by Wilson, Eric
“Seventeen of us traipsing through the halls? We’d be sure to draw attention. No,” he said. “We’ll dine together when Barabbas returns.”
“Alone, he might be caught while drinking.”
She had a point. Ariston recalled that first attack outside the Akeldama—the deafening roar in his temples, the heady rush as nutrients flooded his mouth and throat.
“Megiste, did you drink alongside Barabbas at the tombs?”
“We all did. We—”
“Did you tap the same victim?”
“I did. And while I don’t mean to gripe, the man tasted sour—if not horribly diseased.”
“Barabbas told me the same thing.”
“One of the vilest contaminations I’ve ever experienced, if you must know. And until I have a more substantial feeding, until that initial par-taking has been entirely absorbed, the taste still lingers on my lips.” She pouted, bringing attention to the soft lines of her mouth.
Ariston was unmoved. “Good.”
“Good? You know, I sooo wish you had tried a drop or two.”
“Enough of this. You may go with Barabbas.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“Why not share the contamination?” he said. “With the children.”
Her pout spread into a grin. “My dear Ariston, you are a cunning man. I love that about you.”
“Go on, then.”
The hulking henchman and the willowy priestess slipped into the corridor. Together, they would send infection marching through the ranks of the young, and from here throughout the whole of Romania. Anyone with connection to these infants would suffer along with them, emotion-ally, if not physically.
And the orphanages would never know what had hit them.
“The Akeldama Cluster begins to make its mark.”
“If we don’t wither away in the time being,” Sol grumbled.
Shelamzion, Ariston’s first wife, shivered and clutched her blouse to her breast. Like the rest of them, she was functioning on minimal blood flow. In the starlight at the window, she sulked and sighed, as though per-forming for theater patrons below her class.
Ariston faced the others. “Listen, I believe we’re getting closer to the Nistarim. We have a link to them, anyhow—if that man Mendel was to be trusted. Isn’t that what we’re after? Their destruction? Please be patient. By sundown tomorrow we could be in a position to wreak some genuine havoc.”
Sol peered down his curved nose. “What if we’ve been tricked?”
“Speak your concern plainly, son.”
Ariston found himself accepting these familial terms, since they worked as well as any. If the Collectors were to carry on in mortal shells, it was to their advantage to appear as normal as possible, with histories and relationships intact.
“What if,” Sol said, “there is no village prefect named Vasile? That silly man—Mendel, in his holier-than-thou disguise—what if he only meant to chase us away from his sandy little realm? Perhaps we were too close for comfort, feeding around Arad. It’s not as though there’s a long history of goodwill between the clusters.”
“True. Yet I’m willing to put his claims to the test. And if Mendel lied, so be it. No matter how long it takes, whatever it requires, our aim is to bring down one of the Nistarim. Considering our previous vigil, even another decade or two would be inconsequential, don’t you think?”
“Another decade, father?”
“Or two.”
“What would we be doing all that time? Redesigning the abacus?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Even in this room, there are things”—Ariston gestured at the four-legged shapes with flat wooden tops—“that go beyond our understanding.”
“Seems obvious to me. We’re in a place of education.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Look.” Sol stabbed his finger at a dark gray board marked with chalk letters. “A teacher’s slate. A very large one. I recognize some of the Latin words from my days among the Romans—and we are in Romania, are we not?”
“I once knew a Roman soldier or two,” Erota said.
Nineteen years of age, this dark-haired nymph and her younger sister were the daughters of Eros. At one time, they’d served under Megiste as prostitutes at the Grecian temple.
Not to be distracted, Ariston sucked in his gut and responded to his son. “Believe me, we will hunt. But this modern culture is new to us, and the Concealed Ones are known to be as wise as serpents.” He lifted a book from a table. “We should study. Like good hunters, we may need to learn the terrain first and then explore the best uses of camouflage.”
“I disagree. We’ve gone unseen long enough.”
“Yes, well—you always were worried about being noticed, weren’t you?”
Sol glared out the window, gnawing on his cheek.
Shelamzion shot Ariston a look of chastisement, which he deflected. She had sided with her son since their days in Jerusalem, and she was still reeling from dear Salome’s loss. Tonight, he figured, there was no room for such parental anxieties.
Helene was the voice of reason. “Let’s keep our egos in check, shall we? It’s been said that ‘a house divided against itself will fall.’ We are one—the Houses of Eros and Ariston. Joined together, there’s no reason we can’t make all other Collectors squirm at our success.”
“A worthy sentiment, my doe.”
Discord and division had long been the bane of Collectors every-where, and Ariston had to wonder if the seeds of such turmoil weren’t rooted in that first cataclysmic revolt by the Master Collector himself.
“While we wait,” he said, “let’s each of us select one of the flat scrolls here from the room, something to further our understanding of these new times we find ourselves in.”
Too thirsty and weak to argue, the others complied.
Sol said, loud enough for all to hear, “Judging by these drawings, father, I don’t think your yellow- and red-dotted robes were meant to be worn by a man.”
For once, Ariston and his son agreed.
