of this human host, time seemed to be ticking.

Which was ridiculous. She knew the passage of months and years was immaterial. Hadn’t the Master Collector assured them that his Collection of Souls was an ongoing project, one that could span the whole of time? He guaranteed them eventual, eternal, everlasting, and ever-blissful success.

Yet she could not shake the tick-tock of this mortal clock. There were things to be done, and deadlines by which to do them.

Undeadlines.

She must remember to relax. To enjoy and prolong the inevitable. Sure, she would search for the missing mother and daughter; in fact, she had a lead on a coming seminar in Atlanta, conducted by a woman with Romanian heritage. But other Collectors seemed willing to pursue their own pleasures, momentarily setting aside the greater goals of their clusters, and she figured she could do the same.

Yes. Erota decided that when she got to Atlanta, she would pursue fresh adventures. Thanks to this shapely human vessel of hers, she was no longer Separated from physical capabilities, and she would put these senses through their paces.

Not for the typical Collector reasons, but for her own pleasure.

Touch, smell, taste, sight, and sound . . .

Along the way, she would censor her phone calls and reports to Lord Ariston. Who said he deserved all the details? Erota had no intentions of carrying herself like a lady.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

Mid-April—Chattanooga

Gina was on edge. Today was the day to spill the news, and if her mother disapproved, so be it.

She angled her ’89 Camry through the city center, heading for Nikki’s place in St. Elmo’s District off Ochs Highway. A car with an out-of-state license plate cut in front of her, then screeched to a halt to parallel park. The bumper sticker said, If you don’t like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk.

Gina’s tongue moved along her teeth. Stress reduction. Upper right canine. Time to think up a blessing for someone.

How about a mocha for her mom?

Fifteen minutes later, she was following the curved drive toward a stable-style, two-car garage on the left of her mother’s house. White columns guarded the antebellum home’s double doors, and magnolias shaded rows of yellow rosebushes in front. What a contrast to their life back in Cuvin.

Though Gina’s memories of Romania lay in bits and pieces, she could still envision the small, red-roofed house of her girlhood, could still hear the creak of the crank as she drew water from the well.

People who thought of that as the simple life had no clue. Maybe they were confusing simple with clarity of purpose. Microwaves and remote controls—those were simple. Cell phones were simple. Village life was plain hard work, sunup to sundown, relying on the sweat of the brow to meet basic necessities.

Some days Gina missed that.

“At last,” Nikki said, meeting her at the car door. “I was getting worried.”

“Nice to know you care.”

“Regina, I didn’t raise you to be late to appointments.”

“An appointment. Is that all this is?”

“You said you wanted to speak with me. I’ve been waiting all morning.”

In her black boots, Gina climbed out and handed over the mocha without a word. She was determined to rise above her mother’s belittlement. She had marked her nineteenth birthday last year, and that meant no excuses, no blaming her mom or the dad she had never known or the siblings she had always wanted. Chin up. Straight ahead.

Nikki accepted the drink. “Thank you.”

“You bet.”

“I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.”

“Check out the hair,” Gina said. “You like it?”

“A streak of purple. I suppose it does match the shirt.”

Gina decided to take that as a compliment. She’d picked out this out-fit carefully. She was wearing a dark purple cotton tank