by Wilson, Eric
Maybe if she could just—
She was passing out. Stars were winking in the blackness above, winking good night.
Hi, my name is Gina. I’ll be your guide as we descend . . .
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR
Zalmoxis Cave, Romania
Gina Lazarescu refused to verbalize her pain. Propped on weary legs, she tested the thick ropes that pulled her arms toward opposite walls. Her body was chilled, her thoughts as murky as the light seeping through the cave’s mouth.
She had failed Dov. And Petre. Where was Cal?
Though she couldn’t see her captor, she sensed someone was near. Was Shalom standing guard outside?
“I know you’re here,” Gina called out.
In response, a cold wind swept the subterranean chamber with a briny odor. Where had that come from? By her guess, she was a hundred kilo-meters from the Black Sea, trapped in the mountains over Sinaia.
The salty air stung her eyes. She blinked and detected movement at the base of the far wall. A man was curled on the ground, the collars of his jacket flapping in the breeze, small black wings beating at his neck.
Another prisoner? If so, why wasn’t he tied up? Maybe he was dead.
Cal?
No, that wasn’t his jacket.
Something trickled along Gina’s skin and slipped down the curve of her armpit. She craned her head and saw roots tangled around her left bicep, hooked into place by curved thorns. Blood was leaking from the puncture points.
Drippp, drippp . . .
She was being drained. She thought of the leather sheath strapped to her thigh. She thought of ripping loose from the entanglement, but the result would be shredded flesh.
“You’re letting it go to waste. If you want it, come and get it.”
Her voice triggered action in the shadows. The sprawled man’s eyes snapped open, and a preternatural green fire ignited in his pupils. He lifted himself from the ground, brushed pebbles from his stout legs, and patted at wavy, black hair. Then he faced her. One hand stretched, bridged the distance. He was there beside her in an instant.
Was this their leader? Cal had told her his name was Ariston.
Lord Ariston was glad to have made it back to Zalmoxis Cave. In the deeper reaches of these caverns, he had lain Eros and his own son Sol to rest, but that was not what interested him. No, not now.
As he reentered his host and stood to his feet, he was struck again by a splitting headache. He winced. Pushed aside that distraction. He was rewarded with a vision—a slight-framed captive, with unruly hair, bronze skin, and deep brown eyes.
Regina Lazarescu.
She was unaware of her pedigree, of course. Hampered by ignorance, she stood here docile and defeated.
Wasn’t that always the way of it with these humans?
Of course, Shalom deserved some credit for Gina’s capture. Ariston had spoken with his daughter earlier and heard of the confrontation in the valley below. She’d told him of Erota’s shift into a female bear, of the deadly skirmish near the train station. He could only hope Erota made a safe return.
Ariston had also heard of Shalom’s arduous trek up the mountain trail, of her bleeding stump and the effort to get the hostage secured. Though she’d wanted to drain Gina on the spot, to restore her core temperature, he had denied that request.
Shalom slunk off, seeking fresh blood to restore her core temperature. She would be back soon enough.
Until then, Ariston would enjoy his time with the captive.
Gina threw her head back and swallowed a scream. The Collector was tugging, almost playfully, on the tangle of razor-edged roots. He ran one finger up her rib cage, then touched the blood-stained tip to his tongue while she tried to harness the tremors of adrenaline that ran along her skin.
“Hello,” he said. “I am Ariston.”
“You are weak,” she hissed at him. “You have to tie me up to have a chance, is that how this works?”
“You sound upset.”
“I’m tied to the walls of a cave.”
“Anger’s often a disguise for other emotions.”
“Why’d you bring me here?”
“So we could talk. Don’t you see, Gina? You’re my link to the Nistarim.”
“Let me go.” She could only imagine what this creature would do if he found her orphan children. She hoped Dov was still alive. “Please, undo my wrists. My arms are getting numb.”
Her foe pulled closer. “We all endure pain, don’t we?”
She met his gaze, saw tears sizzling down his cheeks, sketching oily trails. One by one, they fell to the dirt and exploded into tiny molten flames. With the toe of his shoe, he extinguished them.
“Why are you crying?” she mocked.
“I care about you, my dear.”
“Then set me free.”
“Would you be free? Really? Your pain is a foretaste, that’s all. A chance to share what I feel every waking hour.”
Gina’s limbs turned rigid. If only she could reach her dagger, but her arms were trussed too tightly. One thing she knew: Cal wouldn’t be coming for her. Either he was dead, or he would be waiting for her in Bucharest as they’d planned. She imagined joining him there, sipping espresso at an outdoor café while he told her of his escape from the bear and his rescue of the orphans.
Assuming any of that were true.
What else had he wanted to tell her? Would she die here, never knowing?
Focus, she told herself. She would have to deal with this on her own. She needed to keep her captor talking, to give herself time to think and regain strength.
“You’re not human,” she told him.
“Not entirely. I’d say I’m more human than a human. I’m—”
“White Zombie.”
The Collector tilted his head. “Not quite.”
“No, it’s a rock group. They have this song about . . . Never mind.”
