Field of Blood

by Wilson, Eric

  He snapped his chess set shut, sending magnetic pieces tumbling. He said, “They’re coming to find me.”

  “Don’t talk like that. It won’t help either of us, okay?”

  “Ask him.”

  Gina followed the pointing finger toward the mustached man in the sunglasses. “The driver?” she said.

  “He knows.”

  “You sit tight, Dov. I’ll be right back.”

  Though unsure of what was going on, she had learned not to dis-count her young ward’s cryptic claims. To date, everything he’d said had lined up with her own experiences and investigation.

  Gina, who had once been Lettered . . .

  Dov, who now carried the same symbol beneath scraggly bangs . . .

  In the middle of this great big world, by mysteries greater than Gina could fathom, the two of them had been brought together. This was her shot at regaining a measure of peace and redemption, his shot at replacing a portion of the family that had been torn from him.

  Thu-THUNK-ity, THUNK-thunk . . .

  Gina grabbed at the seats on either side of the aisle, felt the floor rise and buck beneath her. She heard drowsy cries and a child’s scream behind her, as the brakes squealed with rubber-shredding alarm. The driver, in his border-guard hat and sunglasses, spun the wheel to correct the vehicle’s slide toward a guardrail.

  Muncitors were barking out orders now to the children. A few over-night bags lurched from the luggage racks and plopped into the aisle, one of them careening off Gina’s shoulder.

  She stumbled forward, felt her bare knees buckle and touch the floor. She pulled herself up and said, “It’s going to be all right,” to a bug-eyed girl in the front row beside her.

  The driver was calm but intent, his hands moving over the steering wheel. He corrected again, away from the precipice, easing off the brakes and punching the accelerator so that the bus straightened and charged ahead into the arched mouth of a tunnel.

  “Stop this bus,” a male muncitor ordered from the back.

  The driver pressed onward.

  “We have children aboard. We need to check that everyone’s okay.”

  The driver was unperturbed, his glasses reflecting the headlights’ dull beams as they bounced between the tunnel’s stone walls. The others onboard had fallen into stunned silence.

  “Stop,” the muncitor said. “I must insist.”

  “You,” the driver said, with such authority that it gusted down the aisle and buffeted between the panoramic windows, “will take your seat, watch over the children, and shut your stinkin’ mouth.”

  Gina stared at the man behind the wheel. That voice. Could it be . . . ?

  There’s no way.

  “You should get back to your place,” he told her. “For your own safety.”

  “What happened back there?” Gina asked.

  “We hit something.”

  “We . . . Well, maybe we should’ve stopped. What was it?”

  “Show no mercy,” he said through his mustache.

  “Was it an animal?”

  They exited the tunnel into a purple and red-black twilight. Along the aisle, muncitors spoke in low tones to calm those awakened by the sudden lurches.

  “You could say that,” the driver replied. “Could say it was human too. Now, back to your seat, if you don’t mind. I’m trying to get us to Sinaia in one piece.”

  The lights of an approaching car threw his profile into silhouette, and Gina felt a spark of recognition. “Cal?”

  “Go on back. Stay close to Dov.”

  “It’s you?”

  Green eyes peered over the rims of his shades, allowing her a glimpse of gold flecks twinkling in the glow of the dash. “Shush.” He said it the way Nikki would have, with the same inflection—as if he had the right to be bossing her around. “Please, Gina, let’s wait till I can stop this thing.”

  “But why’re you—?”

  “The train station just outside of Sinaia. We’ll pull over and talk there.” He braked, heading into a hairpin turn. A road sign indicated they were twenty-seven kilometers from their destination.

  Gina seethed with questions the entire way.

  On the asphalt where the tour bus had roared past moments earlier, the wolf whimpered for the last time. Playing temporary host to Ariston’s Collector, the foolish creature had disobeyed orders and found itself snarling and wild-eyed in the path of hurtling metal.

  Now, in the darkness, the Collector was left drifting.

