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

that confirmed Megiste’s suspicion that the Hebrew boy had gone out this way. Probably entered here, as well. There was little else, however. No trail. No hiding place. He had vanished into the night.

“He could’ve gone up into the hills,” the big man said. “Or down to the river. If you’d like, I can switch hosts and take a look from above. Or . . . I don’t know. Maybe he hitched a ride from a passing motorcar. What should I do?”

Megiste, as priestess, felt sorry for the henchman. For so long he had followed orders that he was listless without them. Clear objectives would have to be set down to keep him on course until Ariston’s return.

Or, perhaps . . .

Her conniving nature coiled into position, hissing of plots and machinations, preparing to strike a deal for the benefit of her household.

As things now stood, Ariston’s foundations of strength were compromised. He was without a known successor; his wives and family members were weak-spined creatures, trained by his dominant nature to recede into subservience; and Barabbas alone showed earnest, if not half-witted, faithfulness to the pudgy chieftain.

“What are we going to do?” she asked of the bearded oaf before her. “The House of Eros is leaderless, and who are we but a handful of women? How ever will we survive on our own?”

“Ariston will—”

“Oh, Barabbas, don’t speak of him now. He can be so . . . controlling. It’s just you and me here, together.”

“But he’ll be back soon.”

“Hours from now, if at all.” She lifted her peasant blouse over her head, revealing alabaster skin. “Come here, you clumsy brute. Look at you, all messy from a hard night’s work.” She took his hand, used the blouse to rub away the grime and viscera of his feeding. “You really ought to wash beneath your nails, dear Barabbas.”

“Each morning, I—”

“All in good fun, doll. Oh, look here. A spot on your mouth.”

They had both supped already. They were both warm and sated. This need that overtook them was earthier than that, and Barabbas grunted in approval of her nibbling lips on his. His fervor grew. With one hand, he plucked the bodies from the cart; with the other, he pushed her back onto the straw.

“I like it when you take the lead,” she said.

He groaned.

“My dear Barabbas, come away with me. Why, you can watch over our household.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Don’t talk,” she whispered. “Please, won’t you give me time to convince you?”

A few minutes was all it took.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

Chattanooga

“Oh.” Gina crossed her arms over her stomach, and glared across the picnic table at Cal. “Right. So, what you’re saying is that my baby is . . . Listen, this is crazy talk. And since when does any of this make me immortal? I mean, are the Nistarim even immortal?”

“Not all of them.”

“That sure clarifies things. Isn’t it just legend anyway, a way of giving good Jewish families something to shoot for? How’d the whole story start getting passed around?”

“Heard of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“Been years since I’ve read a Bible, but that’s pretty basic knowledge. Sodom’s there by the Dead Sea, isn’t it? The Salt Sea?”

“A lotta history around the place. Some of it recent, and not pretty.”

“Okay,” Gina said. “Back to the legend.”

Cal glanced at his watch. “You’ve got six minutes left.”

“You say my child’s in danger? The job can wait. Keep talking.”

“I’ll make it quick. You shouldn’t break the routine, though. Act normal.”

“Can you just get to the point?”

A butterfly flitted into view, landed on a drop of spilled Sprite, then flew off.

“Sure. The story goes that Abraham, he begs God not to destroy the wicked cities, and so he starts wheeling and dealing: ‘God, if there are fifty righteous people, will you save the place? What if there’s forty-five? Forty?’ And so on. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ God says. All the way down to ten.”

“Must’ve been one bad place. They still got the brimstone, didn’t they?”

Cal’s eyes turned mournful at her flippancy. “The story,” he said, “shows that the Almighty was willing to protect many for the sake of a few righteous ones. Which leads to the Nistarim, the Lamed Vov.”

“Thirty-six of them, right? Guess that should be more than enough.”

“Grace beyond measure,” he agreed.

“Talk to Nikki about grace, and she starts sharpening the knives.”

“She needs it more than most.”

“What’d she do that was so awful?” Gina shooed flies from her plate of fries.

“I’ll leave that for her to tell. She’s sworn me to secrecy.”

“Convenient.”

“Actually, a real pain in the butt. There’s so much I wanna say.”

“Start with the whole immortal thing. You’ve already spilled the beans on that one. How can you even know? About me, I mean?”

“I was there, Gina.”

“Where?”

“Last year. That morning, outside Rembrandt’s.”

“You . . . you were there?” Gina’s heart wedged in her throat, her thoughts churning in reverse to that specific day in Chattanooga, in the Bluff View Art District. “You were across the road.”

“Heading up High Street,” he confirmed. “I’ve checked in on you over the years, but that day proved to me what I already suspected. Death by natural means won’t be your biggest concern.”

“Is there any other way?”

“You could have your very soul sapped from your veins.”

“As in, the whole Collector-slash-vampire thing?”

“Something like that.” Cal tapped his watch. “Two minutes and counting.”

“Okay. But who says I should’ve died? Other people survive things like that.”

“And just walk away? You had a broken back, a cracked skull—”

“There’s no proof any of that happened.”

“You know what happened.”

Before her eyes, images swarmed from that horrendous collision between flesh and metal. She could still feel the cartilage and bone shifting back into place, still recall the sensations of heat, light, and moisture on her tongue.

“Did you . . . ?” She faltered. “Give me something to drink?”

“Just a little bit.”

“It was blood.”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

“Someone who cares about you deeply.”

“Yours?”

“If it woulda helped, I woulda given it. But, no.”

Gina’s mind reeled with these continued questions and revelations. She remembered a shadow standing over her,