Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  Ariston snorted. Tried to shake off his surge of rage.

  She was his offspring, sure, but she had been a Collector first and fore-most. That could not be forgotten. She had come here to inhabit and possess, and somehow she had erred—an understatement, to be sure—and lost her host. If she’d simply left the habitation behind, or been banished, she might’ve had a chance of returning even stronger than before. Instead, she’d given up the ghost and the mortal casing that went with it.

  Salome was gone. Cast into the Restless Desert.

  What a waste. He scuffed his foot at the dirt. One hell of a way to go.

  Shelamzion was still whimpering at his side, and Ariston was suddenly out of sympathy for such theatrics. The cluster was here to subjugate their hosts, not the other way around.

  He slapped his wife once, hard, and told her to keep perspective. “You’re not human,” he reminded her. “You never were, and Salome never was. A long time ago, maybe, but that wasn’t us. We’re the undead. So now she’s one of the dead undead. What’s it matter?”

  His wife swiped at her tears. Melted back into the group of Collectors.

  “Talk to me. Who’s going to tell me how this happened?” He looked over the cluster. “I’d like to think we can learn from our mistakes. Eros? Anyone?”

  The fellow in the black robes stepped forward. “I’ve witnessed this type of thing before.”

  “And who might you be?” Ariston said. “You don’t seem shaken by this.”

  “I’m Mendel.”

  “Ariston.”

  “I’m an ultra-Orthodox Jew, though I prefer the name some have given us: the datim.”

  “Datim?”

  “The ‘righteous ones.’ ”

  “And what of this garb you are wearing?” Ariston gripped the bearded man by the sleeve and drew him away along a stone wall. Curled side locks swayed beneath a black hat, while stocking feet shuffled along in black shoes. “Perhaps things have changed, but this is like nothing I ever saw worn by Pharisees or religious leaders.”

  Mendel became indignant. “These robes are exactly as prescribed.”

  By the Almighty? By the rabbis?

  Ariston chose not to argue the point, although it seemed what was prescribed was as capricious as the minds of mere humans. The religious garments had been quite different during his last stroll through the streets of Jerusalem, nearly two millennia earlier.

  As Ariston weighed these things, the other man’s skin turned icy in his grip. Not in the way a Jerusalem winter’s morning could leave patches of ice on the ground. Not even like the chill of packed snow, which Ariston had experienced once in his mortal life. No, this was a stabbing sensation that drove deep and spread outward through the limbs.

  More accurately, it was a physiological reaction, two like creatures repelled or canceled out by one another. He’d seen the same principle in nature, in mathematics.

  He dropped the appendage.

  “What?” Mendel said. “What is it?”

  Ariston hesitated to respond. He sensed the presence of another Collector, one burrowed deep beneath this fellow’s artifice. Some of history’s most accommodating habitations had worn the cloaks of righteousness, providing disguises worthy of any opportunistic Collector. Usually, the hosts in these scenarios were blind to their own duality.

  Carefully, carefully . . .

  Ariston knew that with circumspect words he might draw out the creature folded up within Mendel’s framework. If, however, Mendel was alerted to something subversive, he might halt the unveiling before it was complete.

  “Forgive me,” Ariston said. “I’m still shaken by my daughter’s death.”

  “She’s not the first, I’m afraid. As I said, we’ve witnessed this before in our town of Arad.”

  “Are you . . . ?” Carefully. “So you are part of a larger group?”

  “Yes. A number of us are clustered there.”

  “Clustered.”

  “As datim, we take no small measure of satisfaction in our growing numbers.” Mendel tilted his hat, and a cold spark ignited in his dark eyes. “Of course, not many are capable of treading our path of humility and uprightness.”

  “Humility.”

  “Not all are blessed with it.”

  The man’s shrug caused long curls to sway, and Ariston caught whiffs of something acidic. The man’s facade was giving way to an inky essence within.

  “Well, Mendel,” he said, “you can see that I have my own cluster. As their leader, I’m still seeking a place where we can tread out our own path, a place where this sort of . . . tragedy is less likely to occur.”

