by Wilson, Eric
“Kyria,” Auge snapped at her girl. “Enough of that.”
“She’s just a child,” Sol reminded his wife.
“She’s a Collector, is what she is. Must we coddle her forever?”
“You may have to do just that.”
Erota’s smile was hidden in the darkness. Kyria would never age, would never grow taller. Even with years of acclimation, she would remain subject to her earthly temperament, which, in this case, meant that of an adolescent girl. As such, she would face certain physical hurdles. On the other hand, she would be less likely to raise suspicion from others and would have easy access to those of her own age group.
“Now where is Barabbas?” Ariston said.
As if on cue, the faithful acolyte appeared with torch in hand. His wiry beard and eyes glinted as flame hissed along a tightly wound towel soaked in kerosene.
“Speaking of technology, Barabbas, I had more efficient light sources in mind.”
“The torch is warm and bright, sir.”
“Very well. Yes, it is. Now lead the way, would you?”
The large man spearheaded their descent into a tunnel of curved ceilings and crude stone walls. The Houses of Ariston and Eros followed, merging into a single stream, and Erota had no problem picturing herself hundreds of years in the past.
This region had once been part of old Transylvania. Vlad Dracul, the father of Vlad Tepes, had traveled here during the fifteenth century with his Order of the Dragon. Later, his son had ruled with an iron hand, utilizing violent yet effective measures to curb crime and foreign invasion—and to mollify his own Collector’s thirst. In Romanian, Tepes meant impaler, and he was known to have dined with hearty indulgence while his victims suffered nearby on sharpened stakes.
Some said the name Dracul could be interpreted as devil or dragon, while Dracula meant literally son of the devil.
Erota had never encountered the Master Collector personally, but she knew he had no son—not that she would dare whisper that fact. Like all Collectors, the Master lacked the creative spark, the intermeshing of spiritual and physical that enabled life. Incapable of producing his own progeny, he was forced to collect what he could from the loins and wombs of mortals.
Humans—these irksome beasts—they were the ones who carried the gift of life within. They misused it, abused, ignored, and polluted it. But it was always there. Glowing in their eyes, in their touch.
Even more annoying to Erota were the Unfallen.
The heavenly angels.
These were the ones who had refused to join the Master Collector’s rebellion and thus remained in favor with the Nazarene. They served at his beck and call. They interacted between physical and spiritual, impervious to the Separation.
Though also forbidden to violate the Power of Choice, the Unfallen did not require hosts to interact with the earthly realms, and stories in Jewish and Christian Scripture showed them eating food set before them and even taking people by the hand.
Erota sneered in the torchlight.
Well, leave them to their fun and games. It’d all end soon enough.
Chattanooga
The first stab of discomfort caught Gina as she stepped into her work clothes.
A half hour ago, Nikki Lazarescu had left for her antebellum home in the St. Elmo district of town, her pupils dilated with disapproval and reproach. Things had been more tense than usual between daughter and mother, and even though Gina had no desire to hurt her mom—not deeply, anyway—it had been the purpose of her makeover and tattoo to spread her wings.
Wider than before.
The angel on her back was her statement of freedom, signed in ink.
She thought of the skin and blood that had curled up beneath the tattoo artist’s machine last year, and was struck by the parallels between her adult emancipation and the childhood cleansings to which she’d been subjected.
Maybe her mother had been onto something after all.
The discomfort intensified, but Gina wasn’t going to let a little tummy trouble keep her from work. In half an hour she was supposed to be at the entrance to Ruby Falls, the Cavern Castle, from which she would lead tours into Lookout Mountain’s cave system. She’d never been late before. Why start now?
She pulled on tan slacks, a white shirt, and a tie. Attached and straightened her name badge. Hi, my name is Gina . . . If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.
The next stab came while she was tying her shoes. She’d survived last autumn’s confrontation with the delivery truck—had only fragmented memories of it, actually—but this newest torment was undeniable.
It twisted in her belly.
Backed off.
