by Wilson, Eric
Atlanta
Nikki Lazarescu had never struggled this much during one of her seminars. She tucked a stray hair back into her gypsy head scarf and referred to her notes on the glass podium as she addressed the congregation of twelve hundred life students. Here, in the Church of Universal Wellness, they followed her every gesture with round, bright eyes that were windows into impressionable minds.
She needed to get this right. Each of these attendees had paid $219 to be here, to see and hear N. K. Lazarescu in person, and her words were meant to sweep away their cobwebs of self-pity, to guide them toward the salvation of hard work and moral turpitude.
All she could think of, though, was her daughter—bred in a moment of irresponsible lust, yet infused with immortality. Was Gina the embodiment of her mother’s malignancy? Or a conduit for redemption?
A miracle . . .
That’s what the driver, Zach Larkins, had called her.
Gina had bumped shoulders with the Reaper there on High Street and kept walking. Had she gotten lucky, maybe landed just right? Had Cal been there, acting on her behalf ? Or was Nikki’s precious child all that her name implied?
Regina Lazarescu: Queen of the Resurrected.
On the veranda in Chattanooga, Nikki had wanted to tell all, but it would’ve meant delving into details of her own sordid deeds, and that was something she would rather avoid. Her shame was too much to contemplate, and she couldn’t imagine revealing it for others to see. Especially her own child.
She’d decided instead to wash her hands of the entire thing. Gina wanted to do it her own way, walk her own path—and Nikki would respect that.
Not that any of it mattered now.
Three days ago, Gina had gone with Jed to the Hamilton County Clerk and filed for a marriage license. Obviously they’d chosen to forgo the plans for a late summer wedding. Her passport and permanent residence card proved she was old enough to marry without parental permission, a civil ceremony was performed, and Gina abandoned the Lazarescu to become Mrs. Jed Turney.
Nikki knew of this because of the photo postcard she’d received yesterday, showing Mr. and Mrs. Turneys’ overlapped hands, with matching gold wedding bands. No signature, just printed names—and a date already passed.
A grandbaby was also on the way. Due in early October.
Would she be allowed to see the child? Would the helpless infant be safe from those who wished to terminate its life? Would Gina fall in the crossfire?
Now, in the Church of Universal Wellness, Nikki caught sight of herself on the big screen to the left of the podium. She saw her dark eyes, intent beneath the scarf ’s purple material. She saw her downfalls up there, larger than life.
The audience was waiting.
“Introspection is for the weak,” Nikki declared aloud, reminding her-self of this as much as anyone else.
The headset carried her accented voice across the auditorium, and life students scribbled down the phrase in white two-inch binders.
“I left my homeland with my husband and two children, escaping before the fall of communism.” She changed the details here, for her own anonymity. “When my countrymen tell me of the violent days that led to the overthrow, they do not wallow in sorrow over the hundreds who fell. They understood there would be a price to pay. Instead, they rejoice over that moment, on December 25 of 1989, when our despot was executed by firing squad. They call it our national Christmas gift.”
The huge screen behind her filled with a Romanian flag, its center cut out.
“You can see they waved our flag proudly after removing the corruption.”
A pause. Anticipative stares.
“If you want a life revolution, you must be willing to get rid of the junk.” She smiled at this point, to show she was a regular person like each of them.
Two girls in the front gave large, earnest nods.
Nikki wrapped up this portion of the event: “Even as a wound cleanses itself through the spilling of blood, your past bleeds out behind you and purifies your soul. It’s nature’s way—God’s way, perhaps—of toughening you for future hardships. Find your place and be ready, because it’s your turn on stage. As we say in Romanian, ‘Se ridica cortina’ . . . The curtain is going up.”
She was mobbed afterward by a throng of eager faces. She spent time with each student, signing books, posters, whatever might seal the event in their minds.
A tall brunette with almond-shaped eyes approached with pen in hand. “N. K., I have nothing for you to sign, but you are my first actual American celebrity.”
