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

winked back. “I like men better when they’re quiet.”

Kristine’s laugh was effervescent. “I love it. Do all Ukrainian women think the way you do? Oh, I can’t wait to help you pick out your wedding dress. I know this wonderful place . . .”

The babbling continued.

Erota’s thoughts tiptoed back to that incident at the seminar.

She had succumbed to her impulses, reaching for N. K. Lazarescu’s hand and seeking out the fresh wound. Although she’d refrained from latching on for deep, thirsty swallows, she had found enough upon her tongue to gain access to the Romanian’s memories: a young lady in black boots, and talk of the Nistarim, of the letter Tav, of a child on the way . . .

The images could be distortions. Best taken with a grain of salt. Of the humans she’d inhabited or feasted upon, she had found that most had memories like trash receptacles, packed and polluted by time, resentment, and selfishness.

Oh yes, their waste was a terrible thing to mind.

But, what if ?

It would be absurd not to explore the possibilities. If the images were accurate, Erota might soon be in a position to locate and destroy one of the Concealed Ones, thus ushering in Final Vengeance upon this gangrenous world.

A child on the way . . .

A male?

For now, this would remain her little secret. No need to rush. Surely, newlywed Gina Turney would have an ultrasound soon enough, and in so doing confirm for Erota what she now suspected deep in her undead midsection.

“Hello? Erota?”

A hand touching her arm.

“Look at you, you poor thing,” Kristine Pace said. “I’ve talked your pretty little ear off again, haven’t I? You might’ve noticed I have a tendency to do that.”

Erota took Kristine’s hand, running soft fingertips along her skin. She turned in the BMW’s cockpit and faced her new companion. She felt a terrible thirst come upon her, a symptom of the many hours endured in an auditorium full of flesh-and-blood beings. Her head was aching. There was one way to shut this woman up.

“Kristine,” she said, “what is your greatest desire?”

The woman, illuminated by the glow of the dash lights, opened her mouth to answer. She hesitated, bit her lip, then whispered, “To never be lonely again.”

“Do you feel lonely right now?”

“No, I . . . I feel a little bit scared, but I’m not sure why.”

“Fear can be exciting, don’t you think?”

“Oh well, I suppose that—”

A sudden strike to the neck cut short Kristine’s words. With lips peeled back, making way for incisors, Erota latched into soft skin and drank her fill. Anesthetizing. Spreading infestation. And loving every moment of it.

THE THIRD DROP:

REVELATIONS

I am afraid of all things—even to think,

but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is

life and death . . . and we must not flinch.

—BRAM STOKER, DRACULA

Godless people have wormed their way in among you . . .

The fate of such people was determined long ago.

—JUDE 1:4

Journal Entry

June 26

I’ve put this off for a few days, wondering if I should keep testing these droplets. It’s confusing. And I’m almost scared of what else I’ll find.

This last drop must’ve come from Erota, with many of the memories hitchhiking from the wound on Nikki’s wrist. I’m guessing Gina’s memories were passed through the blood smeared on her mother’s lips. I wonder how these drops came to be on the map, but I have a feeling I’ll find out soon.

It’s hard not to be caught up in these stories. While I’m reliving them, they seem so real. Like I could walk right into the scene and interact. How cool would that be? I’d stop the Collectors from sipping from those disgusting little thorn cups.

There’s this other part of me, though—I don’t even know if I should even write this down—a part that understands where they’re coming from. My life’s been pretty short and lonely, consisting mostly of books and education, and in that time I’ve read over and over again that it all boils down to survival of the fittest. Dog-eat-dog. Well then, why shouldn’t Collectors take what they can get?Who’s to say they’re wrong? Sure, there’s the common good to think about, but it seems a little too common. What if half of the people on this crowded planet were wiped out? It’d simplify things, all right.

I don’t know. Maybe my brain’s just a wreck from this rush of secondhand experiences. Not that it matters now. I may as well keep going and see how this ends.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

July—Chattanooga

Gina Lazarescu Turney turned away from the pandemonium on the TV set. She’d seen the footage before—the concussion of a pipe bomb in down-town Atlanta a year ago, a blast of light, people running, two dead with more than one hundred injured.

Pandemonium. A fitting description. If she remembered correctly, it came from Milton’s Paradise Lost, his designation for the capital of hell.

“You mind turning the channel?” she said.

Jed had his feet up on the coffee table, the remote cradled in his lap like a pet meant to keep him warm. A reporter was discussing the FBI’s ongoing investigation of that evening’s attack.

“Jed,” she said.

“Is your tummy bothering you again?”

“Please.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” He hit the button. The scenes of last summer’s Olympic tragedy gave way to an MTV video full of gyrating hips. He peeked over the back of the couch, caught her eye at the chess table. “Any better?”

She flicked her fingers, and he turned off the set.

“What’s wrong, Gina?”

“I’m okay.”

“Your okay is anyone else’s sick as a dog.”

She gave a weak smile. “I’m just going to assume that’s no reference to the way I look right now.”

“You look gorgeous. It’s true, that whole thing about pregnant women.”

“Having a glow? Give me a break.”

“Well, not a glow. More like a—”

“Sickly green?”

The phone rang, and Jed checked the number. “It’s your mother.”

Gina shook her head.

“It’s been what, a coupla months since you two talked?” he said.

“I’ve survived so far, haven’t I? Much to