Fiction Addict

Prologue

July 1944—Pisa, Italy

One corpse was all he wanted.

Here in Galileo’s birthplace, a stone’s throw from the renowned Leaning Tower, marble walkways covered hundreds of skeletons in their tombs. Gothic traceries graced the moon-splashed cloister, and vast frescoes peered through open arches at an inner lawn.

The Collector hovered over the courtyard as he had countless nights before. Even now, the remains he desired laid trapped deep beneath the soil of el camposanto.

Campo Santo: the Holy Field.

Seven centuries earlier, Knights Templar had carted shiploads of earth here from Jerusalem, inadvertently transporting bones from the first century AD as well. The mixture of lime and clay was said to disintegrate dead bodies quickly, and in fact the Templars had built a structure in Jerusalem for just that purpose. The ruins of their charnel house still clung to the slopes of the Akeldama, the Field of Blood. Site of Judas Iscariot’s death.

So it was, from one field to another, the fabled dirt had come. And Pisan dignitaries paid exorbitant sums to be buried in the Campo Santo, trusting the imported soil to hasten their steps through the pearly gates.

Only death could reveal the validity of those hopes.

A low drone now disrupted the courtyard’s stillness, and the Collector came to attention. Was this it, at last? For ages he’d waited, a mere vapor, cut off from the eighteen others in his cluster. Like Collectors everywhere, he had been stripped of his physical senses by the Separation, a punishment triggered by the defiance of the Master Collector.

Master, may you ever walk free of blame.

He knew, though, that a host—whether man or beast—could provide him access to eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and skin; and in the past, he’d found willing vessels for his carnal pursuits. It was through their senses he had familiarized himself with Pisa and this Tuscan countryside.

Of course, none of them could equal his current host of choice.

Natira, son of Lord Ariston. A warrior.

His bones, drenched in Judas’ profane blood, were the ones unwittingly barreled and shipped to these distant shores.

Again, the Collector detected vibrations in the atmosphere. This time he could not mistake the rumble of approaching Allied planes. He’d most recently inhabited Nazi Doktor Ubelhaar, and through the man’s eyes marveled at such airborne contraptions. This instant, however, his Separated state allowed him to see only shadows passing across the moon, then objects dropping, erupting across the city in earth-shaking concussions.

Even as flashes of light strafed his monochromatic vision, he filled in the blanks from memory: red-yellow bursts of flame, scorching heat, and bodies split apart like rotten tree stumps.

Yes, these flying machines had been turned into instruments of war. Surely Collectors of Souls had inspired such banality.

To feed, breed, persuade, and possess . . . These were the Collectors’ goals, wherever they roamed, and tonight there would be feedings across this land, sustenance gained by unnatural means.

Another machine droned overhead. More droppings.

Wrapped around an arch’s mullions, the lone Collector waited. He was powerless to manipulate the physical world, forced to rely on the whims of mankind to unearth the corpse deep beneath this Holy Field.

Please, let this be the night.

His wish was granted with the third wave of bombers.

The explosion tore across the Campo Santo and sent him reeling through the ether. A blaze galloped along the cloister roof and turned its surface into molten lead. Artwork bubbled and seethed on the arcade walls. Considered by many to be the world’s most beautiful cemetery, the place was becoming a funeral pyre.

As swirling winds lowered him back to ground level, he had little time to savor the irony that a gruesome fresco, The Triumph of Death, had been devastated in only minutes. No, his focus was on the courtyard.

On the dark chasm in the dirt.

On Israeli bones that seemed to glow in this Italian firelight.

The Collector slithered toward the raw wound in the Campo Santo’s lawn. He settled over Natira’s exposed remains, conjuring forces locked in the dormant bloodstains.

Was there anything here? Anyone?

Ah, yes.

A feather of malice tickled the femur, stirring a reaction. A hip bone tumbled over clods of dirt, joined moments later by a pelvis. The Collector seeped into the gathering frame. Sipped of its marrow. Began drawing from the recollections of his soon-to-be-undead habitation.

Not long and he would rise again, stitched together with skin and tissue, infused with the nature of his progenitor.

Master, may the same spirit that cursed the Nazarene dwell in me.

***

Activated by the Collector within, Natira stumbled past the Romanesque cathedral toward the Arno River. First he needed something to wet his parched throat, and then he would join the Nazis in fleeing this attack. All around, others were scurrying through the bombardment’s aftermath, and a wheeled vehicle, a U.S. Army Jeep, raced into the square through the Porta di Santa Maria.

These observations passed effortlessly between Collector and host. An excellent sign. Already they were working as one.

Natira continued forward. A fleeing BMW motorcycle squealed around a corner, its sidecar painted with the symbol of the German Wehrmacht. Perhaps he could catch a ride, perhaps find his way back to the pliable Nazi doctor.

This was a strange new world, and the rush of details disoriented him.

Where was his family? Had they already inhabited Jerusalemite hosts, or was he the first to have risen from that tainted dirt?

He stepped around a crater in the road and found his senses overwhelmed by strewn bodies and the odors of smoke and burnt flesh.

Mmm. Yes.

His tongue swelled with hunger.

A hand touched his naked shoulder and he pivoted toward a woman in a white outfit. Was that a red cross on her cap? Why wear such a symbol? For Natira it triggered images of Roman torture and crucifixion.

“Dear heart,” the woman said, “you need help.”

Aided by the Collector, he managed to grasp her meaning, yet his mouth was too dry to respond. He needed a drink. Just one.

“Can you hear me?” she said.

He stared at the throbbing vein in her neck.

“Oh, I bet you were near the blast, weren’t you? And look at you, without any clothes.” Her hand moved down his arm. “I think you’re in shock. Do you feel pain in your ribs, dear? Were you caught beneath the rubble?”

Natira studied his chest and noted a long diagonal scar as well as an odd sunken area, results of old battle wounds. What was this, though? His right hand was a giant pincer, bearing only a pinkie finger and thumb. Apparently, some of his bones had gone missing between the Akeldama and Campo Santo. No wonder his breathing felt irregular—if, indeed, breathing was what this was called. More like the fanning of air over stale bones.

“Please,” the nurse said. “Come along, and let me help you.”

Natira stiffened with desire.

“But we can’t dally. You’re not the only one who needs taken care of.”

Natira felt certain he could take care of himself. His lips curled back, making room for crooked incisors that jutted from tender gums. She was right. He should not delay this any longer.

Driven by thirst, he drew her into an embrace and drained her dry.

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