“Really, I don’t know that I qualify.”
“Perhaps,” the brunette said, “you can sign my arm?”
“If you’d like. What’s your name?”
“Erota. Mrs. Erota Pace. Or it will be soon.”
“A beautiful name.” Nikki took the pen, a weighted writing instrument with a fine black point. Others were fidgeting behind Erota, anxious for their turns. “How far did you travel for the event?”
“From Ukraine.”
“Aren’t you a darling? That may very well be a record.”
Erota pushed back a lock of shining hair. “Now, though, I live only a few kilometers . . . or, I should say, miles . . . away. My future husband came to Kiev for me, and he has brought me here to the States. We live in Buckhead.”
“I know it well. One of my favorite areas of Atlanta.”
“Much different than Ukraine. I’ve also been to Romania.”
A pang of apprehension shot through Nikki. She gave a guarded laugh. “Yes, it’s a whole different world here, isn’t it? So, how did you hear about the seminar?”
“My future sister-in-law, she is a fan of yours. Kristine’s been to your sessions before, and she said I must come with her so we could have a bonding experience. She’s even more excited than her brother about my arrival in America.”
The next student in line was pressing in, shifting from foot to foot.
“Thank you, Erota, for coming. Which arm did you want me to sign?” Nikki suspended the pen over the woman’s olive skin. “Left arm or right?”
Erota bared her left. Nikki signed. She flipped the pen, so that it would not be pointed at her guest, and handed it back. As she did so, the next life student shoved forward for his opportunity and, in the blur of movement and clutch of bodies, the pen wedged between Nikki and Erota.
The sharp tip broke the skin along the top of Nikki’s hand—a minor abrasion. She felt only a pinprick of heat.
Nevertheless, tiny spheres of blood dotted the surface.
Erota was horrified. She babbled in Ukrainian before switching to English. “I am so sorry.” She grasped Nikki’s injured hand. “Please, you will forgive me?”
“Actually,” Nikki said. “I believe this young man is the one who—”
She realized then that Erota was kissing her wound. She felt the woman’s cool breath and the press of full lips. Despite the act’s tenderness, she was nauseated by the thought of this stranger partaking of her life force, and was sickened even more by the expanding smear of crimson across the woman’s mouth.
Those painted lips. A mirror image of her own, only days earlier.
Nikki sensed a siphoning away of her own thoughts, her memories starting to stretch and tear. The room was shrinking, zooming out. Was this the sensation Gina had endured as a child?
She grasped Erota’s wrist and tried to disengage herself from the woman’s hold. The skin was cold. Something about the woman’s nearness, about her presence, caused Nikki’s insides to quiver, and she thought of warnings she’d been given long ago.
Could this be a Collector?
Nikki had never knowingly faced a Collector in the flesh. She’d been told they could inhabit hosts of all sorts, anything that could facilitate the partaking of blood. She’d also been informed they were masters of concealment, capable of pulling far back behind the human facade.
“It’s quite all right, Erota,” she said. “Really.”
; “It was an accident.”
“I know, I know.”
“An accident,” Erota repeated, eyes lowered.
Seeing how the poor woman was stunned by her own actions, Nikki questioned the suspicions she had begun to entertain. Erota seemed harm-less enough, if not a bit strange. She’d kissed a wound, that was all. Surely, if she were a Collector, she would’ve hooked in with elongated fangs and lapped up blood with a sandpaper tongue.
“Thank you for your concern,” Nikki said.
Already, though, the Ukrainian had pushed long-nailed hands into her jeans pockets and filed away through the crowd.
“Wasn’t that just fantastic? So enlightening.”
“Enlightening? Yes,” Erota said. “Thank you for taking me, Kristine.”
“Why, sweetie, this is so exciting. I’ve never had a sister-in-law. It’ll be like having a new best friend. Mmmm.” Kristine Pace lifted her shoulders and scrunched her eyelids together. “It’s so wonderful, all the adventures we can have. We’ll get along fabulously. That’s just clear as crystal.”