Then drove deeper, to her core.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Arad
Ariston, it seemed to Erota, was mulling thoughts similar to her own. By firelight, he addressed the assembly. “The Nistarim,” he said, “are the key to bringing down this dreary reality. After two thousand years of existence, they’ve managed to elude us. Other clusters have done their best to identify and destroy them, but here we all are, still trapped beneath layers of ozone. Is anyone else discouraged?”
A few grunts hung in the cold, smoky air.
“While rumors of the Concealed Ones have multiplied, they are by their very nature humble in spirit, which means they won’t go about seeking personal accolades or exerting their own rights. It’s their meekness that allows them to hide beneath our noses.”
Erota folded her arms. Speaking of meekness, Ariston was not exactly the epitome of modern chic. He’d trimmed down his belly to a more manageable size, and he was better attired than those first days out of the tombs—Please, strike that mental image from my mind—yet he still seemed unremarkable.
Dressed in slacks, a collared white shirt, and suspenders mostly hid-den by a rumpled suit jacket, he could stroll the city’s avenues unnoticed. If the best Collectors were the least obvious, he was up to the task.
“Is there something you’d like to add, Erota?”
“Huh?” She caught his eye. “Oh, I was just thinking that we should be looking for people who are . . . well, who are dressed like you, sir.”
“Like me?”
“No offense. You know, people who have the ability to blend in.”
“Ah. I wish the Nistarim were that simple to identify. Unfortunately, clothing seems to be unrelated. Positions and titles, jewels and wealth—none of it guarantees an individual’s humility, or lack thereof. The good thing is that we alone, through these undead hosts, have the ability to discern their markings. Where others can only guess, we can be certain with but a glance.”
“Not that we can go through the earth’s population one by one,” Erota said. “Isn’t there a better way?”
“Maybe,” said one of the teens, “they’ve pulled an Elvis.”
“A what?” Ariston said.
“An Elvis. Maybe they’ve left the building.”
“No, Shabtai. They’re still out there. Thirty-six of them. It’s an infinitesimally small number from among the billions now crowding this planet, but believe me, they do exist. Don’t let our setbacks suggest otherwise.”
“Where’d they even come from?” the boy inquired.
“Good question. One we’re still trying to figure out.”
Shabtai hooked a thumb into a belt loop of his jeans. “Why don’t we just go back to their roots, then follow the trail? I mean, really, how hard can that be? Like on one of those American detective shows.”
“Been watching TV, I see.”
“At our place here in Arad, we get some good channels. My dad says it’s important to know pop culture.”
“As a tool,” said Nehemiah, his father. “To better understand your prey.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of cunning,” Ariston agreed. “Certainly use such knowledge to infiltrate your own peers, Shabtai. But keep your insolence to yourself, or I may be forced to ban you from future gatherings.”
> “Insolence? What does that mean?”
“It means you think you know what everything means.”
“Well . . . I knew that.”
Ariston gazed around the bunker and challenged any further interruption. “It’s obvious,” he said, “that we each face unique challenges through our individual hosts. It’s a headache—quite literally, at times—to exert your knowledge through the limited education of a human, particularly a younger one. But it’s no excuse for ignorance, is that clear?”
Erota offered him a supportive wink.
“I am well aware,” he added, pushing out his chest, “that you’re all thirsty. Please, bear with me a few minutes longer. Eros and I have been in discussion with other cluster leaders, and we’re told it’s not uncommon to go for generations without a trace of the Nistarim. Even if Collectors from around the globe were to unite under the same goal, we would still be shorthanded. That’s why, as of this evening, our particular cluster will be shifting strategies.”
“We’re giving up now?” It was Sol’s turn to object.
“That’s not what I said, son.”
“The dismantling of the Nistarim is what I live for.”
“An interesting statement, coming from the undead.”
“I think,” Sol said, “that you know my level of dedication. I want to demolish this vainglorious empire of men. They’re putrid, at each other’s throats constantly. My own brother was cleaved in two by a sword, a victim of their warmongering.”
