by Wilson, Eric
Dov nodded. Dalia smiled.
Dinner was at a Hungarian restaurant on Xenopol Street. The food arrived hot and on time, and the atmosphere included servers in traditional outfits and a trio of folk musicians. Dov was full of nervous excitement, vying for his father’s attention. Which was fine, really, since Dalia and Benyamin had forgotten years ago how to carry on a conversation.
Trouble surfaced at the end of the meal.
An after-dinner liqueur was offered: Hungarian palinka. Benyamin’s eyes perused the menu as he wrestled with the idea. Then, still looking down, he told the waitress, yes, he would like a drink.
“Just one,” he said to his son. “To wash the food down.”
Though Dov hadn’t asked.
With lips pressed together, Dalia watched her husband imbibe. She tried to quell her rising ire. She rubbed a fingernail at the spot beneath her arm and figured Ben’s response was to be expected, considering he walked this life alone, a secular Jew, jettisoning his trust in anyone other than himself and his beloved alcohol.
By the time he’d ordered a third glass, she was furious. She stood from the table, wrapped herself in a coat, and told him she would find her own way home.
She marched outside, past the proud columns of the Cultural Palace, to a path that meandered along the Mures River. Colored lights glittered on the water. She wound through the trees toward Eminescu Park. Named after Romania’s national poet, it was a place she visited for periods of calm. She often sat here on a bench with a book, and while she adored Bet Bailik, father of Hebrew poetry, Romania’s Mihai Eminescu offered his own unique take on the human condition.
She stopped. She heard a female voice. There, beneath a lamp stand, a long-legged woman with brunette hair was reading aloud from a leather-bound collection. Dalia recognized a stanza from Luceafarul, a poetic tale of Lucifer, the Fallen One:
There is nothing and yet there is
a thirst which consumes him,
absorbs him utterly, an abyss like
blind oblivion.
Dalia stepped into the circle of light, drawn to the relevance of these words. They pertained to Benyamin. How had she never seen that?
“Hello?” The reader looked up with almond-shaped eyes that complemented light olive skin. She seemed familiar. Perhaps they’d passed on the streets.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you,” Dalia said. “Please, don’t stop. You have a pleasant reading voice, and Eminescu’s a favorite of mine.”
“Some company wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.”
“May I sit down?”
“Of course.” The woman pinned the book to her lap with one hand, reached out with the other. “My name’s Erota.”
“An intriguing name. I’m Dalia Amit.” She planted her backside on the bench beside Erota, ignoring the discomfort beneath her arm and smoothing her dress over stout legs. Was that Benyamin’s voice she heard in the distance?
She spoke in a conspiratorial hush. “If my husband wanders by, don’t pay him any mind. I’m rather upset with him. He loves his drink, that man does.”
“You poor thing. That must be rough on you.”
“It’s neither here nor there. Go on, please. I’d like to hear more.”
An emerald glint showed in Erota’s eyes. Probably a trick of the light, Dalia reasoned. The brunette returned her attention to the book of poetry and, over the approaching calls of a distraught spouse, read another stanza:
Would you have me come down to earth
and leave the eternal skies?
Remember that I am immortal
and you, condemned to die!
Benyamin stumbled along the walkway, warmed by the shots of palinka, and amused by his wife’s dash from the scene. What a spectacle she had made of herself, and now here he was chasing after her. He’d given Dov strict orders to remain at the table in the restaurant till he got back.
So, what was the harm in one little drink?
Okay, two or three.
Benyamin caught a whiff of his wife’s perfume and drew himself to a lock-kneed halt. She was nearby, hiding in the park.
“Dalia? Dear, let’s go back inside.”
When she failed to respond, he wobbled onward. His ankle pounded, his old wound burning with each step.
He heard a woman’s gasp, one short cry, and he hurried toward it. That was his wife. She had taken a tumble, most likely, out here in the woods along the river. She was a stout woman, lacking in athleticism. One dip in the pathway could send her reeling.
“Dalia?”
Ahead, lamplight glimmered between the branches. There she was on a bench, her head lolling and eyes closed. That was her, wasn’t it?
Who was the figure beside her, though?
And why did it look as though a thorny tangle bound them together?
As Benyamin stepped closer, the figure turned and gave him a languid smile. The other woman was young, beautiful, with a sensual mouth that glistened deep red. She ran her tongue along her lower lip and met his eye. In that moment, he felt the wound burst at his ankle and sensed something thick and crackly snaking forth.
Dalia appeared to be asleep, oblivious.
“Mr. Amit,” the woman said to him. “Come join us.”
“We can’t stay out here,” he said, thinking of Dov.
“You can share a little drink, can’t you?”
“A little drink?”
“Sit down here. We’ll all partake together.”
His queasiness gave way to desire. The very sound of this woman’s voice seemed to cool the heat at his ankle. He plopped down on the bench beside her, watched her run fingers down his leg, and then his thoughts were separating, spiraling away, carrying with them his worry and pain.
Chattanooga
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Jed called to Gina from the kitchen.
It was part of their agreement that he prepared the meals on Friday nights, since it was her longest shift down in the caverns of Ruby Falls.