She closed her eyes, broke the stare. She sensed the presence of some-thing insidious and barbed, running along the left side of her neck. It was connected to the tangle around her arm. What had been done to her? She remembered the thorns Cal had mentioned. Were these the same thing? They were coiling from the scar on her neck, the place Nikki had cut and bled and infected with her twisted thinking.
Gina chuckled. Now wasn’t this ironic? Her mother’s attempts to purge her of impurity had only contaminated her with resentment.
“Why’re you laughing, dear?”
Her breath caught.
“By all means, don’t stop. It sounds nice.”
Her eyes popped open. “Go to hell.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure your mother drilled that religious stuff into your head. Strange, isn’t it, how those who feel the most guilty often point the longest fingers?” He touched his own fingertip again to his lips.
Could he taste Gina’s bitterness in her blood?
“And what’s my mother guilty of ?” she inquired.
“The desire to be loved.”
“Right. By living on the run and changing identities?”
“Humans—always running from their sins.”
“Or trying to bleed them away.”
“I could help you with that. A moment’s peace—isn’t that what you want, Gina? Rest from your turmoil?” His mouth brushed along her neck.
Her nostrils filled with his musk. Dizziness blossomed in her head. This was the same emptiness she’d always felt beneath the blade of the dagger, and her pulse was tapping at her temples in a soporific rhythm. His mouth—so tender, so warm. She hadn’t expected that. This couldn’t be how the others had died. She’d heard about their corpses, the manner in which they’d been eviscerated.
Along her skin, the Collector’s lips parted.
Why’d it always start this way, with a kiss? She thought of that infamous betrayal two thousand years ago. There was also her own fateful kiss on that morning at Erlanger Medical—before she’d walked away from her baby boy.
A
whimper caught in her throat. She leaned her head back, a sob welling within. “Jacob,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” the Collector said.
“What have I done?”
“We all cause harm to those we love. Your mother certainly knows that.”
A squeal of anguish rose in Gina’s throat. Like an animal flushed from its burrow, the sound bounced between stone walls on its dash off into the darkness. She didn’t care what this creature thought. How could he possibly understand the love between a mother and child.
Between Gina and Jacob. Between Gina and Dov, even.
What about, between Nikki and Gina?
“Shhh,” the Collector comforted.
She tuned him out. There was something important here.
The thorns . . .
She realized these barbs at her neck were a product of her own unforgiveness. Sure, Nikki had tilled furrows in her daughter’s skin, yet it was Gina who had tended the seeds of bitterness and left them to grow. How could she put all the blame on her mother’s distorted methods, when she, Gina, had nursed the vines? She’d wrapped herself in them, never considering the dark fruit of this corrupted harvest.
She had to break free. Could she be one of those Cal had talked about, one of Those Who Resist? It seemed impossible now. To make even the smallest movement would lead to more pain and eventual death.
The Collector’s black hair tickled her chin as he nuzzled close. His head nudged the earring dangling from her left lobe.
What had Cal said?
A drop of His Blood . . . that’s all it takes.
Gina recalled their discussion along the Chattanooga riverfront. She thought of these thorns rooted in anger, oozing from her neck and encircling her arm. Could one drop really free her? Could she swing that dangling orb into her mouth and bite down, ingesting the life force of the Nazarene.
Freedom. Forgiveness. Life.
Could it be that simple?
Then her thoughts turned to Jacob again. Where had Cal been when her newborn son needed him? When those nails exploded through the air? And why had Cal left her to her mother’s insanity during all those childhood years?
Gina wanted to believe, she really did.
But how did any of that help her now, in the real world, with real scars and a real enemy?
She wasn’t going anywhere until she dealt with these thorns of the past.
Ariston drew in the heady scent of his prey’s fear and panic. The pounding of her pulse—so close, only a mouthful away—was intoxicating, and he took pleasure in this violent foreplay, drawing it out. By the time he dove in, her blood would be racing, ready to burst into the back of his throat.
If she only knew how easily she could break away.
Of course, she had no clue.
Like other humans, Gina was full of doubts that only lent themselves to the Collectors’ goals. How easy it was to persuade and possess these quibbling, vomitous beings. It wasn’t Ariston’s style, however, to let hatred show. He preferred the finesse of flattery and gentle tones. Already, he knew she was susceptible, her memories a weak spot. He’d heard the stories of Chattanooga from Erota, and he’d just listened to Gina express her guilt over her son’s death.
What now? Did she think Cal would come to her rescue?
Ariston wondered what had transpired earlier at the Sinaia train station. According to Shalom, Erota had been in a fight for her life—not only with the present but the past.
Dov Amit . . . the present.
Cal Nichols, or whatever his true name was . . . the sordid past.
Rumors from other clusters had filled Ariston in. Cal, they said, was one of the original Nistarim—a man Lettered long, long ago, then buried in Jerusalem, then raised again and given a task. For centuries, he had served in that role until the solitude drove him into a woman’s arms.
Nicoleta. Nikki . . . She’d warmed him for a night.
Just that easily, Cal had violated the stipulations of his commission and lost his Letter. Another, for the sake of this dismal planet, had stepped into his place, but Cal still wandered the globe, trapped in his immortal frame, trying to right his wrongs.