Thirty minutes later, Barabbas and Megiste returned with sealed bags in their arms. The cluster drank together, slurping, staining their lips dark red. Color flowed back into faces and necks, eyes brightened, and the mood lightened.
“Come,” Ariston said at last. “We have only a day’s journey to Arad.”
The others faced him with renewed purpose and respect. It helped, of course, that he had changed from his seam-popping, polka-dotted, white robe into something more befitting a leader. He now wore blue leggings and a matching cotton jacket pilfered from the storage room. Even Eros, eternally suave, looked impressed.
“And once we make it to Arad, it’s but a short jaunt to the village Mendel told us about. Cuvin, I believe he called it.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Cuvin
The Provocateur reappeared the next morning, this time in a dented red Dacia that sputtered outside the gate. Gina recognized his gum-chewing and level voice. His tapered silhouette at the front door stamped itself into her mind even as her mother scrabbled about the kitchen and the alcove, packing items into a soft-sided suitcase.
Gina tried to catch his eye. To read his intentions.
His dispassionate gaze made her wonder if the earrings had been from him, after all. She’d started wearing them last week, with nothing but a skewed glance from Nicoleta, and she was wearing them now.
Yet he showed no reaction. Maybe because her mother was here.
“I’ll be back, my angel.” Nicoleta had pulled up her hair in a yellow ribbon and her lips were full and pink. “Treia will keep an eye on you.”
“Can’t I come along?”
“No, you stay and take care of the house.”
“I won’t get in the way.”
“You’re staying, while I go to find you a better life.”
Gina glanced toward the Provocateur, eyes pleading. “What if I—”
“You’re staying here, is that cl
ear? Now take this.” Nicoleta pressed their dagger into Gina’s hand. “Keep this with you. If anyone tries to break in, you stab them through the heart. Am I clear?”
“Mamica, I—”
“You do it.”
“Okay.” She grasped the weapon’s handle. It was a crude artifact, yet effective, its blade sharpened on a grindstone. “What if something hap-pens to you?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, child.”
And they were gone.
Gina waited till the car puttered off, then laid the weapon against her mother’s pillow and eased the wooden chess set from under the bed. She thought of putting away the knife since it had brought her nothing but grief. Instead, she found herself enraptured by the stately chess pieces.
Treia hopped up beside her, nose twitching as Gina arranged the piese de sah on the board and played against herself, shifting light pieces and dark.
“Sah mat,” she said at last. Checkmate.
Who had taught her the rules? She couldn’t remember.
At least when it came to chess, her mind was sharp. Despite the complex maneuvers of gallant knights, promoted pawns, and doubled rooks, the game of kings seemed as natural as stacking clean dishes or slicing potatoes for dinner.
Honor . . . duty . . . combat . . .
Those words resonated in her bones.
Storing the carved figures back in their niches, she imagined them as her comrades-in-arms, as ones she could trust at her side in battle. She would need them. She was a young woman and nothing more. A nobody. Of course, the great master Philidor had proclaimed that pawns were the very life of the game.
A queen. A pawn. What did it matter? In chess, noble titles were never as important as a role nobly filled.
Where, though, had she learned that quote from Philidor?
It was yet one more mosaic, another fragmented piece of her memory.
Steps on the walkway shook her from her reverie, their sharp staccato rhythm like the sound of gunfire bursting into her thoughts. She snapped the chess set shut and grabbed the dagger.
Vasile was making late-afternoon rounds, spying through windows as he slipped along an alleyway, when he came face-to-face with a portly fellow wearing blue workman’s trousers and a jacket.
“Buna seara,” the prefect said. “Can I help you?”
The man cocked his head.
“Can I help you?” Vasile repeated.
With nut-brown eyes fixed straight ahead, the man tried to say some-thing through fleshy lips. It came out as garbled nonsense. Another man stood behind him—a younger, thinner version. Father and son, perhaps.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, comrade. What is it you’re after?”
In response, the heavier man’s hand thrust forward and clasped Vasile’s arm in an ice-cold grip. The numbing sensation sent a warning through his body, which he shook off as he fielded another laughable attempt at communication.
Except Vasile was not amused.
He took pride in the beauty of his mother tongue, a Romance language, and if he was going to be accosted on a street—okay, in an alleyway—in his own village, then this man should at least pronounce things properly.
Vasile tried to pull away. The cold of those fingers was penetrating his skin. It reminded him of the sort of contact he hadn’t experienced since . . .
“Let my arm go,” he said. “I insist. I am a communist in good standing, and you’ll pay dearly if I discover you have any criminal dealings. I hold the reins around here. Don’t you squabble with me.”
The thinner fellow stepped up, brown eyes set close together over his nose. His speech was halting. “This man is Ariston, my father. I am Sol. I was trained in Latin, so I hope you understand what I say. We mean no harm, but my father will do what he must.”
Vasile considered this. “If he’ll release me, we may have something to discuss.”
Words were exchanged between father and son, and the clench loosened.
“We know who you are,” Sol said to Vasile. “You are a host.”
“A host? But of course. As a communist, I try to share and share alike.”
