Lost Souls

by Poppy Z. Brite

  And all the bloodstreams here were sure to be sweet. With a shock, Nothing realized how hungry he was. The memory of Laine’s blood gave him no guilt now. He remembered only how rich it had tasted, its heat, the way it had pumped into his mouth with the beat of life itself. But now Laine’s death felt like something that had happened a long time ago. Too long ago.

  Since then, there had been those drifters in Missing Mile, and the child. They had been easier. When he found out how Molochai, Twig, and Zillah filed their teeth to make them sharp, Nothing had sharpened his too. Now he liked to run his tongue over them, teasing the small points. But not even the kid from Violin Road had tasted as sweet as Laine. In the French Quarter all blood would taste alcoholic, purple.…

  Yes, tonight they would surely go out for blood.

  Now he was almost home. Some small rational part of his mind wondered how he was able to walk these streets so easily. But he could not really think it strange. He had dreamed of this city, of roaming these streets. A glittering map of the French Quarter seemed to unfold in his head, half-imagined and half-remembered, as clear as the burn of Chartreuse. He swung around a lamppost, and his coat floated out in an undulating circle of black silk.

  Not until he was half a block from the room did Nothing notice the man following slowly behind him. The man walked bent slightly at the waist, one arm clamped across his stomach as if it hurt him to move. He was only a shape in the fading light, neither large nor small, featureless. Nothing slowed his steps. The man slowed too. Nothing walked faster. So did the man, doubling up even more.

  Instead of stopping at the boarded-up bar, Nothing turned right. He would lead the man into the alley that ran beneath Christian’s window. The alley was fenced off at the other end and blocked by a heap of garbage—he might be trapping himself. But he could face the man there, find out what he wanted and deal with him however necessary. He didn’t look like much of a threat.

  Nothing heard the man follow him into the alley, shoes crunching over broken glass. He stopped and swung around, his hands on his hips and his sneakers planted firmly on the pavement, trying to look dangerous.

  The man stopped a few feet away, badly hunched now. His breathing sounded harsh and painful. His face was a wavering pale blotch on the dusk. Below it, a silver cross on a chain gleamed. He stared at Nothing for a long moment, his lips working silently, his eyes disbelieving. Then he took two unsteady steps forward.

  “Jessy …” he whispered.

  Nothing felt his heart cannon against his ribs, bounce crazily off his breastbone. Hush, he willed it, hush, heart, no one can hurt me. Zillah is close by, and 1 have no fear.

  The man came closer. With dry fingertips he touched Nothing’s face. Nothing thought, He’s old. He is much older than I thought. And he looks so sick. He cannot hurt me. He caught the man’s hand in his and pulled it easily away from his face. The fingers were like bones wrapped in parchment.

  “Jessy,” the man said again, more evenly this time.

  Nothing tried to make his voice calm. It came out husky, as if he’d smoked a whole pack of Luckies that day. “That’s not my name,” he said.

  “You are so like her—” The old man pulled himself upright. His face contorted. Nothing imagined tissue pulling loose inside him, bleeding bad blood. He gripped the man’s arm, trying to give what support he could. The man breathed deeply and was able to continue. “My daughter died many years ago. But you are so very like her …”

  It’s Wallace, Nothing realized wildly. The sick old man who nearly killed Christian and drove him away from here. He is my grandfather. He shot Christian in the chest … but he is my grandfather. His heart caromed again. Should he tell Wallace his name, or should he lie? Something in him rebelled at denying his name. It was truly his now, and he would claim it. “My name is Nothing,” he said.

  “Who are you?” The man grabbed Nothing’s shoulders and gave him a feeble shake. “Who are you, child?”

  Nothing half-wanted to fall into Wallace’s arms and sob out the whole confusing story. After all, this man was his grandfather. He had almost killed Christian, but he hadn’t known the truth then. He thought Christian had lured Jessy to her death. Nothing could explain the truth.

  But then he realized he couldn’t. Even if Nothing was Wallace’s only grandson, even if Nothing looked so much like his dear dead Jessy. Because if Wallace heard the whole story, he would know who had really killed his daughter.