On this one point, Ariston could relate to the miserable cur . . .
He and Cal, they were both fathers.
Nine months after Cal and Nikki’s violation, a baby girl had been born. She was half-human, half-immortal. And, after years of patience, Ariston had hunted her down. She was here now, her arms tied to these walls of stone.
Gina was on her own.
Even if Cal and Dov had survived their ordeal, they wouldn’t know where to find her. She could only hope they were alive and that Cal would guard the children of Tomorrow’s Hope better than he’d done with Jacob.
If she died here, would Jed ever know what happened to her? Would Teo?
The Collector was whispering at her ear. “Your memories, my dear. They’re encoded in your DNA, in your blood. I can draw them out in only a few mouthfuls. I give you my word.” He slid along the scar at the nape of her neck, where her hair was pulled back in a clasp. “Why continue carrying those awful thoughts?”
His offer was alluring, his tones soothing.
But no, hadn’t that already been the story of her life—jagged shards and jumbled pieces?
The Collector’s lips were stretching wide, stiff against his gums, while serrated teeth combed her skin in search of a resting place. Without breaking through, his teeth clamped onto a tendon that ran the length of her neck. She gazed into the dark and found strange reassurance in that firm pressure, like a kitten held in its mother’s mouth.
Yes or no. Which would it be?
The knotted tangle was pressing into her skin, stretched from her neck down along her arm. Her childhood, her bitterness—it was all there, holding her hostage to events she could not change.
I’m done. Time to let go of it all.
“You said only a few mouthfuls,” she breathed. “Are you sure?”
“For what I have in mind, it’s all I need.”
“But I . . .” Gina closed her eyes. “I want . . .”
She wanted to be free. Her soul had been prisoner to Nikki’s venom, to these thorns that Gina had watered with her own salty tears. She was so tired. Yet, in these limbs of hers, she still had a faint semblance of strength.
She still had the Power of Choice.
Gina Lazarescu braced herself for the pain, knowing, believing, it would be the first step on her path of escape. Her arms trembled. Blood traced a sticky pattern down her side, while sweat trickled from the sheath’s warmth against her thigh. She told herself this was the only chance she would get. If she hesitated any longer, remorse would chase her to the grave.
Honor . . . duty . . . combat.
“What is it, my dear?” the Collector urged. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to feel you close to me. I want you to take it all.”
Queen sacrifice.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE
Lord Ariston reveled in this moment. He leaned forward. He’d had fun toying with his prey, and now he was ready to feed. His head pounded with the tension of this pseudomortal existence, and he hoped a full partaking of Gina’s blood would soothe the aching of his swollen gums where the fangs protruded.
“I want you to take it all,” she told him.
He dipped toward her neck, that smooth bronze skin, and—
What was this?
Gina was moving with desperate bravado. Moaning between clenched teeth. Yanking with her left arm, rolling her wrist, and shredding her own skin in the tangled grip of the thorns.
The thick rope drew taut. With the torque that extended from her shoulder, she sawed the razor-edged brambles against the cord.
Tiny red spheres, spilling, spilling . . .
Ariston found himself hypnotized by this wasteful display, but he snapped back when he comprehended that she had severed herself free from the restrain
t. He leaned back in, planning to latch his mouth onto her throat, her lips, anywhere that would geyser warmth onto his tongue.
In her desperation, though, Gina was faster.
Her mangled arm swung down, and her fingers clawed at her thigh. She caught him with the flashing blade of the dagger just as his upper body weight edged in for his meal.
The dagger tore him open with fiery zeal. Gina seemed to find scant satisfaction as the sharpened steel tooth tasted from his side. No. She demanded that it feed on the deepest parts of him as well, stabbing it again, letting it bite through skin and ribs into the core of his undead being.
Just as she’d requested, Ariston was taking it all.
His scream shattered the cave’s stillness and ran unobstructed through the damp granite corridors.
Gina’s arm was sliced to ribbons, and yet—spurred by thoughts of Dov and Cal, of Jacob and Jed—she carved upward with the dagger, opening the torso of her enemy and scything the narrow space between them with crimson rain that splattered her face and ran down her lips.
She heard, in his cries, the sounds of swarming insects and beasts. Each voice, each bark and mewl and roar, each buzz and hiss and fluttering leathery wing, was an accusation—evidence of his abomination.
To the Collector, her weapon seemed to be a curse.
Apamea to Akeldama to anathema.
He staggered back, his eyes pools of shimmering agony. He was incapacitated, unable to see clearly. He wobbled. Dropped to his knees. Began to shrivel before her eyes.
The Restless Desert was a blistering sea of sand and mournful wails. The Collector was heading there now. Particle by particle, shadow by shifting shadow, he felt himself coming apart at the seams. His clothing was hanging loose over skeletal limbs and bare strips of sinew. He was being torn from his dying host, banished for a time undetermined: facilis descensus Averno.
In a final, blind, spiteful flail, he lurched forward in the withering body of Ariston and snapped his jaws at Gina Lazarescu, hoping to take along a fading memory of physical sustenance.
