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

As if on cue, the phone rang, and he grabbed at it to silence the noise. He was relieved to hear the voice of his supplier, a low-level secretary from city hall.

“I have a case for you,” she said. “Of tuica.”

“Tuica.”

“You must come quickly, and alone.”

“Tuica.” He fondled the word, touching his tongue to his teeth as he pronounced it like the locals: tsweeka. The very name conjured a flash of potent homemade spirits, plum brandy searing his throat with blessed heat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but this time I need payment on the spot.”

“Not a problem, Helene. Where?”

“The Cetatea Aradului.”

“I’m on my way.”

New tapping methods . . . a demonstration . . . an unsuspecting male.

Erota remembered the promises from the previous gathering at the Cetatea Aradului, and she could only hope their fulfillment would stave off the cluster’s unrest. Some felt the move from Israel had been a mistake, and others questioned Ariston’s decision to send the House of Eros off to Ukraine while his own household stayed in Romania.

With Domna at her side, Erota rounded one of the citadel’s earth-works. The sisters wore matching sunglasses. Through personal experience along Kiev’s riverfront, they’d learned the irresistible draw of two leggy brunettes in Ray-Bans. Ukrainian men had paid the price for such distraction. A few open-minded women, as well.

“Hello,” Ariston said.

Though he stood in the darkness beside his wives Helene and Shelamzion, Erota picked him out with no problem. Her shades gave 100 percent UV-protection, and she wore them with the conviction of a monk bearing a crucifix. She’d read about the damage sun rays could do, and had chosen to preserve her eyes for superior night vision.

“How was the train trip?” Helene wanted to know.

“Long,” Domna said. “Next time, we should all meet in Kiev.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Erota said. “I’m just thirsty and cold.”

Helene rubbed her forearm like a mother soothing a child. “You’ll be warmed soon enough, I can assure you.”

“You should also be warm at your next destination,” Ariston said. “Atlanta. Or ‘Hot-lanta,’ as I believe some call it. Of course, you’ll be bringing your own form of heat, won’t you, Erota?”

“I plan to, sir.”

A week from now, she would branch off from this cluster and rendezvous with her husband-to-be, at Kiev’s Boryspil International Airport. Hailing from Atlanta, Georgia, the man longed for a Ukrainian bride to parade before his high-octane business pals—and he was going to get one.

Rumors of late had filtered through other clusters to Lord Ariston, hints of a woman and daughter who had slipped into the United States in early 1990. Word was that they were living somewhere in the South, under assumed names.

It would be Erota’s task to ferret them out. Or put the rumors to rest.

Either way, she spoke passable Russian and English, her papers were in order, her body statuesque.

A trophy wife?

The job was made for her. Or perhaps she was made for the job.

Dressed this evening in a tight silk top, a midnight blue jacket that barely reached her slender navel, and designer jeans that showcased her legs, she was eternally nineteen. This type of assignment was nothing new, considering the temple trade in which she and Domna had once indulged. In fact, she looked forward to being on display, even relished its irony. Hidden in plain view, she would have no difficulty finding trophies for her own Collection.

“We’ll expect regular updates,” said Helene.

“Absolutely. How’d we ever get by without telephones?”

“Can you imagine, dear?”

Ariston’s stout arms folded over his belly. “Helpful technology, I suppose, but it also benefits Those Who Resist. At least we won’t have to pass messages through rival clusters, letting them horn in on our strategies, seeking glory for themselves.”

“Juvenile,” Erota agreed.

From behind her, a set of high-pitched squeals caused her to jump. She turned and saw tiny Kyria and Matrona, arm in arm. They had hurried ahead of the other arriving Collectors, and they pretended to stumble in the shadows, milking the moment for attention.

“Kyria,” Auge snapped at her girl. “Enough of that.”

“She’s just a child,” Sol reminded his wife.

“She’s a Collector, is what she is. Must we coddle her forever?”

“You may have to do just that.”

Erota’s smile was hidden in the darkness. Kyria would never age, would never grow taller. Even with years of acclimation, she would remain subject to her earthly temperament, which, in this case, meant that of an adolescent girl. As such, she would face certain physical hurdles. On the other hand, she would be less likely to raise suspicion from others and would have easy access to those of her own age group.

“Now where is Barabbas?” Ariston said.

As if on cue, the faithful acolyte appeared with torch in hand. His wiry beard and eyes glinted as flame hissed along a tightly wound towel soaked in kerosene.

“Speaking of technology, Barabbas, I had more efficient light sources in mind.”

“The torch is warm and bright, sir.”

“Very well. Yes, it is. Now lead the way, would you?”

The large man spearheaded their descent into a tunnel of curved ceilings and crude stone walls. The Houses of Ariston and Eros followed, merging into a single stream, and Erota had no problem picturing herself hundreds of years in the past.

This region had once been part of old Transylvania. Vlad Dracul, the father of Vlad Tepes, had traveled here during the fifteenth century with his Order of the Dragon. Later, his son had ruled with an iron hand, utilizing violent yet effective measures to curb crime and foreign invasion—and to mollify his own Collector’s thirst. In Romanian, Tepes meant impaler, and he was known to have dined with hearty indulgence while his victims suffered nearby on sharpened stakes.

Some said the name Dracul could be interpreted as devil or dragon, while Dracula meant literally son of the devil.

Erota had never encountered the Master Collector personally, but she knew he had no son—not that she would dare whisper that fact. Like all Collectors, the Master lacked the creative spark, the intermeshing of spiritual and physical that enabled