  He was joined by a female whose primary habitation was Erota. The nineteen-year-old had returned to him last year, offering her allegiance to the Akeldama Cluster and vowing vengeance on her father’s killer. Though suspect of her human inclinations and the long-term effects of estrangement from her younger sister, Ariston had embraced her presence as a welcome diversion from the tedium of his wives. While Barabbas and Megiste had betrayed him, luring others with them, Erota’s youthfulness could work in his favor.

  Or so he thought.

  Moments ago, just down the incline, her Collector had suffered a fate similar to his own and left behind the carcass of a small bushy-tailed fox. They were both stuck once more in the shadowy corridors of the Separation—imitations of life, at best; mere hints of physicality in the air.

  Ariston’s Collector tethered himself to the dead wolf ’s ear. “What now?”

  “We’ll have to make it back to our original hosts.”

  “I think that driver knew. I’d swear that he aimed for me.”

  “For me too,” the female Collector said.

  “Dumb animal instinct. The wolf tried to chase a rabbit across the road and ignored my every command.”

  He sniffed. His permanent human shell was in repose a number of miles to the north, in Zalmoxis Cave. Erota’s was farther away, in the underbrush of a ravine.

  Hidden in the steep slopes between Sinaia and Busteni, the cave was named after a semimythical character who had lived centuries before the arrival of the Nazarene. It was said the man had secluded himself for three years in the caverns of these Bucegi Mountains, along the Carpathians’ eastern fringe, then staged his own “resurrection.” The locals were so impressed that they hailed him a god.

  Ariston had chosen the site months earlier as the final resting spot for Eros’s and Sol’s corpses, a place of historical and otherworldly significance. The location was a reminder to the cluster that he valued their fallen, that they were in this together. The bodies served notice that this world of humans was fraught with danger, and they would be wise to heed his commands at all times.

  His Collector, now drifting over the carcass of the wolf, wondered what to do next. Why had he allowed a young woman to talk him into this? Unsure of the orphans’ schedule, Erota had suggested they utilize creatures of the forest to spy out the approach of the tour bus, then to cut back over the ridge to Sinaia before the diesel monster could claw its way up the longer, more circuitous road.

  “Now they’re going to get there before us,” he told her.

  “Don’t worry. We know their plans for tomorrow. After visiting the monastery and Peles Castle, they’ll be taking the Busteni cable car up to the hikers’ cabana that overlooks the valley. We can weed out the boy any-where along the way.”

  “Or cut the entire cable car and send it plunging to the rocks.”

  “See? We’ll adjust our plans, that’s all.”

  “We do have a few others who can help.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Plus, your daughter will be with us.”

  “Shalom, yes. She saw Gina in Arad, did she not?”

  “While shopping.”

  “So she’ll know what to look for.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ariston’s Collector found a measure of solace in that.

  Earlier, they had discussed Megiste’s attack on Erota while in Atlanta, as well as her decision to lure away Ariston’s henchman—and all of it after cut-ting down his own son. The woman was inscrutable. She was
crafty, he had to give her that, but who was Megiste to think she could take over leadership of the House of Eros instead of submitting to his cluster’s oversight?

  Word was that she had tucked her tail and scurried back to Israel. Well, let her rot, as far as he was concerned. Not that he would take any-thing for granted. Before making today’s trip to Sinaia, he had posted a handful of his remaining cluster on the vineyard premises to ward off any unruliness. He could not afford any more defections.

  “You ready to make our way back?” Erota’s Collector inquired.

  “I’m ready.”

  He released his slight hold on the expired wolf, elevating on a cold wind that scooped roadside leaves into the air. He let it carry him up over spruce and fir trees, past a grey owl and clumps of boulders where medieval battles had taken place. East of him, Erota’s Collector was riding her own current, nothing but a wisp of evening vapor.

  Gliding along, he sensed the ghosts of Romania’s past below, the whispers of invaders and whiffs of spilled blood. This country had long been a chessboard of real-life intrigue. Marauders and armies, sultans and lords, had ravaged this land with their ruthless ambition.

