Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  Sympathy pains, she called them. Her baby reacting to the sorrows that Gina saw all around. What was it Thoreau had said, about artists carrying the wounds of their generation? She was no artist. She was nothing really. Who was she, to bring a child into such a world?

  “What’d the doctor tell you today?” Jed asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong, he said. Some women just get it worse than others.”

  “It’s your body. What does he know?”

  Gina shrugged a shoulder. The subject was getting old. She arranged the chess pieces and began moving them, deriving familiar comfort from their polished feel and stately presentation.

  “You playing against yourself, sweetheart?” He was still massaging.

  “Sort of,” she said.

  “You’re, like, the only chick I know who plays chess.”

  “Chick?”

  “How ’bout, ‘hot mama’?”

  “Hilarious, Jed. No, I’m going through the moves of the Immortal Game, this famous match played in London, back in 1851.”

  “Immortal?”

  “Because it hasn’t died. Even then, people realized it would go down for the ages as this example of brilliant sacrifice.” She shuffled pieces on the board and tried to explain, but found little receptivity from the lunk-head behind her. “You don’t get it, do you? Are you even watching?”

  “I see it,” Jed said. “I just don’t see, if you know what I mean.”

  “Anderssen—he’s the one playing white—and look at how he only captures three pawns from the other guy. But he gives up almost all of his own pieces to win. Both of his rooks, a few pawns, a bishop, and finally his—”

  “Queen.”

  “Regina,” she said, rolling the r in her native Romanian.

  “Okay, sure, I get it. That’s pretty cool.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded, pink strands brushing her nose as her husband resumed his well-meaning back rub. “Takes a lot of courage, laying it all on the line like that,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d be able to do it.”

  “I betcha you would, if you had to. You’re a pretty tough chi—”

  “Chick. Go ahead and say it. I dare you.”

  They both laughed, and for the rest of the evening, the arrows of pain seemed to remain harmlessly in her quivers. She knew they would come raining down again soon enough, but she was a warrior.

  Honor . . . duty . . . combat.

  She was going to fight this pregnancy through to the end.

  Atlanta

  Mrs. Erota Pace stretched out her legs on a swatch of lawn. The air was cool, crisp. Around her, in this famed park, businesspeople ate lunches, while college students tossed Frisbees back and forth.

  Her contact was three minutes late.

  “You snooze, you lose, mister,” she practiced her English aloud.

  Centennial Olympic Park, a showcase for last year’s festivities in Atlanta, had been the target of Eric Rudolph’s bomb full of nails. Meant to undermine a government that allowed rampant unrighteousness, it was the sort of over-the-top act Erota would expect from a man as arrogant as he.

  A few weeks back, here at this same spot, she had met a man of equal conceit. She’d spotted him—smelled him, was more accurate—and found he was host to a local Collector. A Collector more than eager to mete out his own destructiveness. Inspired by Rudolph’s deeds, he, too, had bombed a nearby abortion clinic. In late April, with Erota tag teaming him, the man had wreaked similar violence on a lesbian nightclub.

  All part of his reign of holy terror. Blame the media, the voices, the gods.

  Of course, in lining up these missions, Erota was prepping him for her real target only weeks from now: Erlanger East Medical Clinic, Gina’s hospital in Chattanooga.

  Good-bye to the Concealed Ones. Hello to the End of the World.

  “Okay,” she spoke aloud. “Where are you?”

  Erota tilted her head back, staring through sunglasses at a sky humans would say was gray and depressing but to her was a ceiling of marbled splendor.

  This world was wondrous. A forbidden fruit, if you will.

  Like all Collectors, she reveled in its beauty, longed for its pleasures, while despising the creative touch behind it. How could a loving being create such things, then place restrictions upon them? What sort of ego-centric creature would punish and Separate those who refused to bow at His every command?

  Thank God—Erota snickered at this irony—for extending grace to these putrid two-leggers. Through them, she and her ilk could still sample pleasures.

