pzb.lostsouls-第16部分

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　road。　Molochai　lay　with　his　head　in　Zillah's　lap　nibbling　a　little　sugared　cake　he　had　found　in　the　kitchen　of　the　restaurant。
　　Zillah's　wine　bottles　were　full　now。　He　had　topped　them　off　with　vodka　from　the　restaurant's　bar。　The　bar　had　been　well　stocked；　and　he　had　found　a　bottle　of　peppered　Stolichnaya。　It　would　blend　weft　with　the　girl's　spicy　blood。　This　hot　red　cache　would　be　a　treat　later　on；　during　the　long　dry　stretch　between　here　and　New　Orleans。
　　They　passed　a　nightclub。　Children　postured　on　the　sidewalk；　waving　their　spidery　hands；　tracking　the　van　with　their　black…smudged　eyes。　A　snatch　of　sepulchral　song　floated　in　their　wake。　Bauhaus。
　　Zillah　tilted　his　head　to　one　side　and　smiled。　〃Listen　to　them…the　children　of　the　night；〃　he　said。　〃What　music　they　make！〃
　　
　　　Chapter　9
　　
　　When　Christian　turned　away　from　the　river；　Wallace　was　there；　several　feet　away；　watching　him。　Wallace　had　seen　him　with　the　boy。
　　Christian's　first　emotion　was　not　anger　or　fear　but　shame；　terrible　fiery　shame。　Wallace　had　caught　him　at　his　most　secret；　most　vulnerable　moment；　and　Christian　wanted　to　sink　to　the　ground　and　cover　himself；　to　shut　his　eyes　tight；　to　vanish。　He　pulled　his　cloak　around　him　and　stared　at　Wallace；　feeling　his　eyes　grow　colder；　knowing　he　must　not　panic。
　　The　moonlight　ravaged　Wallace's　face。　The　hollows　beneath　his　eyes　grew　deeper；　the　lines　bracketing　his　mouth　more　harsh。　The　silver　cross　at　his　throat　gleamed；　and　his　hand　went　to　it。　〃Vampire；〃　he　said；　spitting　the　word　out；　making　it　ugly。　〃Filthy；　cursed　thing…〃
　　〃You　knew；〃　said　Christian。　〃The　story　you　told　me…it　was　all　made　up。　You　didn't　find　her　diary。　You　weren't　suddenly　seized　with　a　desire　to　see　her　after　such　a　long　time。　You　knew。〃
　　Wallace's　eyes　glittered；　dark；　never　leaving　Christian's。　〃I　did。〃
　　〃Then　why？〃　Christian　spread　his　arms　in　a　gesture　of　bewilderment；　the　cloak　billowed　around　him；　made　him　seem　immensely　tall。　Wallace；　perhaps　misunderstanding　the　gesture；　took　a　step　backward。　〃Why　now？　If　you　knew　then；　why　are　you　following　me　after　fifteen　years？〃
　　〃I　knew　then；〃　Wallace　told　him。　〃After　Jessy　disappeared；　I　began　going　to　your　bar；　watching　you；　and　I　knew。　I　came　to　believe。　And　I　knew　what　you　had　done　to　my　daughter。〃　He　hadn't　answered　the　question。
　　But　Jessy　wasn't　even　dead　then；　Christian　thought；　confused。　He　is　wrong。　She　must　have　been　alive　still；　living　upstairs；　gazing　out　my　window　all　day　and　pulling　me　into　her　body　at　night…
　　〃You　look　very　much　the　proper　vampire；　Christian；〃　Wallace　went　on；　and　Christian　wondered　whether　he　was　supposed　to　take　that　as　a　pliment。　〃But　I　still　could　not　quite　believe。　I　was　unsure。　My　religion　does　not　acknowledge　the　supernatural。　It　considers　such　matters　unholy；　and　consequently　it　ignores　them。　So　one　night　I　waited　until　you　closed　your　bar　down；　and　when　you　went　out；　I　followed　you。　I　saw　you　speak　to　a　boy　near　Jackson　Square；　a　young　boy　with　long　hair　who　wore　beads　around　his　neck。　I　followed　the　two　of　you　to　the　river；　and　here　I　saw　you…I　saw　you　do　what　you　did　to　the　other　boy　tonight。　And　I　wondered　how　many　other　children　you　had　put　in　the　river；　and　I　thought　of　Jessy's　body　sinking　out　of　sight　there；　in　that　cold　brown　water…〃　Wallace's　voice　broke。