  Zillah. Zillah had caused Jessy’s death, hadn’t he? He didn’t mean to, it was my fault—I tore her apart inside before I was ever born, Nothing thought hysterically. But Wallace would not blame him. Wallace would love him because he was Jessy’s offspring, because he looked like Jessy and was just the age she had been when Wallace had lost her. And Wallace would want to take him away from Zillah, away from his family.

  Besides, Wallace was in pain. Suffering.

  Maybe Nothing could do one small mercy for his grandfather.

  “My mother’s name was Jessy,” he said.

  Doubt flickered in Wallace’s eyes, brighter than the pain and weariness. If Nothing wanted Wallace to trust him, he had to think of some kind of proof. At once it came to him.

  “She disappeared fifteen years ago, at Mardi Gras,” he told Wallace. “That was when she met my father.”

  Not until the words were out, hanging in the cool still air of the dusk, did Nothing realize his mistake.

  “Then you are one of the unholy creatures too,” Wallace whispered. “The city has become riddled with them.” With a convulsive motion he tore the crucifix from his neck and thrust it at Nothing, trying to drive him toward the end of the alley. “Repent—while you are still young—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, tear the bloodlust from your heart—”

  Nothing could not bring himself to laugh. He caught Wallace’s hand and took the cross away. “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” he said. “That doesn’t work on all of us.”

  “Then it’s lucky that the Lord told me to carry other protection,” said Wallace. In one jerky movement he whipped a small pistol from the waistband of his trousers and aimed it at Nothing’s forehead.

  “Bless you, my grandson,” he said. “When you look upon the face of God, you will thank me.”

  Nothing was never sure how long he stood there staring down the round black barrel of the gun, wondering whether he would see the flash of fire or hear the explosion before the bullet smashed into his face. The brain or the heart, Christian had told him. He had time to think of all he had found, all he was about to lose, all the miles he would not travel.

  A mist seemed to surround Wallace’s head, suffusing his face with dim light. Nothing saw Wallace’s finger tightening on the trigger: actually saw that.

  Then something was plummeting toward them. Nothing saw the large dark shape hit Wallace dead-on, saw Wallace’s body jerk forward and his arm fly up. The shot went wild. Brick splintered far overhead.

  Zillah crouched atop Wallace’s prone form. He must have launched himself from the second-story window, but he was not even breathing hard. The other man’s body had stopped his fall.

  Wallace lay on the pavement in the shards of glass. He groped weakly for the pistol. Zillah stamped on Wallace’s hand, and Nothing heard a sound like strands of raw spaghetti breaking. Wallace screamed once, a shrill, despairing sound. Then he began to mumble softly. Nothing realized he was praying. Did he still think his God was going to pull him out of this one?

  “Some fine messes you get yourself into,” said Zillah. “What if I hadn’t seen you from up there?” His eyes gleamed; his lips were purple with fury. “You little fool”—the pointed tip of his shoe met Wallace’s cheekbone; black blood sprayed—“do you think you’re too smart to die? Do you think I can always watch out for you?”

  Zillah knelt above Wallace, pulled Wallace’s head up by a handful of bloodied gray hair, and smashed Wallace’s face into the pavement. The sound made Nothing think of eggs being drop
ped onto broken glass. Gore began to pool beneath Wallace’s head. “I won’t lose you now, Nothing.” Zillah rolled Wallace over and began to slap him across the face, over and over, glaring up at Nothing. “Don’t you know”—slap—“I love you?” Slap. “I LOVE YOU.” Slap.

  Zillah’s long nails dug into the loose flesh of Wallace’s face. He wrenched Wallace’s head back, exposing his throat. Incredibly, Wallace was still praying: “… the flesh of the Son,” Nothing heard him mumble.

  For a moment Zillah seemed ready to sink his fingernails into the old man’s throat. But he only ground Wallace’s face down again, then leaped off him and came for Nothing. He grabbed Nothing by the front of his coat, nearly choking him. With his other hand he cupped Nothing’s chin. The gesture was almost tender, except that Zillah dug his long nails into the flesh of Nothing’s cheeks. Zillah was hurting him on purpose. Nothing felt a clear, icy fury begin to rise within him.