  Farther north, at Bran Pass, a fortress still stood as a reminder of such conflict, and Vlad Tepes, better known as Dracula, had frequented the area as he rallied the locals against all threats.

  The feudal lord had never actually drunk blood from human necks, but it did make for scary tales.

  If only he’d known what he was missing.

  The Collector shivered in palpable anticipation of the coming showdown. He drew vitality from the determination of those who had remained true to the Akeldama Cluster—Shelamzion and Helene; his daughter, Shalom; Auge and her young daughter, Kyria; Nehemiah; teen-aged Shabtai; and tiny Matrona. Not to mention Erota and her newly pledged allegiance.

  Yes, they would stand strong.

  From ahead, he felt sudden wind resistance.

  He identified, via monochromatic visibility, the crooked teeth of a ridge and realized he was going to be smashed into the rocks. He was still a few kilometers from his destination and his original host, which meant he needed to press on.

  Desperate, he tried to snag a cross-draft. When that failed, he tried to hook onto a treetop.

  It was no use.

  At the mercy of the wind, Ariston’s Collector was slammed against the cliff, his hazy presence mauled by great granite molars. The breeze died in the lee of the ridge, and he found himself spiraling into the forest below.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-ONE

  Sinaia

  “You. How dare you?”

  “Gina, please.”

  “Where were you?” She drove a fist into Cal’s arm. Cocked back and landed a second blow. “You were supposed to keep him safe. My baby . . . You said you would be there.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  Gina’s mind raced to the few times Cal had been around: the escape from Cuvin . . . the Borsa safe house . . . the conversation at Ruby Falls . . . the chat on the Tennessee River’s bank.

  At present, they were in the thickening darkness of snow-dusted mountains that loomed over this narrow valley. Cal had parked the charter bus outside the Sinaia train station, where silver tracks ran parallel to the turbulent Prahova River. A hillside of trees hid the station from the tourist village on the slope above, and the building was vacant, having serviced its last passengers for the evening.

  Cal and Gina faced each other in the station’s open entryway. She was already shivering in her spring dress.

  “Jacob,” she said, “is dead. We didn’t even . . . Jed and I never even got one full day with our son.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all you can say?”

  “What can I do but try my best to make things right?”

  Faces were pressed to the bus windows, watching their exchange. Cal had explained to all onboard that their vehicle had been targeted by “local ruffians” and that he needed to consult with Gina since she was familiar with this region.

  She ignored the spectators. “You lied to me,” she said. “You failed me.”

  “I’ve failed a lotta people.”

  “Ohhh. So what’s one more, huh? You are pathetic.”

  “I have to live with that fact every day.”

  Cal’s eyes swam behind a liquid sheen, and briefly Gina thought he was going to shed tears. Like she cared. Then she realized it was only a trick of the moonlight stabbing down through windows in the depot’s vaulted ceiling. Nearby, schedule boards and ticket booths stood at attention, as though awaiting the arrival of unearthly visitors. The nearby river seemed to murmur in conspiratorial tones.

  This place was too much. Gina had been back in her homeland only a few months, and already her mother’s old superstitions were pawing at her mind.

  “Did you plant the bomb?” she hissed at Cal. “Was that your pack?”

  He looked pained by her words. “Definitely not. Just ask around, and you’ll find JanSport in thousands of stores. That trick of theirs was pretty rotten.”

  “Let me get this straight. You know what happened, but you weren’t able to put a stop to it beforehand? Big help that was, Cal, buddy boy. Why’re you even here?”

  “I’m not.” He winked and twirled an end of his mustache.

  Gina was not amused. “You know what, right there in that bus, I’ve now got another kid to protect.”

  “Who you met at the Strand.”

  “Yeah, and . . . Hey, wait.”

  “The day of the choir performance,” Cal said.

  “You set that up?” Then: the realization. “You knew I would see the Letter. You knew I would care for him.”

  “Now you’re tracking. Poor kid, he was in sorry shape.”

  “He was missing a toe. He was half-starved.”

