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

This was Gina’s shirt? Why had it been left here?

There’d be time for riddle solving later. Most likely, the car had backtracked through town and angled north toward the border, meaning Ariston would have to act now or his quarry would vanish into Ukraine.

The kite, however, was uncooperative. It flapped heavy wings and found roost in a spruce tree’s upper boughs.

Wait. No, you can’t do this. I need to rally the others.

The bird of prey aired its feathers. Started to close its eyes.

Frantic, the cluster leader scanned gaps in the branches. He required visual coupling to switch to another host, and he saw nothing but nocturnal creatures settling and the movement of insects along the forest floor. What could he accomplish through a carpenter ant? Only something larger, quicker, could help him get to—

The curtains closed. The kite rested.

As day broke, the Collector was taken hostage by slumber.

THE SECOND DROP:

REFUGEES

Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish: that the world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose very existence would defame Him.

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

They are not only dead but doubly dead, for they have been pulled out by the roots.

—Jude 1:12

Journal Entry

June 22

Even though I’m tired, I feel sort of excited. It’s like I’ve lived through the stories contained in that first red stain. At first it confused me. Why, for example, were there scenes from multiple sources? Is there a collective memory that connects everyone?

I finally realized that first droplet must’ve come from Ariston. He’d been marked in the grave by Judas’s blood, and grabbed the memories of others by drinking from their veins—or, in Gina’s case, by wringing blood from her tattered clothes. He’s among Those Who Hunt, but is he the one looking for me? Is he the one who sent me the envelope, trying to flush me into the open?Still, I’m not sure about the purpose of the old map.

Even though I’m told I’ll be in danger if I leave Lummi’s shores, I am considering it. I want answers. Sure, it’s beautiful here. I mean, I love to watch the storm clouds that roll in from the Pacific, and there’s nothing better than gathering shells and driftwood from the beach. But I’m lonely all on my own.

After a dreary walk through today’s rain, I decided to taste the second drop.Whose memories would I find?

It wasn’t as revolting this time. It was almost sweet, in fact. But that didn’t last for long.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Early October 1996—Chattanooga, Tennessee

“Look all you want,” said Gina Lazarescu, “but I’m taken.”

Tall and slender, she slipped into the line at Rembrandt’s Coffee House. She avoided eye contact with the alpha males at the corner table. They sat back, arms crossed over their UT–Chattanooga T-shirts, and traded remarks that were meant to attract her attention yet only underlined her negative evaluation of them.

She sighed and grabbed a menu. Despite the occasional annoyances, she liked the new look and the attention it garnered.

Seven years had gone by . . .

In late 1989, mother and daughter had escaped before Romania’s bloody revolution and bunkered down in various Eastern European safe houses. With the help of one of Cal’s ambassador friends, they’d arrived at Chicago O’Hare Airport early the next year, valid visas in hand, and migrated south to Chattanooga’s warmer climate. They seemed to have eluded whatever forces sought their demise.

Of course, they had abandoned the last name Murgoci and now bore passports with the name of Lazarescu.

A new name for new beginnings.

Despite the fear of discovery—which had at last begun to ebb—they still used the nicknames Nikki and Gina. With Gina’s interest in such matters, she had learned that even the Federal Witness Protection Program left most peoples’ first names intact. In a country of three hundred million citizens, chances of detection were minimal.

But it wasn’t until last year, until her graduation from Lookout Valley High, that Gina had cut loose of Nicoleta’s hold with a symbolic makeover.

Gina’s unruly chestnut mop, once her nemesis, was now trimmed to shoulder length, with one orange-tinted wave that swept across her fore-head and half covered her left eye. Her thick lashes and bronze skin made makeup unnecessary. A webbed, black choker covered the scar on her neck, while black boots hid other scars and symbolized her militant approach toward any who tried to corral her.

Particularly those who used religion as their cattle prod.

She wasn’t one for living in the past, and she refused to grovel in Nicoleta’s mystical slop while continuing to “pay” for her own sins.

She’d been there, done that. Had the hip waders to go with it.

In a final show of emancipation, Gina had visited a tattoo parlor two weeks ago. Her lower back was still tender, and she’d been saving its unveiling for her mother’s visit today. Only twenty-one minutes from now.

Ahead of her in the café line, a pair of tongue-wagging socialites carried on at full volume, staging a performance for the corner alphas.

Pink Tennis Visor: “Girl, you wanna know what I think? You need to dump him and find yourself a man who’s gonna treat you right. I mean, really—he’s still borrowing Mom and Dad’s SUV. Hello.”

Blue Eyeliner: “Like, I’m so over him anyway.”

“Are you gonna tell him that, or do I have to?”

“I’ll do it. I’m not completely helpless, you know. But there’s that thing Friday night, and he is paying my way.”

“Unless someone else wants to step up.”

Gina tried not to roll her eyes. Could these two be any more obvious?

She turned her gaze to the outdoor patio, where groups of students and businesspeople chatted at tables. A sedan was parallel parking on High Street. Down the hill, school buses would soon be lining up for the newly opened IMAX theater at the Tennessee Aquarium.

Years had gone by . . .

And still she could not shake free of her occasional dread.

Were there things still out to get her? What if they’d traced her movements across the