  “Get your hands off me,” he said.

  Zillah’s eyes flared brighter. “What?”

  “I said get them off me.” Nothing shoved Zillah’s hand away from his face and twisted out of Zillah’s grasp. They faced each other in the darkening alley. Nothing’s heart beat painfully fast, but he was pleased to realize he wasn’t trembling. “I’m sorry I get myself into stupid messes, okay? I haven’t been doing this very long. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. Nobody except Christian ever tells me anything.” With each word he grew angrier. “You don’t treat me like your son—you treat me like I’m half sex slave and half lapdog. When I’m good, you pat me on the head, and when I fuck up you yell at me and hurt me. But you never explain anything to me. What kind of a father are you, anyway?”

  Nothing gasped for breath. He could see only two bright green spots on the darkness. “All I have to say is this,” he continued. “Don’t ever hurt me again. I love you. I want to stay with you. But don’t you hurt me. I’m not Molochai or Twig. I won’t take it. I’m sick of it.”

  Zillah stared at him. Slowly the blaze in his eyes died down; they became cool, appraising. “Wait here,” he said.

  Then Zillah did an odd thing. He knelt beside Wallace again and yanked Wallace’s trouser legs up past his ankles. When Zillah reached into the purple silk lining of his jacket, Nothing knew what he was going to do. He wanted to look away; instead, he watched helplessly as Zillah unfolded his pearl-handled razor and carefully sliced through the back of each ankle. He drew the blade through the old man’s threadbare socks, through the thin skin, through the big tendon as if it were butter. Nothing saw the razor falter as it grated on bone. Wallace was now beyond sound; only a long shudder ran through his body.

  “Wait here,” Zillah said again. Nothing half-expected him to skitter up the brick wall and climb back through the window. But Zillah just walked to the mouth of the alley, glanced over his shoulder at Nothing, and turned toward the staircase that led up to the room.

  Nothing could not look at Wallace now. He stared at the ground, at the broken glass and the pile of garbage. Something gleamed near his foot. The crucifix. Nothing looked at it for a long moment, then picked it up and thrust it deep into his pocket. Zillah wouldn’t like him keeping it.

  Too bad.

  In a few minutes Zillah came back down with Molochai and Twig. They had left Christian sleeping, they said. They could tell him about Wallace later. It would be a surprise. Nothing suspected they were just greedy.

  Wallace was already bleeding from several places. The wounds in his ankles pumped with his heartbeat. Molochai and Twig latched onto them. Nothing imagined that the big veins of the legs must be like soda straws.

  Zillah picked up one of Wallace’s limp hands, the one he had stomped. The palm was smeared with blood where it had been crushed against the broken glass and rough brick. Zillah opened his razor again. He slid it smoothly in, and the flesh of the palm parted cleanly. A sheet of thin blood mixed with saliva ran down Zillah’s chin as he began to suck at the wound.

  Nothing’s stomach growled.

  He crawled forward and knelt beside Wallace. His grandfather’s cheek rested on a broken bottle. His eyes were open, still aware, brimming with rage and pain. At least I can end the pain for you, Nothing thought. He put his mouth against the slow pulse of Wallace’s throat. The skin there was dry and soft; it felt very old. He choked back a sob and sank in his new filed teeth.

  His grandfather’s blood was bitter.

  But he and his family drank every drop.

  28

  Late that night Ghost opened his eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. There were no dead leaves up there, no painted stars. There were only shifting patches of moonlight like a white and silver sea.

  For a moment he felt the floating giddiness that always came when he woke in a strange bed. Then, slowly, the world fell into place around him. There was the softness of a mattress under his back, the weight of blankets. There was the deep regular breathing of Steve beside him, and the warmth of Steve’s skin, and Steve’s smell that had gone strange in the past couple of days. It made Ghost wonder whether Steve’s insides had been thrown off balance somehow.

