Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  “For all your different personalities? To fool the multiple wives?”

  “Marriage isn’t for me.” Deep sadness in his voice.

  This was crazy. Why should she believe anything he said? She shook her head from side to side, her pink streak cutting through the black like the coloring on a fifties poodle skirt. She thought of her own makeover. The tattoo. The dyed hair. Boots. Technically, she had no good reason to doubt his transformation.

  “I promised you,” Cal said, “that one day—when it was the right time—I’d find you again. Well, here I am.”

  “That was 1989. A long time ago.”

  “A matter of perspective. I’ve tried not to draw any trouble your way.”

  “Trouble, huh? Okay. Listen, Mr. Schaefer, Cal—whatever your real name is—thank you for helping me and my mom get to America. It’s been awesome. It’s been great. I’m glad I can finally thank you in person. Now I need to get back to work.”

  Cal touched her hand with his fingers.

  “No. No, look.” She pulled away and flashed her wedding band. “I’m married, okay? Whatever schoolgirl crush I might’ve had for a day or two, it’s gone. I’m over it. I mean, every girl has those, and we all grow up even-tually. As you can see, I’m having a baby soon, so that should give you a good feeling, knowing you had an early hand in my well-being. Maybe you should stop by on your way out of town, say hi to my mom.”

  “Already tried. She wasn’t too thrilled.”

  “Don’t take it personally. She and I aren’t even speaking nowadays.”

  “We all do things we regret, Gina. I’m more guilty than most.”

  She used his split second of introspection to study his features, to verify what her heart had already confirmed. She saw the same nose, same cheekbones. Young face. Tanned skin, which he could’ve come by naturally or unnaturally. She visualized that mop of wheat-colored hair showcasing his gorgeous eyes.

  This was the Provocateur. He was here. He’d come back for her.

  Her throat tightened.

  “Well, buddy boy,” she said at last, touching the scar on her arm. “Just to keep the air clear between you and me, I want you to know I’ve forgotten about that whole cutting ordeal. Nikki’s into that, and I know you were just doing what you were told.”

  “I am sorry about that, Gina.”

  “Like I said: forgotten.”

  Defying her words, the old wound on her neck seemed to swell like a blood blister about to pop.

  “It was meant to throw them off. You know, a little misdirection. In the car, we talked about Kiev, then headed south to Belgrade instead. When they found your bloody shirt, they had only your memories to go on.”

  “My memories?”

  “The ones I bled from you. It was so they wouldn’t—”

  “The mysterious they again.”

  “The point is, it worked,” Cal said. “We had to get you outta there, because they were onto you. Until recently, I don’t think they had a clue where you were. But now, this pregnancy of yours has them sniffing around again.”

  “I don’t like the way you say that.”

  “You know that brunette in the cave? The one asking all the questions?”

  “She gave me the creeps.”

  “She was a Collector. That’s why I tried to butt in.”

  Gina rubbed the goose bumps from her arm. She thought about his earlier German tourist act. Cal, here in the flesh—for the safety of her unborn child.

  “They’re just waiting,” he added, “till they know for sure.”

  “Know what? You throw out all these things, and I feel like that little girl again, back in Cuvin. You’re losing me, Cal. Collectors, immortality, my baby . . . Give me something to sink my teeth into here.”

  He snapped his eyes to hers. “Don’t even joke like that.”

  “Dang. It’s just an expression.”

  “It’s a reality. I’ve seen what they can do. They’ll suck everything they can from you and leave you empty. Your time, money, creative energy—all of it, feeding into their Collection of Souls. The collective misery, piling higher and higher.”

  Gina’s stomach contorted. Sharp, needling cramps.

  Around the picnic area, parents and students were caught up in their activities, some milling in the parking lot, others yelling to get into/out of/ off of the car. Gasoline fumes arose from an SUV idling near the Cavern Castle entry.

  “They’ve been here,” Cal said, “since the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?”