“Natira was human,” Ariston specified. “Don’t confuse his sort with us.”
“His sort? What kind of talk is that? He was your son.”
“Your half brother, as I prefer to think of him. From an era long ago.”
Sol’s nose was hawklike, his eyes ablaze. “What about Salome, my baby sister?”
“I’ll grant you, she came up out of the grave like the rest of us. She erred, though, didn’t she? And she paid the price.” Ariston panned to his first wife. “Sorrow will cloud your eyes, if you let it.”
Sol moved to Shelamzion’s side. “Leave my mother out of this.”
Barabbas lifted the torch higher, until crackling flames outlined corded muscles and the thatch of chest hair at his shirt collar. His message was clear: he would not brook any trouble. His masculine odor clogged Erota’s nostrils.
“Sol, hear me out. We want the same things,” Ariston said. “It’s just our methods that differ.”
“I’ve heard the excuses before, father.”
“Not excuses. Explanations.”
“Semantics. You’ve spent too much time over these past few years dabbling in corporate courses.”
“You’d be surprised. There’s much in there that suits our agenda. And don’t deride the human capacity for molding thoughts and belief systems. You think we know how to work them? Bah. They’re experts are tearing apart the mind-sets of their own kind. Which,” Ariston said, “is the tactic we’re going to start focusing on. It’s no mistake that we of the Akeldama have been given room to roam here at the end of this century, this millennium, and I believe this cluster is poised to make an undeniable impact. Our time is near.”
“Let’s hope so,” Sol muttered.
Ariston turned toward Eros. “They’re growing tired of my voice.”
“Would you like me to handle it from here, Lord?”
“Do as you see fit.”
Eros, Erota’s olive-skinned father, was ever calm. He and his sisters Auge and Hermione took after their mother, Dorotheus—aristocratic, self-possessed, an almost regal air about them. Their very arrival was known to have stilled rooms of strangers.
The Grecian house leader faced the gathering and, with a level gaze, secured each revenant’s attention. “Here’s the deal, my friends. Ariston and I agree it’s time for a complete revamping—if you’ll pardon the terrible pun—of our methods. We are hoping to breathe some new life—”
A few groans.
“—into our cluster.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I think we’re all aware of the difficulties we’ve had tracking a lone mother and child. Their trail ran cold before even crossing the Romanian border, and years later we’re no closer to finding which rock they scurried under. Naturally, we’ve gone on investigative treks into surrounding regions, sniffing for clues, but we’ve come up empty-handed. Does anyone else wonder if there wasn’t some trickery in the clues they left us?”
“The thought’s crossed my mind,” Ariston confessed.
“Mine too,” Eros said. “I feel like we were deceived. And I, for one, am tired of sipping on the Ukrainians’ irradiated blood. If I were alive, I’d be dead by now.”
“He’d be dead by now.” Little Kyria snickered.
“That’s right, cutie.” Eros ruffled her hair. “So it’s time we go about this more methodically. We do know that the Concealed Ones are meant to carry the sorrows of the world. Some of the legends speculate that when any one of them leaves this earth, he is so frozen with despair that he must spend a thousand years in heaven being thawed by God’s own hand.”
Kyria’s exaggerated shiver earned a pearl-white grin from Eros.
He said, “Are any of you familiar with the Andalusian Jews, in Spain? Back in the seventh century, these people venerated a particular rock that was shaped like a teardrop. Do you know why? They believed it was one of the Nistarim, the Lamed Vov. In their minds, the rock was a humble soul petrified by humanity’s suffering.”
“If they were right, sir,” Erota said, “wouldn’t the world have already collapsed?”
“It should’ve. But sadly, another rose to fill his place.”
“Will this ever end? I mean, how many of these people are there?”