  “I don’t know that any one location is immune to hardships.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But we do seem to have our disproportionate share of them here in Arad. We’ve experienced an upsurge since the arrival of these Nazarenes.” Mendel spit out the word, his saliva black and glittering in the play between shadows and moonlight. “In fact, we’ve centered many of our efforts around harassing them, hoping to drive them away.”

  “What does this have to do with my daughter?”

  “Hear me out.” Mendel bent forward at the waist, eyes widening beneath the brim of his hat. “See, they follow the ways of the Nazarene, trying to deceive the city’s poor and the destitute, the youth too. They dis-tribute clothing and food. They befriend the lonely. With lies, they strip away what little dignity these people have left.”

  “And you spend your time harassing them for this?”

  “Shut up, shut up. What business is this of yours, I ask?”

  Ariston raised a hand. “Pardon my intrusion. Perhaps you should explain these ‘lies’ to me. My cluster and I, we’ve been Separated too long from such matters.”

  “Separated?”

  The word was a notched key, turning the final tumbler in the lock upon Mendel’s being. His mouth gnawed at the air and his tongue pushed at his lips. Canine teeth shoved down from his gums, sharp, and tinged crimson along the grooves. He bobbed on stockinged legs, side locks swinging, his eyes hooded by his hat so that only his fanged mouth caught the nocturnal light with each backward sway.

  “These Nazarene lovers,” Mendel hissed. “They speak always of him and his sacrifice. His blood. After three days, he came back from the grave—so they say. He conquered death.”

  The words flooded Ariston’s mind with vestigial memories: a radical and a blasphemer named Yeshua; a trial before the Sanhedrin; a crucifixion and a . . .

  It was enough to make him sick.

  “They’re still talking of this man?” Ariston was incredulous. “He’s still beloved?”

  “His same sad tale is still spreading.”

  “I’d hoped time would erase some of that . . . well, that nonsense.”

  “It’s disgusting.” Dark spittle pooled behind Mendel’s lower lip and dribbled down his chin. “There are many humans who go through the of drinking his blood, sipping grape juice or wine. As a formality. A duty. Nothing more. But others—these Nazarene lovers—drink to remember and identify with him. It’s different. I don’t know. Regardless, that’s where your child slipped up.”

  “She’s gone now. Speak plainly.”

  Mendel wiped his hand along his mouth. “See, she appeared while I was outside the home of Arad’s head Nazarene. We hound this man’s family, hoping to frighten them away, and tonight I was slashing the rear tires on his Toyota.”

  “Ah. One of the king’s chariots.”

  Mendel snickered. “This man probably thinks so.”

  “So what was Salome doing there?”

  “You must believe that I didn’t see her hiding. When the family’s son stepped through the gate, I shrank back so as not to be caught at my work, and that’s when your Salome charged from behind a white broom bush. She sank teeth into the boy’s shoulder and started drinking before I could stop her.”

  “She was thirsty,” Ariston said. “Foraging with the others.”

  “Na
turally, she was drawn to the scent of his blood, but I’m telling you, Arad is a dangerous city for it. That little runt of a boy pried her loose and commanded her to leave. When she rushed him again, he simply dodged her and walked back inside. Fearless, I tell you. Like his parents, he drinks the Nazarene Blood, and now he’s transformed into one of them.”

  “Them?”

  Ariston bristled at the idea. Felt his own tapered incisors swelling from their roots. He knew, of course, the power of the Nazarene. He and his cluster had been expelled from their habitation by a mere touch, sent into a herd of pigs. He could still hear those beastly shrieks as they plunged into forlorn waters.

  Now, after centuries, he was abhorred by this persistent influence of the Nazarene, as well as by his own self-delusion that had convinced him to expect anything otherwise.

  “Explain yourself,” he growled at the black-hatted man. “Who are they?”

