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

His eyes grazed up her legs, over the reclined curve of her hip.

“Hello?” She snapped her fingers. “Are we in agreement?”

He looked away and nodded dumbly.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR

August—Totorcea Vineyards, Romania

Due east of Lipova, Megiste and Eros walked the vineyard’s hillside property. They’d made the journey down from Kiev to touch base with the cluster leader, and Ariston was now leading them on a personal tour, waddling between hanging rows of vines, many of which were still withered and dead. Megiste noticed that the soil was dry from the day’s earlier heat, and scattered rocks indicated a site not yet cleared for steady production.

“The place has a lot of potential, Lord Ariston,” Eros commented.

“It’s coming along.”

“Though I must tell you,” Megiste said, “I prefer living amongst the denser population in Kiev. For the occasional tappings, you know—should the desire overtake me.”

Below, the land leveled out toward the Mures River, where mosquitoes and gnats swarmed in the twilight. Guarded by a gate, a ribbon of dirt threaded from the main road to this modest place with its thatched-roof residence and decrepit warehouse.

Ariston had purchased the vineyard a year earlier, under his Romanian cover name: Flavius Totorcea. The alkaline in the soil had proven resistant to dependable grape harvests, and the previous owner’s sons, who both resided in England, had shown no interest in the land. The estate’s executor would have sold it to Ariston even if his name were Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. The man’s very words.

Ariston of Apamea offered his jeweled armband. The executor accepted. Then scampered off, probably hoping to auction the relic for additional profit.

Which, Megiste knew, was of no concern to Ariston.

“The place does need work,” he told her and Eros. “A few years, though, and I plan to be bottling notable vintages under the name of Totorcea Vineyards.”

“Why, it’s the perfect false front,” Eros said.

“I’ve been researching on the World Wide Web and found lots of information for making it into a legitimate business. I’ve e-mailed vintners from Bordeaux to the Willamette Valley.” He noted Megiste’s blank look. “In the state of Oregon. A Mr. Addison, from Addison Ridge Vineyards, was kind enough to send information on pinot noir grapes, one of my favorite varietals.”

“You lost me, I’m afraid. Back at Bordeaux.”

He puffed out his chest. “Wine talk, that’s all it is.”

“At least no one bothers you out here, do they?”

“Aside from my own family?”

Megiste peeked through her long curls. “Is Sol still giving you grief ?”

“And the wives.”

Eros chuckled. “Now you know why I’ve chosen to remain unattached.”

“Some days I envy you that. With all of us under one roof, it gets tense at times. Bah. With two thousand years of waiting under our belts, you’d hope they could see past the petty differences of their hosts.”

“Oh, you foolish man,” Megiste said with a giggle.

“I can see why these modern grooms have it whittled down to one mate. So, tell me,” he said. “How’re things in Ukraine? Is the House of Eros having the same success that we’ve had with your slow-tapping method?”

Eros slid fingers down Megiste’s arm. “I’ll let our priestess answer that.”

“Success?” she said. “Absolutely. We’ve tapped hundreds, maybe more. The vines spread like weeds, creeping and crawling through every available crack. We’ve been focusing our energies on one person per household. Once the root takes hold, infestation progresses with only occasional nudges from us.”

“We’ve found the same thing here. And the blood, it’s much more concentrated than from a direct attack. I owe you my thanks, Megiste, for developing this tactic.”

“As part of my training, I once used ritual sacrifice to see after the welfare of my congregants. Is this really any different?”

“I suppose not.”

“We’re all in this together,” Eros said. “Two houses, one cluster.”

Ariston’s eyes snapped up. “You’re sure of that? I’m having doubts about Erota. Do you have any contact with your daughter? The reports she’s been sending me seem . . . sketchy, at best.”

“She’s an independent one, no doubt there, but I’ll look into it. Any other trouble? Besides on the home front?”

“Hmm. Until recently I didn’t think so.”

Megiste came to a halt, pulling her fur coat tight as the evening temperature began to drop. “What’s changed, Lord?”

“Little things. Maybe nothing.”

“Do tell. It’s our first trip back since the meeting at the Cetatea, and I want all the juicy details.”

He confided to her and Eros that a recent nighttime intruder had been spotted several times near this property, yet never been caught. “I’m concerned by anyone showing interest in my family or this location. We’ve been careful to remain veiled in our activities.”

“Probably just a thieving gypsy,” Eros theorized.

“Hmm. I don’t buy into the local prejudices. No, it seems that some-thing’s amiss, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Maybe we’ll catch a farmer’s son spying,” Megiste said, “and then tap our own private vintage. What do you say?”

“I think you are insatiable.”

“I’ve never denied it. We all want that one cup that never runs dry and satisfies our needs for all time. But it sounds so droll, don’t you think? If such a cup exists, let those who want eternal boredom wet their lips on it.” Megiste ran her tongue along the thin bow of her own mouth. “As for me, I’ll keep sucking the juice from a variety of . . . well, grapevines.”

Ariston chortled. “It’s good to have you two here. Come. I’ll show you the house.”

On the way down the slope, Megiste offered a suggestion. “Considering this intruder, perhaps you should set out a guard.”

“Do you think I’ve not done that?”

“Well, I’m sure you have.”

“Barabbas is on duty even now.”

“You think of everything, sir. He’s not one to mess with.”

Ariston grunted.

“I meant no insubordination,” she said.

Though often mischievous, she believed in the chain of command as delineated in the Principles of Cluster Survival. In times past, Collector defiance had sent others packing, and she had no desire to follow in their tracks. She was Restless enough, without a visit