Kristine pulled her BMW 740i past a wrought-iron gate and parked at the scalloped stone entry to a grand Tudor-style home. Hickory trees and rhododendrons graced the landscaped lawns.
“Here you are. It doesn’t look like my brother is home, which isn’t surprising. Pharmaceuticals, you know. He’s always busy, always working a deal or golfing with a client. Any excuse to hit the links, if you know what I mean.”
Erota hoped a nod would stem the flow.
“He’s given you a key, I hope?”
Erota patted her pocket.
“Oh, good. And you know the code for the alarm?”
Erota patted her temple.
“So how’re you liking my brother’s swanky digs?”
Raymond Pace’s small estate was situated off of Peachtree Road Northeast, in one of Atlanta’s most affluent areas. Buckhead, called the Beverly Hills of the South by some, was home to professional athletes, wealthy business and medical professionals. Even Elton John had a parttime residence here.
“Very much, yes,” she said. “Ray-Ban is a rich man, I think.”
“Honey, don’t let that intimidate you. Some people might say you’re lucky to find him, but it’s the other way around. A dear like you? He should be thanking his lucky stars. Anyway, I just know we’re going to get along, you and me. I’ve got this feeling down in my bones. Well, there I go again, talking your ear off. You poor thing. If I’m going too fast, you’ll let me know, won’t you? Because I do have a tendency to do that.” Kristine winked. “At least now you see why Raymond’s the way he is. He had me for a little sister, and I suppose I used up all of his words.”
“That’s okay.” Erota winked back. “I like men better when they’re quiet.”
Kristine’s laugh was effervescent. “I love it. Do all Ukrainian women think the way you do? Oh, I can’t wait to help you pick out your wedding dress. I know this wonderful place . . .”
The babbling continued.
Erota’s thoughts tiptoed back to that incident at the seminar.
She had succumbed to her impulses, reaching for N. K. Lazarescu’s hand and seeking out the fresh wound. Although she’d refrained from latching on for deep, thirsty swallows, she had found enough upon her tongue to gain access to the Romanian’s memories: a young lady in black boots, and talk of the Nistarim, of the letter Tav, of a child on the way . . .
The images could be distortions. Best taken with a grain of salt. Of the humans she’d inhabited or feasted upon, she had found that most had memories like trash receptacles, packed and polluted by time, resentment, and selfishness.
Oh yes, their waste was a terrible thing to mind.
But, what if ?
It would be absurd not to explore the possibilities. If the images were accurate, Erota might soon be in a position to locate and destroy one of the Concealed Ones, thus ushering in Final Vengeance upon this gangrenous world.
A child on the way . . .
A male?
For now, this would remain her little secret. No need to rush. Surely, newlywed Gina Turney would have an ultrasound soon enough, and in so doing confirm for Erota what she now suspected deep in her undead midsection.
“Hello? Erota?”
A hand touching her arm.
“Look at you, you poor thing,” Kristine Pace said. “I’ve talked your pretty little ear off again, haven’t I? You might’ve noticed I have a tendency to do that.”
Erota took Kristine’s hand, running soft fingertips along her skin. She turned in the BMW’s cockpit and faced her new companion. She felt a terrible thirst come upon her, a symptom of the many hours endured in an auditorium full of flesh-and-blood beings. Her head was aching. There was one way to shut this woman up.
“Kristine,” she said, “what is your greatest desire?”
The woman, illuminated by the glow of the dash lights, opened her mouth to answer. She hesitated, bit her lip, then whispered, “To never be lonely again.”
“Do you feel lonely right now?”
“No, I . . . I feel a little bit scared, but I’m not sure why.”
“Fear can be exciting, don’t you think?”
“Oh well, I suppose that—”
A sudden strike to the neck cut short Kristine’s words. With lips peeled back, making way for incisors, Erota latched into soft skin and drank her fill. Anesthetizing. Spreading infestation. And loving every moment of it.