  “They are Those Who Resist. Their blood has a tantalizing aroma, very rich and pure. So I can’t fault your daughter, see? But it goes down like a fire.” Mendel wagged his finger. “A flame that courses through the veins, raging, scouring. One taste, just one mouthful, and it’ll destroy you where you stand.”

  “As we just witnessed.”

  “Yes.”

  Still unsettled, Ariston stared off over the crumbled ruins of Kerioth-Hezron. Long ago, their mentor had brought down the Nazarene with a kiss, yet the Nazarene’s reemergence from the grave had only fomented deeper admiration and interest. It appeared that his influence had done anything but fade.

  “Ariston?”

  “What?” he snapped at the robed man.

  “I think perhaps . . .” Mendel lifted the brim of his hat. His stare collided with Ariston’s and, like one icicle jabbed at another, glanced off in a shower of black splinters and chipped courage. He cleared his throat. “I have a suggestion. You said you seek a place to settle. Perhaps a city such as Arad? And why not? We all tire of roaming, don’t we?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I only want to help, of course. And if I may be blunt, I’ve . . . we’ve already established ourselves here in this region.”

  “Infantile rivalries. I see they still exist.”

  “That’s going too far, Ariston. It’s only a matter—”

  “Please, just speak your mind.”

  “Are you aware that Romania, once home to the Dacians, has a city by the same name? It’s true,” Mendel said. “And some whisper of its regional link to one of the Nistarim.”

  “Is that so?” Ariston’s interest was piqued.

  “There’s even a low-ranking, small-town Collector who says he’ll divulge all the details—for a reward, of course.”

  Could it be this easy?

  “Hmm.” Ariston kept his tone flat and his eyes level. “I’m sure there’s no shortage of glory seekers who throw out such claims. Sounds like a low-ranking ploy to me. Hardly worth a grain of salt.”

  “I suppose. And if there were any truth to it, you’d be biting off more than you could chew. Not that I mean to jest,” Mendel said with a sly gleam in his eye, “but it’s dangerous business dealing with the Concealed Ones. Even the most elite would have their hands full, so I’m sure you and your cluster would want no part.”

  “There are less perilous pursuits, I’m sure.”

  “My apologies,” Mendel said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Oh. I’m sure you were only trying to help.”

  Already, Ariston was making plans. His cluster had spent the past few days regaining vitality and spying out this new civilization.

  The time to hunt was upon them.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Cuvin

  Broom bristles cleared leaves from the stone path. Gina worked her way from the door to the front gate, hoping to finish before her mother returned from the market. Always a list of chores. Same routine, day in and day out.

  Whisk, whisk . . .

  Gina understood that in this world she wouldn’t be given a single leu coin unless she did her part and did it well. She knew it in the same way she knew the ointment she slathered on her arms was scant protection from life’s true hazards. Things worse than mosquitoes were out there, on the prowl.

  “Hello there.” Teodor approached on his bicycle.

  She looked up through straggles of hair. Why couldn’t she get it to comb flat, sleek and shiny, like her mother’s?

  Teo braked outside her gate. “You hungry?”

  “Nicoleta is on her way home for dinner.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Here, Gina.” He leaned the bike against the lamp pole and extended a paper bag. “These are for you.”

  “Red grapes. Did you pick them?”

  “You’re even smarter than you look,” he said.

  “How much do they cost?”

  “Don’t be silly. Do you want them or not?”

  “You don’t have to be rude about it, Teo.”

  “If you don’t, that’s okay. I’ll eat them myself.”

  “Take them, then,” she said, “if you’re so hungry.”

  He snatched a grape from the bag, plopped it into his mouth, and bit down. The movement of his lips reminded Gina of that first kiss. She wondered now what he would taste like—sweet juice or tart wine?—and then chided herself for this schoolgirl daydream. Love could not be decided with one kiss. That was a notion found only in songs, books, and films from Hollywood.

  “Delicious,” he said, catching her eye. “You should try one.”

  “I need to finish sweeping.” Whisk, whisk. “See you tomorrow.”

  “You’re all dusty.”

  “Because I’m working right now, you oaf.”