  Each day, while her husband, Ray-Ban, was playing at his pharmaceutical sales and golf, she tried to take it all in, a vampire exploring her five senses and doing her best to choose a favorite.

  Touch.

  Oh, the joys to be found here. She was a big fan of sexual temptations—had been since her temple prostitute days. With 1990s technology fast becoming part of her knowledge base, she saw unlimited possibilities. She’d already drunk from the libidos of her husband, sister-in-law, and a number of the business partners. She was a kid in a candy shop, as these Americans liked to say.

  Smell.

  This more subtle pleasure often caught her by surprise—the aroma of bacon cooking, Atlanta Bread Company, or the soft scent of roses. It was closely linked to memory too. One whiff of a lemon, and she might just as well be back in the Middle East, centuries ago, browsing the open-air markets they called souks. What better sense was there for dragging someone back to a place he wished to forget?

  Taste.

  Surely, this had to be a favorite. From the tannic plushness of a good cabernet to the sweet, coppery drops from a thorn cup, she adored the palette’s ability to channel enjoyment. Her husband was a direct contributor in this arena, wining and dining her in Atlanta’s superb restaurants. Flavors to be savored. No wonder obesity was a spreading problem—see, she knew how to use a pun—in this land of abundance.

  Sight.

  The world all around was a blast of color. Coming from the mono-chrome drudgery that had been hers without a host, she felt shell-shocked at times by the contrasts and lights. Other times she was moved to tears by something as blasé as the kaleidoscope of oil in a puddle. Her husband, like most males, seemed drugged by the curves and hues of female forms. Or by the ubiquitous movies and video games. Everywhere, blurs of motion and adrenaline.

  Sound.

  She found herself confused by her reactions to various rhythms and tones. Why she loved American hip-hop, she could not explain. Why certain men’s voices strummed deep within her, she had no idea. Perhaps the sense’s most rewarding elements were found in nature’s symphony—a bird’s bright chirp, the shushing whisper of leaves in a breeze, or the rattling satisfaction of a kitten’s purr.

  A favorite from these five senses? It was hard to choose.

  And each had its drawbacks.

  Some days, the continual barrage of sound gave her migraines. Touch could transmit heart-stopping pain, such as the time she’d brushed a hand over a stovetop’s entrancing glow. Sights and smells could turn a stomach in seconds. And the taste of rising bile—was anything more disgusting than one’s own foul juices?

  Her journeys through the sensory world only underlined her fury.

  The Separation . . . A hellish punishment, which had severed the Collectors’ direct connections to the physical realm. It was inhumane.

  And the Unfallen? They did not suffer its pain.

  Such favoritism was just more evidence against the Almighty, All-Magnificent, Egotist who claimed to be in control.

  As for the Nazarene?

  The very thought of the man made her sick.

  She had gathered with the other Collectors, forming a vast mob around the craggy edifice of Golgotha, and watched him scream out a question they all understood to their cores . . .

  My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?

  They had rejoiced in that moment. Gloried in his agony, in his death.

  It is finish
ed.

  But it was a lie.

  It was not finished. It was only the beginning.

  He came out of the grave three days later. It was rumored he then broke bread with fellow Jews and let them touch his scars, then walked through walls like they weren’t there. He declared his disdain for the Separation by moving between the physical and spiritual realms as though they were one.

  The Collectors had been unable to stop his escape.

  These disgusting, self-involved two-leggers would not be so lucky. They deserved what they had coming. The more Erota witnessed this world through their hands, noses, mouths, eyes, and ears, the more cemented she became in her resolve to cause them grief.

  To feed, breed, persuade, and possess.

  To tear these silly humans apart and bleed them dry.

  She was on her own now, a warrior. She saw no reason to subject herself any longer to the Akeldama Cluster’s oversight. Ariston was far, far away from this place in which she now lived. Here, in the land of the free—ha!—and the home of the brave—double ha!—clusters operated as part of a national syndicate called the Consortium.