  Steve usually smelled of beer, but now, often as not, the harsh odor of whiskey was on him instead. And dirty hair, but that was normal because Steve’s hair was getting long and he said it was a royal pain in the ass to wash. But now Steve’s clothes were dirty too, and there was some strange secret smell that made Ghost lift his head and flare his nostrils, trying to scent it out, to pin it down. It was the smell of exhaustion, the smell of frying brains, the smell of despair.

  It might mean that Steve was only clinging to some remote edge of sanity. It might mean Steve was about ready to say Fuck this shit, man, and give up altogether. Steve still loved Ann, but it was a wretched kind of love, a love that made him hate himself for feeling it. Steve was just blaming himself now. He had reason to blame himself.

  But Ghost knew guilt could be traced back forever, blame could be laid every which way, and what good would it do? Whose pain would be lessened by it? Steve had done what he had done, and because he was Steve, he could not have done it any other way.

  Steve had always been like that: he would go through the fire, would never shy away no matter how hellish it was. When the pain burned off him, he seemed stronger, more pure. But sometimes it nearly killed him. And sometimes he tried to quench it by drinking, which only made the flames burn higher and hotter.

  Why couldn’t Ann understand how Steve was? The rocker with a hundred midnights stored in his heart for nobody to find; sure, he was tough, but he did hurt, and somehow you had to soothe that pain while pretending you couldn’t see it. Ghost stared into the dark. Sometimes he thought he was the only person who understood Steve at all. They had been together so long. But what good did that do Steve?

  He remembered what Ann had said the day he went over to her house. The night is the hardest time to be alive, she had told him. And four A.M. knows all my secrets. She had wanted something, or someone, to get her through the night.

  Zillah with his green eyes had gotten her through part of one night, anyway. But what saved her from four A.M. now? What had she thought about on those nights when she prowled around the trailer on Violin Road, maybe knocking and not being let in, maybe afraid even to knock? What was she thinking now, as she rode a southbound bus, as she roamed the dark streets of the French Quarter, breathing the mist of beer and the essence of time? Did she know yet where Zillah lived; was she staring up at his window, whispering words he would not hear?

  What was getting her through this night? And what would get her through all the nights yet to come, as the poison fetus grew inside her?

  Ghost sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He caught a whiff of himself. His clothes were as dirty as Steve’s, though not as beer-stained; they had only the things they’d been wearing when they took off for New Orleans. Tomorrow they would have to go and buy a couple of fresh T-shirts. Something classy, like the oy
ster bar shirts that said SHUCK ME, SUCK ME, EAT ME RAW.

  The wooden floor was cold. Moonlight dappled Ghost’s feet. He stood up slowly, easing his weight off the mattress, trying not to wake Steve. There wasn’t much chance of Steve waking up, though. Earlier tonight Steve had declared his intention to drink a pitcher of Dixie beer in every bar on Bourbon Street. When they didn’t have Dixie, he settled for Bud. As far as Ghost could recall, they had gotten about halfway before he was able to drag Steve back to the room and dump him into bed.

  Ghost had had his share of those pitchers too. He was still swaying a little. He steadied himself against the doorjamb and crossed the threshold into the hall.

  He and Steve had the first room at the top of the stairs. Next to that was the room belonging to Arkady’s mysterious guests; beyond that was the bathroom, where Ghost was headed, and at the end of the hall was Arkady’s bedroom.

  As Ghost passed the open door of the second room, he saw moonlight filtering in through a dirty window. The cold glow spilled over the rumpled sheets and blankets on the bed, made the floorboards gleam, threw the closet door into shadow so that Ghost couldn’t tell whether it was open or shut. At the foot of the bed, drooping halfway to the floor, a small twisted shape hung.

  Ghost’s breath caught in his throat. As he stared at the shape, it seemed to twitch. Ghost took two quick steps backward. Were the occupants of this room really the ones who had killed Ashley? Could Arkady be that perverse? Was the twisted shape another of their victims, a child with all the life sucked out of it, hanging bonelessly? Or was it some voodoo creation of Arkady’s, some dried effigy that would come to life and jerk toward him in a horrible parody of dance?