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

Using tiny pairs of legs to hook into the epidermal surface, she injected a dose of anesthetizing toxin—similar to that in a Collector’s saliva—and began her withdrawal. Erota knew a female tick was capable of absorbing one to two hundred times her own body mass in fresh blood, and she fed with glutinous abandon.

Drink till you’re full, till you can take no more in, till you’ve reached the point of bursting, and then drink, drink, drink some more.

This was how tick-borne encephalitis found its way into the body. She’d read about it. TBE, a growing threat across Europe, incubated for days and then manifested itself in headaches, dripping sinuses, fever, and/or aching joints. Eventually, long-term neurological complications could arise.

Drink till you’re bloated . . .

Warm and thick. Intoxicating.

Erota had supped from numerous sources over the years, and so she never took for granted a free-flowing stream such as this. It was a blessed reprieve from the contaminated veins in Ukraine or the chemical sludge that crept through the drug-addicted. She could still remember the acrid morsel of HIV virus that had filled her mouth during their first attack outside the Akeldama.

A mercy killing. She and the others had put the man out of his misery.

And already, thousands of Romanian orphans were rumored to have a rare strain of the same virus. All mysteriously infected in 1989. The reported epidemic was cause for the Akeldama Cluster’s celebration.

Drink, drink, drink . . .

Erota tucked deeper into the pores of this Israeli woman. She dis-covered robust flavor. It was apparent that Dalia had taken care of basic nutritional needs and avoided artery-clogging cholesterol. Regardless, Erota knew she would leave here in an hour or two dissatisfied. Stretched to her limit, a vampire with flushed skin and distended belly, she would find her-self longing for more.

She was insatiable, inconsolable.

Where was the cup that could quench her once and for all?

She’d found sickness, in subtle traces, working its way through the bodies of all she dined upon. Even from the healthiest of victims, sustenance was temporary, wetting the tongue, the throat, then hanging her out to dry.

The thorn’s content in the chapel?

It had slaked her thirst for an entire day at best.

More fleeting still were regular meat and drink. She was no longer Separated from the physical rapture of flavors upon her tongue; yet each swallow funneled through a digestive tract that broke down and dissolved things in minutes. Food simply disintegrated within this undead vessel.

Thus, as a revenant, Erota had no need to excrete waste—for which she was grateful, considering her acute sense of smell—but her shell ran on eternal empty.

Only blood, that vital fluid, could be absorbed and put to use.

Whiffs of Nazarene Blood were the most torturous, hinting at some-thing dense and rich, something fortifying for Those Who Resist. While for her and the other Collectors, that substance was anathema. Would she ever forget the crumbling remains of crooked-smiled Salome? Or Shelamzion’s wails of grief ?

These thoughts only added up to a migraine.

Well, it was no use ruminating on such matters. They were not open for discussion in the Houses of Eros or Ariston, and disgruntled members learned to keep their mouths shut. Except for when they were feeding.

The tick kept burrowing. Erota kept drinking, swelling.

She also injected a poison of her own. Soon, a thorny tangle would take root in Dalia’s body, exploiting her flaws and filtering blood for the nourishment, albeit temporary, of the Akeldama Cluster.

Benyamin had twenty-five minutes till his off-hours appointment at Café Focsani, near Reconcilierii Park. During communism’s heyday, men in high places and low had learned to take advantage of under-the-table opportunities, and such transactions continued to be business as usual.

Turn a blind eye. Shake hands. Pass along a wad of Romanian lei.

Why not? So long as no one was hurt.

He thought of Dalia and Dov. If he could skim off enough money from this exchange, he would take them to Sinaia for winter holidays. How remarkable it would be to ski the Bucegi mountains together or to stroll through Peles Castle’s grandeur. Dalia would also want to see the town’s famed monastery, and of course he would oblige her.

Farewell to his demons. He was making a fresh start.

Before departing city hall, Benyamin sat in the locked office and field-stripped his pistol. This Makarov PM was his companion, a semiautomatic with an eight-round magazine. The pistol’s weight reduced recoil and provided greater accuracy.

Best to be prepared, he figured. Be cautious.

The truth was, people were hurt during such transactions. Why should he trust anyone willing to violate the established rules of democracy?

He dismantled the gun, removed the grips, and used steaming water from a plug-in coffeemaker to clean the components. The weapon was inexpensive and easy to use, but susceptible to corrosive salts.

It had other idiosyncrasies, as well. With a free-floating firing pin, there was the danger of an accidental discharge if dropped on its muzzle, and it was unwise to engage the safety lever while the hammer was cocked, since this action would cause the hammer to drop.

Stories circulated of men who had shot off their toes this way. Other parts too. Though Benyamin was sure those were only rumors.

He completed his task, loaded 9x18mm ammo, then pulled back the slide and engaged the safety. Ready to go. He holstered the Makarov, a grin splitting his face as he slipped his arms into his jacket. Already, he could taste that brisk mountain air.

Beneath Dalia’s arm, lost in a near-microscopic world of survival, Erota was unable to judge the passing of the hours. She sensed voicelike vibrations along the ribs, a steady drone, and assumed the woman was speaking. Perhaps she’d stopped by the Arad Synagogue to utter piyyutim, penitential prayers, for her ice-cream escapade.

Beautiful guilt. A razor in an apple.

Didn’t the Christian Bible speak of a guilt that led to death? It was a cancer that fed on itself, one that Collectors had tasted of and