Gina stood at the apartment window, staring over an array of city lights. She was still wearing her tour-guide uniform, and her name tag reflected her identity backward in the glass.
Her thoughts were on her mother. She loved Nikki. Always had. She’d learned from her a good work ethic and a sense of honor. She envied those high cheekbones, porcelain nose, and the shiny black hair—even if it was colored these days, to hide the wisps of gray.
The truth was, Gina was still a slave to Nikki’s approval. Her tattoo, the black boots, and orange-dyed hair were all attempts to break free. Didn’t take a shrink to figure that much out. Here she was, still worrying over Nikki’s reaction to the pregnancy. Nearing her fiftieth birthday, what would Nikki think of becoming a grandmother? Not that Jed even had a clue.
“Why should I care what she thinks?”
“Sorry?” Jed turned off the stove’s range fan, waved a dish towel through tendrils of smoke. “I couldn’t hear you with that thing running. Guess the garlic bread’s gonna be extra crispy tonight.”
“My mom,” Gina said. “Why do I care?”
“Uh, because she’s your mom?”
“She’s Nikki. I’m not sure that counts.”
“You gonna come eat or not?” he asked.
“Or not.”
He set down the towel and came up behind her. She caught a whiff of his CK One—it seemed so strong. Maybe it had something to do with her altered chemical balance. She felt his hands encircle her waist.
She pushed back against him. “I don’t want you touching my tummy, Jed.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like it. I feel fat.”
“You feel cuddly.” He tried to kiss her neck.
She turned and backhanded his chest. “I’m serious.”
He caught her wrist. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”
He released her, raised both arms in surrender. “If you wanna be miserable, don’t take it out on
me. Since when do you let anything get you down?”
“I’m not down. I’m just . . . frustrated. Confused, I guess.”
“Is it something I did? Did I leave my socks in the bathroom again?”
She met his eyes for the first time since coming through the door. They floated large and blue behind his black-rimmed glasses. If Weezer ever needed a replacement lead vocalist, he would fit right in.
“What now, Gina? You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”
She nodded and stifled a sudden bout of giggles. This whole hormone thing, it was quite a ride.
“What?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s something you did.”
“Figures.”
“I’m going to have a baby.”
“You? You’re . . . what?”
She looked up beneath her wave of hair. “Hey, you’re partly to blame.”
“I . . . Are you saying you’re pregnant?”
She nodded and bit her lower lip.
“We . . . You and me, we . . .”
“That’s how it usually happens.”
He leaned back, his eyebrows jumping above the rims of his glasses.
“Are you upset?” Gina ventured.
“Are you?”
“I don’t know, Jed. I mean, actually, I’m pretty excited about it.”
“Well, you should be.”
“And you aren’t?”
“Of course I am, sweetheart. That’s awesome. You’ll make a great mother.” He reached for her hand, and this time she let him take it. “Forget about Nikki and all that baggage. You’re not her. You’ll be amazing.”
Gina dragged her lower lip between her teeth. “I hope so.”
“I know so,” he said.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
En Route to Kiev, Ukraine
Headed back to Kiev, seated in the blackness of an enclosed train compartment, Erota used her superior night vision to examine the snoozing pair of travelers across from her: a college-age girl in ripped jeans with a Union Jack sewn onto her backpack and an older woman with frizzled red hair, her head lolling, a pocket Bible lying open in her lap.
Their aroma was overpowering. Unmistakable. It filled the cabin with a haze of glittering scarlet jewels.
Nazarene Blood.
Erota felt aroused and tucked her hands under her legs as her nails began sharpening, extending. These unsuspecting women were cups brimming with the purest and richest of nectars. A forbidden elixir.
Lucky for them, Erota was full.
Lucky for her too. One sip and she knew she would suffer a grisly fate.
She contemplated finding a seat elsewhere, but there was something titillating about sharing space with Those Who Resist. The world was riddled with churchgoers in pious disguises, but many of them had only the stench of death. She’d never been this close, for this long, to the real deal.
She felt like a child, quivering with nervous curiosity, face pressed between the bars of a lion’s enclosure. Except there was no zoo, no enclosure. Only taunting desire.
She was full, she reminded herself. She could make it through the night without another feeding. Her skin was already warm to the touch, tinged with color.
All thanks to the Amits. One unhappy little family.
An hour before the departure from Arad’s central station, Erota had ducked into the nearby park for a few minutes of solitude. She’d read aloud from an evocative poem and found the words going out like strings of notes from the Pied Piper’s flute.
Here came Dalia. Here came Benyamin, right on her heels.
Their son was left crying in a restaurant lobby.
Though the kid would be spared Erota’s direct attention, she suspected—or at least hoped—that vines had already latched onto him as well. Loneliness was an easy opening to exploit. Of course, she’d noted through the years that certain children showed a resilience far superior to most adults.
For example, Mr. and Mrs. Amit were easy prey.
Erota fed off them there in Eminescu Park. In the darkness, she drew them closer, and her numbing saliva rendered them delirious, oblivious, donors to the ongoing Collector cause. She used the technique demonstrated at the Cetatea chapel and extracted knotted brambles from a throbbing heel and a swollen armpit.