  “Of everything. Of history.”

  She scoffed. “As in Adam and Eve? That beginning?”

  “Sure. Before then, after then. Collectors, out to drain your lifeblood. And I think there were more released a few years back. Without going into all the details, I believe we’ve got this new vampiric breed that’s found a way to use dead hosts. Well, previously dead. Undead . . . Anyway, for a period, they’ll wreak all the mayhem they can.”

  “This is lots of great stuff for a movie, Cal. You’re, uh, just taking it a little too seriously maybe. Not doubting you. But, you know, stay tethered to the real world.”

  “Nikki hasn’t told you much, I take it.”

  “About this? No. Only enough to justify each of her purgings.”

  “Yeah, she knows just enough to be dangerous.”

  “No argument from me.”

  He sighed. “Seems everyone’s out for blood, in one way or another.”

  “Yum, yum.”

  Cal’s eyelids closed for a moment over the gold flecks.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay, Gina.” He put on a grin, tossed a cautious glance around the picnic area. “In fact, sometimes I joke about it too, just to stinkin’ stay sane. But this is urgent. You’re having this baby soon, and as you confirmed for that brunette today, you’re having a boy. That makes him a potential target. In any given generation, there are one or two males born—for safety measures—to take the place of the Nistarim.”

  “The Concealed Ones.” She patted her belly.

  “You give the term a whole new meaning.”

  “Nikki’s told me the basic spiel. I know they bear the world’s burdens, holding back Final Vengeance, or the Day of Judgment, or whatever. And we should all want to be humble in spirit, right? Show care for others.”

  “A noble goal, sure.”

  “But, uh, if it’s only boys who qualify for the Nistarim, then why’re you talking to me about this?”

  “You’re carrying a boy, aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Totorcea Vineyards

  The warehouse door scraped along its metal track, revealing a bulky silhouette. Megiste started at the shrill sound, then touched a hand to her cheek, relieved to see the stalwart Barabbas. Her thoughts, however, continued spiraling downward. In a matter of minutes, the cluster’s very foundations had begun to crumble.

  Sol: he was here and gone.

  And about time.

  Eros: he, too, was gone. How could this be? The head of the House of Eros was a hollow husk and nothing more. What would Ariston’s reaction be to this devastation? Would she face repercussions for her involvement?

  “Facilis descensus Averno,” she muttered in benediction to her former lover.

  “Megiste?”

  She sighed. “What is it you want, Barabbas?”

  He stepped into the pool of overhead light. He wore a despondent expression to match her own. With the large form slung across his shoulders, he could’ve been a hunter returning with a stag, with another rack of antlers to adorn the wall beside the fireplace in the house.

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said.

  “What’ve you done this time, my dear? Who is that?”

  “The intruder, I found him. Cornered him up in the ruins.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “But Ariston’ll be mad at me.”

  “I w
ouldn’t worry. I think he’ll have more pressing matters on his mind.”

  “I tapped almost everything,” Barabbas said. “More than my share.”

  “Sometimes the need overtakes us,” Megiste said bitterly, glancing back at the shrunken form of her household leader.

  “He’ll find out when he gets back, though.” The henchman flopped the victim onto the floor, and the priestess recognized the features of Benyamin Amit. The body was withered, entwined with crusty brambles that had issued from his heel. “I had him there in my hands, and I smelled the blood, and I just . . . I tried to leave a few at least. Here.” He surrendered an untapped thorn, displaying his willingness to share while also making her complicit with his perceived wrongdoing

  Megiste drank, smiling as she siphoned out Benyamin Amit’s earlier and distant admiration of her appearance. Yes, the man was quite right. She did look good through a scope, although a bit pale.

  “Do you think I’ll be punished?” Barabbas was asking.

  “What?”

  “When Ariston gets here?”