  “Stories for another day.” Cal removed his sunglasses and adjusted the brim of his hat. A pair of cars passed by, cutting north toward Brasov and Sighisoara, the birthplace of Vlad Tepes. “Main thing is, you are what that boy needs.”

  “Me?”

  “Can’t think of anyone better, Gina.”

  She swallowed down a cocktail of hope and indignation. Although she wanted to be angry, she couldn’t deny the comfort of Cal’s presence here in the Carpathian dusk.

  “Hey,” a muncitor called from the doorway of the bus. “When’re we going to go? We’re all tired and hungry, and the kids are getting spooked out here.”

  “Would you gimme a few minutes?” Cal snapped in his gruff driver’s voice. He turned back to Gina. “Before you came along, Dov spent some time training with me, and he’s got lots more to learn, but he has been hardened by over two and a half years of survival in the woods and on the streets. He’ll be fine. A little love’ll carry him a long way.”

  “He’s not exactly the most receptive kid.”

  “Cut him some slack, and you just might come to like him.”

  “I do like him,” Gina said.

  “Not really. Admit it. Mostly, he’s your chance to redeem yourself.”

  She threw another fist at Cal’s arm. “Who are you to talk about redemption? You’re the one who abandoned my baby boy. I don’t even have enough fingers and toes to count the ways you misled me.”

  “There’s still stuff that I . . . Listen, it’s not all that it seems, Gina.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Man, we don’t have time for this right now. There’s so much I wanna tell you, but first we’ve gotta think about Dov. If we head into that town, we’ll be walking into a trap. She knows he’s coming.”

  “The Collector,” Gina said. “The one I saw at Ruby Falls, that one?”

  “Name’s Erota.”

  “So she was there in Chattanooga. At the hospital.”

  Cal gave a grim nod.

  “Was she the one you ran over on the road? You think it killed her?”

  “There were two of them, and at best it delayed the
m a little. You ask me, she’ll always be able to find more evil minions to throw in front of the bus.” Cal coughed out a sour snicker. “We’re talking about the undead, remember?”

  “I’m still trying to wrap my head around that.”

  “She might get an arm broken off or an eye gouged, but she’s gonna keep on coming, and there’s not too much that’ll stop her. Think the Energizer Bunny with fangs.”

  “That’s just creepy and wrong.”

  “Tell me about it. And she’s not the only one.”

  “Great.”

  “She’s working under one named Ariston.”

  “How’d she find me?” Gina said. “How’s she know about Dov?”

  “That research you did on his family, it raised a red flag for Helene Totorcea, an archivist at Arad’s city hall. You might’ve even talked to her on the phone or something. Helene’s a Collector, as well.”

  “Totorcea. That’s the family out by where Mrs. Amit disappeared.”

  “Tortocea is a front. Flavius Tortocea is really Ariston, their cluster leader. And, believe me,” Cal said, “Dalia’s dead, and they’re all guilty. Since their release in ’89, they’ve been wreaking havoc. The orphans across Romania, the thousands with HIV . . . Who do you think infected them?”

  Gina pressed her lips tight, breathed deeply through her nose.

  “That goes back,” Cal said, “to their first stinkin’ day in this country.”

  “And that wasn’t enough for them? Now they want Dov too?”

  “ ‘The leech has two suckers that cry out, “More, more!” ’ Straight from the book of Proverbs, and if you ask me, it’s a dead-on description.”

  “Will they ever be satisfied?”

  “Not until they can drag down the Nistarim. Erota’s got her house-hold all riled up over that, ever since the attack in Chattanooga failed.”

  “Failed? How can you say that? She killed Jacob.”

  “It failed to usher in Final Vengeance. Guess she still thinks you’re a key.”

  “Why?” Gina’s fingers swiped at her brow. “My Letter’s gone.”

  “I know. And, I’m sorry to say this, but my guess is you won’t be having any more of your own children—not any of the Nistarim candidates anyway. But you’ve got a mother’s heart, and there’ll always be more kids for you to watch after.” He angled a thumb at the bus, at the row of curious onlookers. “Not just the Concealed Ones, but the others caught in the crossfire.”