Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (dar e dil novel online reading .TXT) 📗

eye. Something small and metallic. And glimmers of red.

A matching set.

She reached down and pincered the objects between her fingers.

Though she’d never seen them before, she was convinced they had been left for her by the afternoon visitor, only to be tossed out by her mother.

A stranger’s kind gesture? Or did the Provocateur know tomorrow was her birthday?

She looked away as she wiped the items on her sleeve. It was only right to wait. Just a few more hours. She clutched her discovery in a bronze-skinned fist and slipped back inside.

After midnight, she would take a closer look.

CHAPTER

SIX

Jerusalem

Lord Ariston’s spine crackled as he rose to full height. How were the other cluster members faring?

The cavern’s dim light gave no immediate clues. On the floor beside him, he noticed sections of a large, orange-painted ossuary, and he remembered selecting that pigment from a Negev artist’s palette, in the days of Herod and Vespasian. The bright color belonged to the box designed for his brute of a youngest son.

Natira . . .

The boy had lived well into his thirties before falling victim to a Roman sword. He’d never married. He’d fought bravely under Josephus at the seige of Jotapata, and been lain to rest with only sentimental tokens in hand.

Where was Natira now? No sign of him.

Ariston scooped up a coin from the rubble. Its unfamiliar lettering circled the shape of a cross. Very peculiar. It was like no currency he’d seen during his days in Jerusalem. Had someone else managed to infiltrate this space?

He set aside his musings and watched as the others began climbing naked from their chosen ossuaries. Among them he noted hook-nosed Sol, his oldest son, and two of his daughters, demure Shalom and darling little Salome. Then he was joined by his first wife, wary but submissive Shelamzion.

Glorious as the sensation could be, touch was also capable of turning one’s stomach, and he cringed from the brush of her arm. Oh, how he hoped his second spouse was in the adjoining chamber.

Helene. Mother of Natira.

She’d known how to stir his desires, and already he was anticipating the moment when they could indulge in pleasure once more. Or was that solely the yearning of this Collector within?

As if it made any difference. Either way, their actions would be as one.

Such activity would have to wait, of course. They had things to do.

The majority of his cluster had already repositioned the lids on their graves, per his instructions to leave things undisturbed. As for his own burial box, it was decimated. What of it? He was their leader, and he’d done as he saw fit.

“Follow me,” he said. Or at least he tried.

His jaws and tongue worked at the words, but his vocal cords were in need of wetting. He sucked on the insides of his cheeks until saliva formed.

The others waited. In their collective memories, he was the figure-head and they would defer to him. With hazel eyes round and desperate for approval, Salome, his youngest daughter, picked up a jewel-encrusted armband from the floor and offered it to him. When he slipped it over his wrist as a sign of the family’s allegiance, she flashed a smile that was made all the more adorable by crooked teeth.

In the silence, a whiff of blood flitted through Ariston’s nostrils.

“Hmm,” he grunted. “Let’s go find ourselves some nourishment.”

They crawled through the passageway into the next chamber, which was adorned with geometric designs and delicate pilasters carved in relief.

Helene was there. She rose, smiling and ready to go. She was from the House of Eros, the clan occupying the second cave, and his marriage to her had formed a tenuous bond between the two families. Ariston felt an urge to embrace her, to slide fingers along that stately neck, but the others were watching.

“You sleep well, my doe?” The old term of endearment was still there on his tongue.

“The sleep of the satisfied,” she said.

Her voice, raw from disuse, sent a shiver of delight through him as it had in years gone by, and he made no effort to hide his reaction from Shelamzion. The first to die, Shelamzion should’ve expected he would move on in a second marriage.

Invigorated, he led the way through the maze of burial chambers, gathering the others around him. Eighteen total. He wished Natira were here to fill a nineteenth spot, yet that was not to be.

First, the servants joined Ariston. Then olive-skinned Eros and his household, gliding along with sensual ease. Finally, a henchman with a grizzled red beard, whose ossuary guarded the opening into the land of the living.

“Barabbas,” Ariston said.

“Sir.”

“I’m glad to find you again at my side.”

In his first-century existence, Barabbas had been an insurrectionist, a murderer, the type who could be handy with the seedy side of a merchant’s dealings. While the man known as the Nazarene had been sentenced to crucifixion, the local crowds had demanded Barabbas’s release, and he had become an indispensable part of Ariston’s business, even earning a spot in the family tomb.

“I smell fear,” Barabbas said.

“Oh, I’m not afraid. It’s just good to—”

“No.” He waved a grimy hand. “I smell fear out there.”

Ariston followed his attendant of old, squeezing through the opening and joining him on a slope. Before them, a young male was kneeling at the feet of an older specimen. The pair’s tangy scent took root in Ariston’s head and seemed to grow with succulent promise.

“Lord Ariston,” said Barabbas, “I’m thirsty.”

“I think humans have ripened. We came at a good time.”

“Sir, I don’t like the way that one’s eyeing me.”

“Then you’ll have to do something about it, won’t you?”

“Upon your command.”

The ground quivered beneath Lars’s knees, and a teeth-rattling percussion kicked in nearby.

Click-clackkk . . . Click-clackkk . . .

He sensed the approach of something otherworldly—or maybe it was his imagination still toying with him—and then, from the corner of his vision, he realized it was a person. Unclothed, bearded, and sickly white, this strange individual was moving