THE THIRD DROP:
REVELATIONS
I am afraid of all things—even to think,
but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is
life and death . . . and we must not flinch.
—BRAM STOKER, DRACULA
Godless people have wormed their way in among you . . .
The fate of such people was determined long ago.
—JUDE 1:4
Journal Entry
June 26
I’ve put this off for a few days, wondering if I should keep testing these droplets. It’s confusing. And I’m almost scared of what else I’ll find.
This last drop must’ve come from Erota, with many of the memories hitchhiking from the wound on Nikki’s wrist. I’m guessing Gina’s memories were passed through the blood smeared on her mother’s lips. I wonder how these drops came to be on the map, but I have a feeling I’ll find out soon.
It’s hard not to be caught up in these stories. While I’m reliving them, they seem so real. Like I could walk right into the scene and interact. How cool would that be? I’d stop the Collectors from sipping from those disgusting little thorn cups.
There’s this other part of me, though—I don’t even know if I should even write this down—a part that understands where they’re coming from. My life’s been pretty short and lonely, consisting mostly of books and education, and in that time I’ve read over and over again that it all boils down to survival of the fittest. Dog-eat-dog. Well then, why shouldn’t Collectors take what they can get?Who’s to say they’re wrong? Sure, there’s the common good to think about, but it seems a little too common. What if half of the people on this crowded planet were wiped out? It’d simplify things, all right.
I don’t know. Maybe my brain’s just a wreck from this rush of secondhand experiences. Not that it matters now. I may as well keep going and see how this ends.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
July—Chattanooga
Gina Lazarescu Turney turned away from the pandemonium on the TV set. She’d seen the footage before—the concussion of a pipe bomb in down-town Atlanta a year ago, a blast of light, people running, two dead with more than one hundred injured.
Pandemonium. A fitting description. If she remembered correctly, it came from Milton’s Paradise Lost, his designation for the capital of hell.
“You mind turning the channel?” she said.
Jed had his feet up on the coffee table, the remote cradled in his lap like a pet meant to keep him warm. A reporte
r was discussing the FBI’s ongoing investigation of that evening’s attack.
“Jed,” she said.
“Is your tummy bothering you again?”
“Please.”
“Yeah, okay. Sorry.” He hit the button. The scenes of last summer’s Olympic tragedy gave way to an MTV video full of gyrating hips. He peeked over the back of the couch, caught her eye at the chess table. “Any better?”
She flicked her fingers, and he turned off the set.
“What’s wrong, Gina?”
“I’m okay.”
“Your okay is anyone else’s sick as a dog.”
She gave a weak smile. “I’m just going to assume that’s no reference to the way I look right now.”
“You look gorgeous. It’s true, that whole thing about pregnant women.”
“Having a glow? Give me a break.”
“Well, not a glow. More like a—”
“Sickly green?”
The phone rang, and Jed checked the number. “It’s your mother.”
Gina shook her head.
“It’s been what, a coupla months since you two talked?” he said.
“I’ve survived so far, haven’t I? Much to her disappointment, I’m sure.”
“She’s gonna be our baby’s grandma, though. Don’t you think we should—”
“Hey, did you hear me asking for opinions?”
The phone stopped ringing, and Gina’s husband of two months came around behind her. “Whatever she said to you, I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”
“She meant it.”
“People say things when they’re upset. She’s just too proud to apologize.”
“Whatever. I don’t care. I’m looking ahead, just like she always taught me.”
“You care,” he said, setting his hands on her shoulders.
Gina propped her elbows on the table, resting her forehead in her hands. Her hair was a rag of pink-streaked black. Her stomach felt bloated, the size of a hot-water bottle shoved under her shirt. Though sensitive to touch, she let Jed gently massage her muscles and lower back. At least he was trying to help.
Any relief was appreciated. On a daily basis, arrows of agony came shooting through her womb. They arrived from all directions—the TV and radio, the grocery store newsstand, not to mention bits of gossip.