“That’s the very point of this discussion. We’ve been focused on hunting down individuals of the Nistarim—all well and good—but it’s been ineffectual, hasn’t it? Our new plan of attack is to add to their joint sorrows by shoveling trouble and pain upon humans everywhere. One by one, the burden will increase till the Nistarim crumble beneath the combined weight. It’ll involve each of us on more personal levels, zeroing in on unique targets. Hunters and prey.”
“A rousing speech,” Sol said. “But how does it work in the real world?”
“Take my daughter as an example. Erota’s upcoming trek to America will allow her to tap a whole new sector for long-term sustenance, exploring recent rumors, even while piling despair upon the Nistarim. Already, with her particular set of . . . uh, assets, she’s brought grief to quite a few families. A quickie here. A jilted spouse over there. She makes it look easy.”
“Dad.” Erota arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m easy?”
“Please,” Sol fumed. “Is the entire Eros household so uncouth? I don’t doubt Erota’s abilities, but”—he took an elbow in the ribs from his wife—“I do have some logistical concerns. Drained corpses raise suspicions, and we’ve worked hard to evade notice, feeding in state hospitals, orphanages, alleyways, even upon farm animals. How will this new strategy make that any easier? What am I missing?”
“Ahh,” Ariston cut in, smoothing his suit jacket. “It’s a demonstration you want, son? Then a demonstration you’ll get. Helene?”
“I called him earlier,” his wife said. “He’s on his way.”
An unsuspecting male . . .
Erota wondered who this person was? What was planned for him?
Ariston nodded toward Helene and Megiste. “Go on, then. We’ll fol-low along and meet you in the chapel in five minutes.”
“Come thirsty,” Megiste said.
The willowy priestess let the words trail behind her, and Erota registered the subtle charge of excitement that passed through the cluster. Yes, they were ready to drink.
There she was. Helene? Yes, that was her name.
Benyamin Amit had noticed her in city hall for the past year, an archivist at a small desk. Her movements were always fluid, her smile blithe, but it was those doelike eyes that first got to him. There was
none of that fierce pride he saw in his wife, none of that sense of duty, of constant obligation. Helene was a mellow spirit.
Of course, when it came to spirits, Benyamin was a connoisseur.
“Ciao,” he greeted her.
“Ciao, Ben. You brought the payment? Good.” Helene turned along high earthen walls that formed one of the fortress’s six points. “Well, aren’t you coming?”
He tried to push from his thoughts that old wound on his heel—pulsating, still infected with poison. He followed after her, shoes crunching over frosty grass. He was watchful, comforted by the weight of the pistol loaded and holstered beneath his jacket.
Helene led him through darkness toward the Cetatea’s dilapidated chapel with its dual bell towers. The place saw few visitors. The parking area was now empty, and a breeze fluffed the branches of trees stationed around baroque-style buildings. From a distant riverbank, music and laughter marked the location of the Neptun Strand, where locals gathered to eat langosi and drink bere.
Though far-off, the familiar sounds reassured Benyamin.
Seemed safe enough. He and Helene had made exchanges here before. This citadel was a convenient drop point—deserted, yet only a bridge span from the city center.
Uninvited, a set of old images scrolled across his vision: Ein Bokek, the waters of the Dead Sea, and that shriveled corpse . . .
And Cal Nichols. Nickel. Haven’t thought about him in ages.
Benyamin could still picture those metal tent pegs—MTPs—tumbling onto the sand. Surely there couldn’t be any metaphysical purpose behind this recollection, though. He didn’t subscribe to such rubbish.
Best to stay focused now. Pay attention.
He came to a standstill. The presence of an auburn-haired female at the chapel doors gave him pause. Maybe it would be wise to go back the way he’d come, forget the exchange, and apologize to his wife. He had coerced her into moving to this land, pointing out Romania’s rich Jewish heritage and the fact that Elie Wiesel had been born here. Arad even had sister cities in Israel.
Dear Dalia. With nary a word, she had obliged and supported him. She deserved none of the distress he’d foisted on her. He would explain about this itch, and how it grew stronger at night when the loneliness worked as an irritant.