  Erota, like a few others, preferred her chances going solo. She saw no need to subject herself to the Consortium’s instructions. Once she could confirm the sex of Gina Turney’s child, she would wield the weapon of her own choice—and end this.

  The reward? Unity and peace.

  Wasn’t that what she and other Collectors wanted, what clusters angled and finagled for across this overridden planet? Mrs. Erota Pace, former temple prostitute, onetime swine, and intermittent traveler of this mortal coil, wanted what had been promised by the Master Collector himself so very long ago.

  Unity: the physical and supernatural brought together again, so that she could indulge in her senses without restraint, boundaries, or guilt.

  Peace: to indulge herself, without these hoarding humans in the way.

  “Erota?”

  She turned toward the voice and saw a brown-haired man with an average build. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show up.”

  “I’m nervous,” he said. “Meeting in this park, of all places.”

  “Relax. Nobody knows the things you’ve done. After this next act, though, I’m sure they’ll be shifting their focus to you.”

  “I don’t know that I want that.”

  “Sure you do. You want to be heard, right?”

  “I have to talk louder,” he said. “Nobody’s listening these days.”

  Erota could see in his cagey expression that she had pegged him correctly. She saw the same self-righteous spirit that was there in Dalia Amit, Nikki Lazarescu, and some of the datim in Israel’s Arad.

  All of them, striving to be like God.

  All of them, seeking heaven through their own efforts.

  Well, they were in fine company, since it was the Master Collector himself who had made the first trek through that treacherous wasteland.

  “Here’s our next target.” Erota passed over folded papers and a map. “This woman moved in with her boyfriend directly out of high school, and she’s carrying a child conceived out of wedlock. A moral travesty, don’t you think?” She kept a straight face as she said it. “You have five, maybe six weeks to familiarize yourself with the Chattanooga area. I’ve done some of the legwork, but you’ll be doing the dirty work. Are you up for the task?”

  “I’ll blow up the clinic real good,” he said.

  “See? That has a nice ring to it. The exact date is still up in the air, so you must stay alert, and I’ll be in close contact.”

  His eyes grazed up her legs, over the reclined curve of her hip.

  “Hello?” She snapped her fingers. “Are we in agreement?”

  He looked away and nodded dumbly.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  August—Totorcea Vineyards, Romania

  Due east of Lipova, Megiste and Eros walked the vineyard’s hillside property. They’d made the journey down from Kiev to touch base with the cluster leader, and Ariston was now leading them on a personal tour, waddling between hanging rows of vines, many of which were still withered and dead. Megiste noticed that the soil was dry from the day’s earlier heat, and scattered rocks indicated a site not yet cleared for steady production.

  “The place has a lot of potential, Lord Ariston,” Eros commented.

  “It’s coming along.”

  “Though I must tell you,” Megiste said, “I prefer living amongst the denser population in Kiev. For the occasional tappings, you know—should the desire overtake me.”

  Below, the land leveled out toward the Mures River, where mosquitoes and gnats swarmed in the twilight. Guarded by a gate, a ribbon of dirt threaded from the main road to this modest place with its thatched-roof residence and decrepit warehouse.

  Ariston had purchased the vineyard a year earlier, under his Romanian cover name: Flavius Totorcea. The alkaline in the soil had proven resistant to dependable grape harvests, and the previous owner’s sons, who both resided in England, had shown no interest in the land. The estate’s executor would have sold it to Ariston even if his name were Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. The man’s very words.

  Ariston of Apamea offered his jeweled armband. The executor accepted. Then scampered off, probably hoping to auction the relic for additional profit.

  Which, Megiste knew, was of no concern to Ariston.

  “The place does need work,” he told her and Eros. “A few years, though, and I plan to be bottling notable vintages under the name of Totorcea Vineyards.”

  “Why, it’s the perfect false front,” Eros said.

