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

hold on the expired wolf, elevating on a cold wind that scooped roadside leaves into the air. He let it carry him up over spruce and fir trees, past a grey owl and clumps of boulders where medieval battles had taken place. East of him, Erota’s Collector was riding her own current, nothing but a wisp of evening vapor.

Gliding along, he sensed the ghosts of Romania’s past below, the whispers of invaders and whiffs of spilled blood. This country had long been a chessboard of real-life intrigue. Marauders and armies, sultans and lords, had ravaged this land with their ruthless ambition.

Farther north, at Bran Pass, a fortress still stood as a reminder of such conflict, and Vlad Tepes, better known as Dracula, had frequented the area as he rallied the locals against all threats.

The feudal lord had never actually drunk blood from human necks, but it did make for scary tales.

If only he’d known what he was missing.

The Collector shivered in palpable anticipation of the coming showdown. He drew vitality from the determination of those who had remained true to the Akeldama Cluster—Shelamzion and Helene; his daughter, Shalom; Auge and her young daughter, Kyria; Nehemiah; teen-aged Shabtai; and tiny Matrona. Not to mention Erota and her newly pledged allegiance.

Yes, they would stand strong.

From ahead, he felt sudden wind resistance.

He identified, via monochromatic visibility, the crooked teeth of a ridge and realized he was going to be smashed into the rocks. He was still a few kilometers from his destination and his original host, which meant he needed to press on.

Desperate, he tried to snag a cross-draft. When that failed, he tried to hook onto a treetop.

It was no use.

At the mercy of the wind, Ariston’s Collector was slammed against the cliff, his hazy presence mauled by great granite molars. The breeze died in the lee of the ridge, and he found himself spiraling into the forest below.

CHAPTER

FIFTY-ONE

Sinaia

“You. How dare you?”

“Gina, please.”

“Where were you?” She drove a fist into Cal’s arm. Cocked back and landed a second blow. “You were supposed to keep him safe. My baby . . . You said you would be there.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Gina’s mind raced to the few times Cal had been around: the escape from Cuvin . . . the Borsa safe house . . . the conversation at Ruby Falls . . . the chat on the Tennessee River’s bank.

At present, they were in the thickening darkness of snow-dusted mountains that loomed over this narrow valley. Cal had parked the charter bus outside the Sinaia train station, where silver tracks ran parallel to the turbulent Prahova River. A hillside of trees hid the station from the tourist village on the slope above, and the building was vacant, having serviced its last passengers for the evening.

Cal and Gina faced each other in the station’s open entryway. She was already shivering in her spring dress.

“Jacob,” she said, “is dead. We didn’t even . . . Jed and I never even got one full day with our son.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“What can I do but try my best to make things right?”

Faces were pressed to the bus windows, watching their exchange. Cal had explained to all onboard that their vehicle had been targeted by “local ruffians” and that he needed to consult with Gina since she was familiar with this region.

She ignored the spectators. “You lied to me,” she said. “You failed me.”

“I’ve failed a lotta people.”

“Ohhh. So what’s one more, huh? You are pathetic.”

“I have to live with that fact every day.”

Cal’s eyes swam behind a liquid sheen, and briefly Gina thought he was going to shed tears. Like she cared. Then she realized it was only a trick of the moonlight stabbing down through windows in the depot’s vaulted ceiling. Nearby, schedule boards and ticket booths stood at attention, as though awaiting the arrival of unearthly visitors. The nearby river seemed to murmur in conspiratorial tones.

This place was too much. Gina had been back in her homeland only a few months, and already her mother’s old superstitions were pawing at her mind.

“Did you plant the bomb?” she hissed at Cal. “Was that your pack?”

He looked pained by her words. “Definitely not. Just ask around, and you’ll find JanSport in thousands of stores. That trick of theirs was pretty rotten.”

“Let me get this straight. You know what happened, but you weren’t able to put a stop to it beforehand? Big help that was, Cal, buddy boy. Why’re you even here?”

“I’m not.” He winked and twirled an end of his mustache.

Gina was not amused. “You know what, right there in that bus, I’ve now got another kid to protect.”

“Who you met at the Strand.”

“Yeah, and . . . Hey, wait.”

“The day of the choir performance,” Cal said.

“You set that up?” Then: the realization. “You knew I would see the Letter. You knew I would care for him.”

“Now you’re tracking. Poor kid, he was in sorry shape.”

“He was missing a toe. He was half-starved.”

“Stories for another day.” Cal removed his sunglasses and adjusted the brim of his hat. A pair of cars passed by, cutting north toward Brasov and Sighisoara, the birthplace of Vlad Tepes. “Main thing is, you are what that boy needs.”

“Me?”

“Can’t think of anyone better, Gina.”

She swallowed down a cocktail of hope and indignation. Although she wanted to be angry, she couldn’t deny the comfort of Cal’s presence here in the Carpathian dusk.

“Hey,” a muncitor called from the doorway of the bus. “When’re we going to go? We’re all tired and hungry, and the kids are getting spooked out here.”

“Would you gimme a few minutes?” Cal snapped in his gruff driver’s voice. He turned back to Gina. “Before you came along, Dov spent some time training with me, and he’s got lots more to learn, but he has been hardened by over two and a half years of survival in the woods and on the streets. He’ll be fine. A little love’ll carry him a long way.”

“He’s not