So easy. She broke off each at its exit point. Supped from the thorns. Gorged herself to the point of bursting.
It was a fitting conclusion to her time in Arad, and a serendipitous sending off for her impending journey to the United States.
She’d been told Americans were skeptical of paranormal dealings, but that was of no concern to her; Collectors were given leeway to make adjustments within their environments, so long as the basic goals remained in place. In simplified terms, the Collector Procedure Manual listed three primary methods:
1) Over-the-top—Attack and feed in ostentatious ways, so that the population suspects unholy involvement in each and every misfortune . . . Example: A crowded boat catches fire, goes down, and the average person is convinced it’s an act of evil spirits.
2) Under-the-surface—Attack and feed in covert ways, so that the population denies any and all unholy intervention in modern life . . . Example: A boat catches fire, goes down, and the average person is convinced it’s another example of shoddy management and poorly maintained equipment.
3) Behind-the-back—Attack and feed in subversive ways, so that the population blames all things mournful and distressing upon a punitive, distant deity . . . Example: A boat catches fire, goes down, and the average person assumes God didn’t act because He simply didn’t care.
Erota rested her head against the curtain, as the rocking of the train lulled her toward sleep.
Then she sat up straight again, all efforts at relaxation rebuffed by the presence of the two females opposite her. Her temples pounded. Her nostrils flared at their stifling sweetness.
Oh, for one sip from the cup.
The red-haired lady stirred and opened her eyes. She squinted into the darkness and felt for her Bible, then turned her sights to Erota.
Erota sat motionless, sure she could not be seen.
“You don’t really want to be here, do you?” the woman whispered.
The heavy curtain was cutting off all but the smallest particles of light, and Erota figured she must be dealing with one talking in her sleep.
“You can go,” the woman said. “Just go.”
“Are you talking to me?” Erota inquired. “Are you awake?”
“You don’t belong here.”
“This is my seat.”
“I’m not going to waste my time.” A dismissive wave of the hand. “Please, just find somewhere else.”
Erota bristled. “Who do you think you are? You don’t even know my name.”
“I don’t want to know it. I’m sure you’d be lying to me anyway.”
Erota brought her hands into view, her nails curved and glowing green. She imagined bridging the gap and slicing through that sun-wrinkled neck. She fantasized about a crimson geyser erupting from the carotid artery. She would drink, a vampire at the schoolyard fountain, satisfying her thirst between activities.
One sip. Please, just one.
Through the blackness, the woman’s watery eyes fixed upon Erota, and a stream of soft syllables rolled from her lips. Although forming distinct words, they seemed to be encoded so that their meaning remained hidden.
Erota’s brain reached out, a skeleton key working at the lock and failing to find a match. Not even close. Gibberish, gibberish. The phrases were reminiscent of the mindless repetition heard from religious sycophants everywhere: Please God, this . . . Please God, that . . . If You will only answer me, I promise I will . . .
However, this lady’s words were pointed. They stung Erota’s mind.
Ridiculous. She had no reason to put up with this mad blabbering. It was giving her a headache. Let the redheaded two-legger have this space if she wanted it so badly. Erota would look for greener past
ures, thank you, and good-bye.
She fled into the passageway, where cigarette fumes and toilet odors embraced her like old friends—not always pretty, but familiar. She turned her mind to more profitable matters, such as her upcoming assignment as a desirable, vulnerable bride.
Atlanta. Hot-lanta.
Home to the Falcons and Braves, a thriving cosmopolitan city.
She’d been looking forward to the challenge of a new land, and in preparation she’d watched Gone with the Wind. Her father, Eros, had assured her that corsets and hoop dresses were no longer part of the attire. He impressed upon her, though, that a Southern belle was still expected to carry herself with a certain decorum.
How tedious. As if Erota wasn’t tired enough of the vapid existence she had endured in Ukraine.
During the long wait outside the Akeldama tombs, she had hoped for much more. The Man from Kerioth had bled his traitorous soul into that dirt, and Ariston had promised something significant for those who accessed the hillside’s dead.
She’d bought into his whole spiel. And this was all she got from it?
In a matter of hours, the House of Eros would be back in Kiev, filling nine-to-five jobs, attending schools, sweeping streets, and lounging in front of TVs. They would feign normality in hopes of going unobserved. Sure, there would be midnight forays for food. They might even—if they were fortunate—stumble upon a connection to the fabled Concealed Ones. Maybe a lone lamedvovnik, with the letter Tav imprinted on the forehead.
But such hope had made Erota weary. She wanted recognition. She longed for a place of prominence and power. How long till the fulfillment of her dreams brought such things about?
In the ears of this human host, time seemed to be ticking.
Which was ridiculous. She knew the passage of months and years was immaterial. Hadn’t the Master Collector assured them that his Collection of Souls was an ongoing project, one that could span the whole of time? He guaranteed them eventual, eternal, everlasting, and ever-blissful success.
Yet she could not shake the tick-tock of this mortal clock. There were things to be done, and deadlines by which to do them.
Undeadlines.