  “I’ve been researching on the World Wide Web and found lots of information for making it into a legitimate business. I’ve e-mailed vintners from Bordeaux to the Willamette Valley.” He noted Megiste’s blank look. “In the state of Oregon. A Mr. Addison, from Addison Ridge Vineyards, was kind enough to send information on pinot noir grapes, one of my favorite varietals.”

  “You lost me, I’m afraid. Back at Bordeaux.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Wine talk, that’s all it is.”

  “At least no one bothers you out here, do they?”

  “Aside from my own family?”

  Megiste peeked through her long curls. “Is Sol still giving you grief ?”

  “And the wives.”

  Eros chuckled. “Now you know why I’ve chosen to remain unattached.”

  “Some days I envy you that. With all of us under one roof, it gets tense at times. Bah. With two thousand years of waiting under our belts, you’d hope they could see past the petty differences of their hosts.”

  “Oh, you foolish man,” Megiste said with a giggle.

  “I can see why these modern grooms have it whittled down to one mate. So, tell me,” he said. “How’re things in Ukraine? Is the House of Eros having the same success that we’ve had with your slow-tapping method?”

  Eros slid fingers down Megiste’s arm. “I’ll let our priestess answer that.”

  “Success?” she said. “Absolutely. We’ve tapped hundreds, maybe more. The vines spread like weeds, creeping and crawling through every available crack. We’ve been focusing our energies on one person per household. Once the root takes hold, infestation progresses with only occasional nudges from us.”

  “We’ve found the same thing here. And the blood, it’s much more concentrated than from a direct attack. I owe you my thanks, Megiste, for developing this tactic.”

  “As part of my training, I once used ritual sacrifice to see after the welfare of my congregants. Is this really any different?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “We’re all in this together,” Eros said. “Two houses, one cluster.”

  Ariston’s eyes snapped up. “You’re sure of that? I’m having doubts about Erota. Do you have any contact with your daughter? The reports she’s been sending me seem . . . sketchy, at best.”

  “She’s an independent one, no doubt there, but I’ll look int
o it. Any other trouble? Besides on the home front?”

  “Hmm. Until recently I didn’t think so.”

  Megiste came to a halt, pulling her fur coat tight as the evening temperature began to drop. “What’s changed, Lord?”

  “Little things. Maybe nothing.”

  “Do tell. It’s our first trip back since the meeting at the Cetatea, and I want all the juicy details.”

  He confided to her and Eros that a recent nighttime intruder had been spotted several times near this property, yet never been caught. “I’m concerned by anyone showing interest in my family or this location. We’ve been careful to remain veiled in our activities.”

  “Probably just a thieving gypsy,” Eros theorized.

  “Hmm. I don’t buy into the local prejudices. No, it seems that some-thing’s amiss, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe we’ll catch a farmer’s son spying,” Megiste said, “and then tap our own private vintage. What do you say?”

  “I think you are insatiable.”

  “I’ve never denied it. We all want that one cup that never runs dry and satisfies our needs for all time. But it sounds so droll, don’t you think? If such a cup exists, let those who want eternal boredom wet their lips on it.” Megiste ran her tongue along the thin bow of her own mouth. “As for me, I’ll keep sucking the juice from a variety of . . . well, grapevines.”

  Ariston chortled. “It’s good to have you two here. Come. I’ll show you the house.”

  On the way down the slope, Megiste offered a suggestion. “Considering this intruder, perhaps you should set out a guard.”

  “Do you think I’ve not done that?”

  “Well, I’m sure you have.”

  “Barabbas is on duty even now.”

  “You think of everything, sir. He’s not one to mess with.”

  Ariston grunted.

  “I meant no insubordination,” she said.

  Though often mischievous, she believed in the chain of command as delineated in the Principles of Cluster Survival. In times past, Collector defiance had sent others packing, and she had no desire to follow in their tracks. She was Restless enough, without a visit to that scalding Desert.