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

man on the front step, and flopped onto her bed. She kicked at the blankets. Pulled a pillow over her head. Then sat back up and stared at the wall.

She wasn’t a girl anymore. Time to grow up.

With eyelids lowered and pulse slowing, she reined in her frustration and perked up her ears. She began to pick up their conversation through the window, along with the man’s conspicious gum chomping. He was young, maybe ten years Nicoleta’s junior.

The words had nothing to do with Gina or her birthday. He was discussing politics, of all things, and she decided he was a provocateur. At least that was the name the communist schoolteachers would give him.

A rabble-rouser. Up to no good.

Yet the things he was saying made sense . . .

“I’m worried about the people of Romania. About you and your girl. That was your daughter, wasn’t it? I’m telling you, President Ceausescu’s a vampire, sucking the life from this country.”

“Keep it down,” Nicoleta cautioned.

“Look around you, Nikki . . . ”

How did he know her mother? What gave him the right to use a nickname?

“. . . I mean, orphanages are overflowing while he builds monuments to his own immortality. Tell me that’s not a man possessed?”

“Shush.”

“Things’re about to get crazy,” the Provocateur said. “You’ll see.”

There was unrest in this land of theirs, it was true. A few days ago, Gina had seen a slogan spray-painted on a city bus from Arad: Jos dictatorul! “Down with the dictator!”

Nicoleta said to him, “I dearly hope that you’re wrong.”

“Well, you heard about Tianamen Square, right? Students protesting and getting gunned down? The whole world’s been watching, and revolution is in the air. There are forces in motion, evil forces—which you should understand better than most—and we can’t just sit by. You think you’re safe here in this village? Holding on to superstitions? Wrong, Nikki. Wrong. For centuries, Romania’s been a battlefield, and that’s not about to change. It’s time to get outta here.”

“Lower your voice, won’t you? Gina might hear.”

“Yeah, there’s the answer. Close your eyes and it’ll all go away.”

In her room, Gina already had her eyes closed, and she visualized the Provocateur’s face to go along with his smooth tones. Her father had died when she was a baby, and she wondered if this was what a dad was supposed to sound like—confident and strong. Was this how a dad looked—wide shoulders and dreamy eyes? American movie-star looks? Her cheeks warmed at such imagery.

“I want you to leave,” she heard Nicoleta tell him.

“Come with me. You and your daughter. Before things get—”

“Enough.”

The Provocateur’s volume dropped so that Gina questioned if she was hearing him correctly. “At least let me stay till midnight.”

Midnight? Gina’s heart jumped. Maybe he had come to mark her birthday after all.

“You know you shouldn’t be here,” Nicoleta said.

“Please don’t be this way.”

“It’s my house. I’m asking that you leave.”

“Can’t I just see her for—”

“No.”

“Well then, maybe she’d like these. Could you give them to her for me?”

“What is this nonsense?”

“One little present’s not gonna hurt anyone.”

“Hmmph.”

“Take them, at least.”

“Very well,” Nicoleta conceded, and for a moment Gina thought her mother’s voice cracked with emotion. “Now leave.”

“Nikki.”

“Go.”

Don’t listen to her, Gina thought. She’s scared to trust anyone, that’s all.

But the Provocateur complied by vanishing down their rutted street.

Jerusalem

“Come on. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Lars Marka said.

“You told me you’d go in there, don’t you remember? Or maybe”— Thiago rapped large knuckles against Lars’s head—“maybe the beer’s wiped your memory clean.”

The hard thummp caused Lars to sway. The return trek from the local bar to the Valley of Hinnom had required his full attention, one foot in front of the other, arms swinging to keep him vertical.

Ahead, a pile of rubble marked the grave site. The moon hovered low and blotchy now, a translucent amber sac ready to burst with some vile creature’s offspring. The notion was ludicrous, of course, like a tale Lars might’ve concocted to scare his childhood schoolmates, yet he couldn’t deny the mood of this place.

Jerusalem. The Holy City—for Muslims, Christians, and Jews.

These days, exiles came from around the globe to reclaim Israel as their home, and how many over the ages had given their lives attacking and defending her ramparts? Surely ghosts of the past inhabited every cranny and nook.

“Listen,” Thiago said, “you’re the one who broke into the tombs. You, Lars. Even had yourself a peek already. Don’t you think you deserve a souvenir?”

“Well, maybe. Just a little something.”

“That’s right, that’s right. And I know you’ll share a trinket or two with your drinking buddy, won’t you? The way we talked about.”

Thiago had kept the drinks sliding to Lars along the polished counter. The Norwegian tried to remember how many he’d downed. Three? Four? He’d lost count, entranced by the bar’s neon colors and the attention of his coworker.

“I . . .” Lars planted his feet. “The ground’s spinning.”

Thiago winked a gray eye. “Maccabee beer. Told you it was good stuff. They’re the ones who freed the Jews from oppression and put a stop to foreign slave drivers, back in the second century. Well, look at us now. Ha-ha. After a long day’s work, we’ve still got them looking after us.”

Lars meant to join in the laughter, but the sound stuck in his throat the moment he spotted the specter in the trees. What was that he’d just seen?

He rocked back. Perhaps it was Gronnskjegg, a ghoul from the lore of his native land. But no, that particular beast was solid and sported a green beard.

Whatever this was, it was less tangible than even the shadows pinned to the dirt. It floated over bristly vegetation. Writhed through twisted tree limbs. He sensed that if he grasped hold of it, the shape would squeeze like sludge between his fingers, then pool at his feet and rise again with malicious intent.

Okay. Definitely one too many beers.

He took a step back as a