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

Even hours-old Jacob had not been spared. Wickedness had stalked into that clinic and jabbed its penetrating nails into his chest.

Stop. Don’t go there, Gina. Just . . . stop.

The tub was done draining. Gina climbed out and dried herself. As she slipped into jeans, she heard the horsefly hovering again, back near the rivulets of pinkish-red. She ran the water till the color was gone then twisted her towel with a shake of the wrist, and landed a shot that sent the big fly spinning, stunned, into the corner behind the toilet.

Though the fly was interested in laying eggs, the female Collector kept this temporary vessel fixed on the duty at hand. Drinking was a simple matter, an orgy of flavor, whereas siphoning memories was a wholly different function that required focus and mental energy. For a fly, it was a real stretch to add anything other than instinctive behaviors to the primitive brain.

The winged host was preparing for final cleanup when a typhoon swirled overhead, a sudden change in the weather system that buffeted and sent it reeling.

Buckhead

Early morning rays were peeking between the live oaks when Megiste got back to the Paces’ home off of Peachtree Road. The fly experience was one she would rather forget, and she was disappointed by the information she’d filtered.

This Gina woman, she no longer carried the mark.

She was washed up. Of no use.

Which only helped sharpen Megiste’s focus. She would return to Arad, to Kiev, enlist the loyalties of the shaken cluster members. There was no reason to continue following Lord Ariston. What a man could do, Megiste could do better. She would guide them back to Israel. There, they would partner with refugees, terrorists, the ultrareligious—anyone who could help in increasing the sorrows of this dying planet.

And let the Nistarim suffer with the putrid humans.

Let them crumble, one by one.

It might take time, but the House of Eros would soon regain its strength and continue in its quest to usher in Final Vengeance.

Megiste arrived at the doorstep of the Tutor-style home, expecting Erota to be ready to go. Her instructions last night had been explicit. She and Erota would be buying tickets out of Atlanta today, and by tomorrow they would be helping their household—Dorotheus, Hermione, Domna, and, of course, burly Barabbas—regroup.

The estate was eerily quiet, still illuminated by lawn lights, but with windows dark all around. The front door was unlocked, even open a crack.

The scent of death drew Megiste upstairs.

She knew before she’d reached Ray-Ban’s desiccated body that Erota had broken away and abandoned the needs of her family back in Kiev. Ray-Ban had probably caught her in the act of packing and tried to put an end to it. A man of his money and position, proud of his trophy wife—he would not take a soft-handed approach to such ungratefulness. Plus, his business pals would see it as a sign of emasculation.

Oh, if only Mr. Raymond Pace could see himself now.

Barely a man at all.

As for Mrs. Erota Pace, she was nowhere to be found.

With a plane to catch and a household to guide back toward that sliver of a country squeezed between the Mediterranean and the shores of the Dead Sea, Megiste couldn’t burden herself with such matters. Let the puerile Collector in the nineteen-year-old’s body choose a path of rebellion. On her own, Erota would be ineffective. Inept. Certainly not worth fretting over.

THE FOURTH DROP:

RETURN

Good! It has given us opportunity

to cry “check” in some ways in this chess game,

which we play for the stake of human souls.

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

Rescue others by snatching them from the flames . . .

show mercy, but be careful that you aren’t contaminated.

—Jude 1:23

Journal Entry

June 27

I’m not sure what to think at this point. I have one drop left, and so far I’ve found mostly heartache. Each stain has come from a Collector, one of Those Who Hunt. The memories are full of dark things, and I’d like to believe it’s all fantasy. Just some good stories to keep my interest.

Who sent me this map? Someone trying to help me escape this little corner of the world, or someone trying to flush me out of hiding? That’s the part I can’t figure out.

Megiste’s blood did give some interesting viewpoints. I’m not really sorry to see some of these characters take the fall, but there’s a part of me that . . . well, that likes the darkness. Maybe it’s because the light can be so blinding at times. You just feel more—I don’t know—at home, I guess, in the dark. It doesn’t force you to wear a pretty face or look just right. You can let your hair down. I mean, who’s gonna notice? Who’s gonna care?

I’ve been taught to beware Those Who Hunt. That’s all good. But no one’s ever given me the scoop on Those Who Resist. Where are they? Do they meet secretly, or mingle in the open? Would they even accept someone my age?

Suddenly, it seems so obvious. I mean, what else could it be? I’m being screened and recruited. I bet they want me to join their cause.

CHAPTER

FORTY-SEVEN

August 1999—Arad, Romania

The orphans brought back her joy.

Gina’s heart had been ripped out nearly two years ago in Chattanooga, and she had battled on through the dark months that tried to engulf her. She figured that if she kept even one nostril above water, it meant she was still kicking and alive. Alive was a good thing.

At the beginning of this summer, Jed Turney had announced his plans to head for the Pacific Northwest to live near his uncle, the police sergeant. And to clear my head, you know, try to put things back in perspective.

Without her. That’s the part he had left unsaid.

There were a lot of things they hadn’t put into words, and despite efforts on both sides and joint sessions with a counselor, it was time to reevaluate.

Gina understood this.