  “You’re not comprehending what I’m saying. Look.” She took a step toward the hay cart and cupped Eros’s fractured cranium, lifting it into view. “Your victim isn’t the only one Ariston’ll have to worry over. It seems you and I may have both gotten ourselves into some trouble, don’t you think?”

  “Eros?” Barabbas tripped over Mr. Amit in a rush to see this for himself. He moaned, pulling the unresponsive corpse away from the dead woman and examining the horrendous split in his skull. His whisper was gruff. “How did this happen?”

  “There’s one easy way to find out.” While Megiste snapped off the next thorn along Dalia Amit’s infected strand, she reflected on the skittering sounds she’d heard earlier from the shadows. “But I already have a good idea which little rodent it was that tried to rescue dear old Mama.”

  “Who?”

  Megiste sipped. Sipped again.

  Searching for, and finding, answers from Dalia’s fated last hours on Earth.

  Two Hours Earlier—Arad

  Dalia was incensed. Yesterday she’d confronted her husband about his nocturnal escapades and hoped to shame him into an act of contrition, but he’d given no response. Not that she expected any different. Long ago, he’d set off on his own path, with no intentions of returning to the more respectable road she traveled.

  “Come along, Dov.” She turned off the oven, put a lid over the supa. “We’re going to find out what your father is up to. He comes home late. He has little time to spend with his own wife and son. When, I ask, was the last time you two went fishing together? Or hiked the trails?”

  “We’re going this weekend, Mama. He promised me.”

  “Phaw. Promises are nothing to him. When was the last time he even arrived home in time for supper, huh? You tell me.”

  Her son lowered his head until dark hair brushed thick eyelashes.

  “When, Dov?”

  “I’m thinking, Mama. Maybe a few months ago.”

  “Well, now—don’t you think it’s time he showed what a true father should be? You are nearly thirteen, nearly a man. How much longer can he put off such a matter? Fetch a coat and follow me.” She removed her apron. “We’re going to see that he listens to his family. Perhaps he’ll give heed to your words more than mine.”

  Dov reappeared at the front door with a pack hanging from his arm.

  “What is that?”

  “Our camping supplies,” Dov said. “Just in case.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “He made a promise.”

  “I wish I had your optimism.”

  Dalia tugged her son by the hand, down the stairs, onto the street. They hailed a taxicab to city hall, then parked a half block away from Benyamin’s Peugot. He would drive from here, and they would follow at a distance. He was up to something, and Dalia intended to discover what that was. Or who it was.

  “Don’t worry,” she told the cab driver. “You’ll be paid.”

  Forty minutes later, they were moving through Lipova, chased by the day’s lengthening shadows, toward a castle on a nearby peak. The Peugot had turned off somewhere just out of town. Had they lost Ben? Did he know he was being tailed?

  “Slowly,” Dalia said.

  Her son tugged on her arm. “Just over the hill there, this is close to where he said we’d go camping. Maybe he’s here to scout it out.”

  “Maybe.”

  They passed a smattering of farms, houses, and a sloping property with the name Totorcea Vineyards scrolled across a placard between two posts.

  That name. Dalia knew it. On a number of occasions, she’d been to city hall to keep tabs on her husband’s whereabouts and his companions. Helene Totorcea was an archivist on the lower level, a simple but pretty woman. Benyamin had always denied infidelity, but now the picture took shape in Dalia’s mind, substantiating years of suspicion and accusation. She was about to catch him redhanded.

  And if his son’s presence brought greater shame, so be it.

  “This is the place, driver.” The rap of her knuckles against the window sent a jolt along her skin to her underarm affliction. “Here. Right here.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Must you argue with a paying fare? Goodness.” She flung a wad of lei onto the front seat, then turned to Dov. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” He patted his pack, producing a metallic clink. “I have it all here—the tent stuff, some food, and a couple pictures from our last trip. You could join us, Mama. It’ll be fun. We can camp out beneath the stars.”

  She hadn’t seen her son this animated in some time, and though she wanted to believe the best, she hadn’t the energy to maintain such hope.