“I think you know my meaning. You are at work with a Collector.”
Vasile’s stomach twisted, an inferno roared behind his eyes, and he thought for a moment he might vomit. Though bitter loneliness had accompanied his decision to abandon his cluster, he was free from the cluster’s petty concerns and bureaucracy. Unless these men, these Collectors, were here regarding his claims, he had no use for them. He’d survived in this village on his own, and he could do without interference from whip-cracking superiors.
“What is it you want from me?”
“We need answers, straight and true. We seek the Nistarim. You, we hear, have knowledge that could help.”
“I might.” Vasile’s queasiness began to subside. He did indeed have information, and this put him in a position of power—a position he craved yet rarely experienced in this backwater town. “As you may know, they are the Concealed Ones. Very difficult to find. I don’t suppose you’ve ever located or even seen one?”
“No,” Sol said. “But we will.”
Vasile had no proof that he’d seen one, either. He’d heard things from the home of Nicoleta and Regina, and through the bathroom window, he’d spied the twelve-year-old running her finger in a specific pattern along her forehead.
Even so, he did not know for certain.
“Are you two familiar with the signs to look for?” Vasile said this with the manufactured conceit of a man who had viewed such things infinite times. “It’s been fabled that they bear a seal, so as to be spared when Final Vengeance comes.”
Ariston, jowls wagging, muttered something to his son.
“Enough,” Sol said to Vasile. “You are going to help us now.”
“I’m considering it. Naturally, there are things I expect in return.”
“You misunderstand. It’s not a question, but an order.”
“Well, well, comrade.” Vasile sneered. “There’s only one way you’ll get the details you want, and that’s to play by my rules. Don’t push your luck.”
“You are a poor host. My father is displeased.”
“What does he know, huh? He understands not a word.”
“In just one moment,” Sol said, “he’ll understand more than enough.”
At that, Ariston’s head reared back, his eyes narrowing to slits, his gums appearing from behind peeled lips. With a puff adder’s swiftness, he struck.
Punctured skin. Latching fangs.
And images collected from the hot, pulsing flow of life.
Despite brief stiffening along the skin as Vasile’s own Collector tried to guard the premises, Ariston had no trouble accessing a vein. It was a Principle of Cluster Survival: For the sake of consolidated fortification, the strong Collector is encouraged—nay, commissioned—to prey upon the weaker Collector.
He disengaged from the prefect’s forearm. A greasy residue ringed his mouth. The taste was passable, yet the blood itself was thin and diluted, and he’d stopped the moment after filtering out the necessary pieces of evidence.
A girl with chestnut hair . . . a faint Hebrew mark on her forehead . . .
Where Vasile had stolen a glance through a young girl’s window and conjectured on what she saw in the mirror, Ariston was able to witness the memory through undead eyes and see clearly.
The letter Tav.
As for the girl’s awareness of the mark . . .
If she could see it, was that not proof of her own link to immortality?
Task accomplished, Ariston set his hands on Vasile’s shoulders and turned him back down the alleyway. The man lurched away, unblinking. A sleepwalker. Since times unknown, Collector saliva had worked as a memory-distorting coagulant. When Vasile regained awareness, he would be groggy, somewhat euphoric, with only dreamlike recollections of those who had stolen from him.
“That was not pleasant,” Ariston said to Sol.
He
’d been annoyed by the prefect’s flippancy and by his own struggles to communicate. Clearly, language lessons were a necessity. While hitch-ing rides to this western edge of the country, the cluster members had familiarized themselves with maps and colorful, flat scrolls borrowed from the orphanage classroom, but there was still much that was alien to them, much that stood in their way.
“Did you get what we’re after?” Sol inquired.
Ariston wiped a hand over his mouth, licked the sticky smears from his palm. “A woman and her daughter. Here in Cuvin.”
“Two females? They can’t be our link, then, can they?”
“I saw men also. One in particular. But he wasn’t Lettered, only the girl.”
“That can’t be right. The Nistarim are comprised of males only.”
“Where, my son, do you think all menfolk come from?” Ariston swiveled on thick legs, eyes panning, nostrils flaring. “Call the others. Their house can’t be far away.”
The Akeldama Cluster neared the dwelling with caution.
This was it, the location Ariston had sifted from the prefect’s memories—the same red roof and whitewashed exterior, the blue shutters, the flower boxes. He detected no signs of life, no lights from the screened windows. Large-winged raptors wheeled overhead, and a clothesline shivered in a breeze that swept down from the Carpathian foothills.
Ariston motioned Eros and Megiste to lead their household around the back, and they did so with a smooth elegance that belied the purpose of their visit. With his own brood posted at the gate, Ariston moved with Barabbas up the stone path, where they found a sweet aroma wafting about them.
An indicator of the Concealed Ones’ presence?
“Let’s introduce ourselves,” Ariston said.
His acolyte’s knuckles boomed against the front door. Each knock seemed to shake another serrated section from his fingertips, till the same nails that had scooped out an eyeball at the Akeldama were tapered tools primed for disemboweling.