  “Look.” Teo mussed his straight hair. “We match.”

  “Well, if that’s how I look, I shouldn’t even be seen outdoors. Anyway, my mother would be upset to know I was talking to a boy in public.”

  “What about in private?” he teased.

  “Ciao, Teo.”

  He winked, unfazed by her exasperated tone, then straddled his bike and pedaled off, leaving behind the bag of grapes.

  Later, she spent her evening replaying that moment. Why had she been so abrupt with him? Sure, he was Vasile’s nephew, but he was his own person. And cute, at that. As she chewed on the last of the grapes, she had the disheartening premonition that she and Teo wouldn’t be talking again for a very long time.

  Late Summer—Constanta, Romania

  The Collectors entered through an east-wing window of the Constanta Regional Orphanage. They found themselves in a narrow room with shelves full of assorted containers and supplies. To their newly revived senses, the smells were medicinal and pungent, and Ariston was reminded of a Syrian physician he had visited in the months before his own earthly death.

  He opened the far door and poked his head into a corridor. Stale odors and muffled cries assured him they were in the correct building. According to Mendel, this government-run orphanage was a handy layover on the way through this communist enclave, a chance to fill depleted veins.

  To Ariston, this place was much more.

  These children represented an opportunity. They were throwaways, victims of Romania’s latest regime. This man—Ceausescu, was it?—he was only one more in a long line of history’s ruthless leaders. With such a man at the helm, who would take time to investigate the orphans’ misfortune?

  Across the way, Ariston saw a larger room, darkened and vacant. There he would be better able to marshal his forces.

  First things first.

  He poked through the supplies and found a stack of transparent bags inscribed with numbers and lines. They were similar to old wineskins or animal bladders, with puckered funnels and corks the color of pomegranate.

  So much was different in this new era, and yet the basic principles of most items seemed rooted in ideas long ago comprehended. With a little dedication and time, his group was already finding
some of its bearings.

  “Barabbas.”

  “Sir?”

  “Take an armload of these bags.” To the others, Ariston said, “Follow me, quietly.”

  “We’re thirsty,” Sol complained.

  “You’ll have to wait a little longer, son.”

  “In a building full of sustenance, you can’t expect us to hold back.”

  “That’s exactly what I expect. A modicum of restraint.”

  With the henchman bringing up the rear, the Collectors glided across the hallway into the larger room. With Salome gone, the group was down to seventeen. Nearly bloodless, they were all feeling the effects of the long voyage—from Israeli Arad to Romanian Arad.

  Last week, diesel trucks had carried them through Syria into Turkey. Thirty hours ago, stuffed into the hold of a Turkish fishing vessel, they’d left the beautiful port at Zonguldak and ridden Black Sea waves toward Constanta. Here, they’d been dropped south of the shipyards, where they griped and cursed as jellyfish stings chased them from surf to shore.

  Hadn’t Ariston warned them?

  Pleasure and pain, all part of this mortal life.

  Each day was another lesson in how times had changed. Cuisine lacked the wholesome flavors they remembered. Transportation, though a marvel, still brought with it physical wear and tear. Most surprisingly, twentieth-century clothing indicated an impoverished civilization, unable to afford modest bodily coverings.

  Not that Ariston was complaining.

  In his mind, fine women were objects deserving of display. With bare bellies, swollen cleavage, and lips sweet as honey, they also made useful hosts. A female Collector might have even more leeway than in ages past.

  “Barabbas.” Ariston took hold of the big man’s arm. “I want you to scout out our meal. We were told there should be only one guard in the place, but make sure that you’re not seen.”

  “I’ll be careful, sir.”

  “No marks. No fatalities. Slow and easy, you understand? Tap the first infant, just enough to regain your own strength, then siphon small portions from the others into the bags, one by one. We’ll drink what you bring back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lord Ariston, we should go as a family,” Megiste said. “Fresh is sooo much better.” She was a willowy creature, a former priestess over the households and former mistress to Eros. Auburn curls blazed on either side of her stark white countenance.