  “If you need a pillow,” Dov went on, “you simply wrap up your clothes in a coat. That’s what Dad taught me.”

  The poor boy was in denial.

  “Go.” Dalia shooed him from the backseat. “Let’s move along.”

  Megiste dropped the thorn.

  “Who was it?” Barabbas said.

  “Her son. A measly, meek twelve-year-old.”

  “Is he infected, the way his parents were?”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. Not if he could get away with . . . with this reprehensible violence against our own kind.”

  “Defending his mother—”

  “Killing a grown man, Barabbas. Don’t gloss over the details. Well, wherever you are now, little Dov Amit, you’re an orphan, I’m afraid.”

  “He could still be nearby.”

  She pointed. “I believe he crawled off in that direction.”

  Together, Megiste and Barabbas searched the premises, in agreement that this was the first order of business before revealing to the Akeldama Cluster the horror that had befallen them. Later, much would have to be decided—a burial site for the Amits, and a new leader to guide the House of Eros.

  At a gap in the warehouse wall, Barabbas found scuffs in the dirt that confirmed Megiste’s suspicion that the Hebrew boy had gone out this way. Probably entered here, as well. There was little else, however. No trail. No hiding place. He had vanished into the night.

  “He could’ve gone up into the hills,” the big man said. “Or down to the river. If you’d like, I can switch hosts and take a look from above. Or . . . I don’t know. Maybe he hitched a ride from a passing motorcar. What should I do?”

  Megiste, as priestess, felt sorry for the henchman. For so long he had followed orders that he was listless without them. Clear objectives would have to be set down to keep him on course until Ariston’s return.

  Or, perhaps . . .

  Her conniving nature coiled into position, hissing of plots and machinations, preparing to strike a deal for the benefit of her household.

  As things now stood, Ariston’s foundations of strength were compromised. He was without a known successor; his wives and family members were weak-spined creatures, trained by his dominant nature to recede into subservience; and Barabbas
alone showed earnest, if not half-witted, faithfulness to the pudgy chieftain.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked of the bearded oaf before her. “The House of Eros is leaderless, and who are we but a handful of women? How ever will we survive on our own?”

  “Ariston will—”

  “Oh, Barabbas, don’t speak of him now. He can be so . . . controlling. It’s just you and me here, together.”

  “But he’ll be back soon.”

  “Hours from now, if at all.” She lifted her peasant blouse over her head, revealing alabaster skin. “Come here, you clumsy brute. Look at you, all messy from a hard night’s work.” She took his hand, used the blouse to rub away the grime and viscera of his feeding. “You really ought to wash beneath your nails, dear Barabbas.”

  “Each morning, I—”

  “All in good fun, doll. Oh, look here. A spot on your mouth.”

  They had both supped already. They were both warm and sated. This need that overtook them was earthier than that, and Barabbas grunted in approval of her nibbling lips on his. His fervor grew. With one hand, he plucked the bodies from the cart; with the other, he pushed her back onto the straw.

  “I like it when you take the lead,” she said.

  He groaned.

  “My dear Barabbas, come away with me. Why, you can watch over our household.”

  “I’m not sure I—”

  “Don’t talk,” she whispered. “Please, won’t you give me time to convince you?”

  A few minutes was all it took.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  Chattanooga

  “Oh.” Gina crossed her arms over her stomach, and glared across the picnic table at Cal. “Right. So, what you’re saying is that my baby is . . . Listen, this is crazy talk. And since when does any of this make me immortal? I mean, are the Nistarim even immortal?”

  “Not all of them.”

  “That sure clarifies things. Isn’t it just legend anyway, a way of giving good Jewish families something to shoot for? How’d the whole story start getting passed around?”

  “Heard of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  “Been years since I’ve read a Bible, but that’s pretty basic knowledge. Sodom’s there by the Dead Sea, isn’t it? The Salt Sea?”