　　Yes；　Jessy；　thought　Christian。　I　put　Jessy　in　the　river。　But　that　was　later；　after　the　baby　came。　And　I　didn't　kill　her；　I　wouldn't　have　killed　her…　In　an　instant　he　realized　who　had　killed　Jessy。　Zillah　had；　with　the　seduction　of　his　hands　and　his　lips；　with　his　fertile　seed。　Or　so　Wallace　would　see　it。　Christian　imagined　himself　trying　to　explain　the　events　of　that　Mardi　Gras　to　Wallace：　He　planted　his　child　in　her　womb；　and　by　the　time　the　baby　tore　her　apart　inside；　he　was　far；　far　away。　But　that　night　was　so　bloody；　and　oh　so　green　。　。　。
　　No。　Wallace　would　not　understand　the　drunkenness　that　es　with　blood　or　the　light　in　the　Mardi　Gras　sky。　He　would　see　only　the　image　of　Zillah's　hands　on　Jessy's　fragile　body。　He　would　picture　Zillah　writhing　atop　Jessy；　stifling　her　screams　with　his　tongue。　The　blame　would　be　taken　away　from　Christian；　and　Wallace　would　no　longer　want　to　kill　him。　He　would　want　Zillah's　blood。
　　Zillah；　with　those　languid；　graceful　hands；　with　those　glowing　green　eyes；　and　the　rest　of　that　loud　happy　trio　Christian　had　not　seen　for　fifteen　years；　though　he　had　looked　for　them　every　night　of　every　Mardi　Gras　when　the　bright　costumes　staggered　in　and　the　laughter　was　high　and　drunken　and　the　liquor　flowed　in　the　gutters。　The　only　ones　of　his　kind　Christian　had　seen　for　so　many　years；　more　years　than　he　wanted　to　remember；　and　the　youngest；　wildest；　finest　ones　he　had　ever　known。
　　No；　Wallace　could　not　be　allowed　to　go　after　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah。　He　would　never　be　able　to　find　them…they　might　be　anywhere　in　the　world；　anywhere　they　could　find　liquor；　sweets；　and　blood…and　if　by　some　chance　he　did　find　them；　they　would　laugh　in　his　face　as　they　killed　him。
　　But　Christian　would　not　give　Wallace　even　a　wisp　of　a　chance。　He　would　deal　with　Wallace　himself；　and　he　would　protect　his　kind。　He　did　not　love　what　he　did；　but　for　too　long　he　had　been　alone　in　doing　it。　Wallace's　blood　would　spill　for　Molochai's　sticky　smile；　for　the　cleverness　of　Twig's　foxlike　face；　for　Zillah's　luminescent　green　eyes。
　　〃All　right；〃　he　said。　〃You　knew　then。　Why　did　you　wait？　Why　have　you　e　to　me　now？〃
　　〃I　was　afraid　of　you　then。〃
　　Christian　nodded　and　took　a　step　toward　Wallace。　Wallace　didn't　back　away　this　time。
　　〃I　have　no　reason　to　fear　you　anymore。〃　Wallace　shut　his　eyes；　then　opened　them。　〃'You　are　a　godless　thing；　and　you　will　die　for　that。　Fifteen　years　ago　I　did　not　have　the　courage　to　avenge　Jessy；　but　nothing　else　matters　to　me　now。〃　He　unfastened　the　crucifix　from　his　throat　and　stepped　toward　Christian；　brandishing　it　at　the　end　of　its　chain。　〃Begone　from　the　face　of　God's　earth；　foul　creature；　thing　of　night；　sucker　at　Death's　teat…〃
　　Christian　shook　his　head　sadly。　He　did　not　laugh；　but　there　was　a　trace　of　amused　contempt　in　his　eyes。　Wallace　stopped　chanting　and　lowered　his　arm。　The　crucifix　swung　from　his　hand；　shimmering　when　the　moonlight　caught　it。
　　〃You　are　a　fool；〃　said　Christian。　〃You　are　a　fool；　and　your　myths　are　wrong。　If　you　touched　me　with　that；　it　would　not　burn　me。　It　would　not　blacken　my　skin。　It　would　not　poison　my　essence。　I　have　nothing　against　your　Christ。　I　am　sure　his　blood　tasted　as　sweet　as　anyone　else's。〃
　　Christian　imagined　Wallace　waving　a　crucifix　in　the　faces　of　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah。　Those　children；　he　thought；　would　laugh　this　silly　old　man　into　his　grave。
　　〃Undead　soul；〃　said　Wallace；　not　quite　steadily。
　　〃No。　I　am　alive。　I　was　born　as　you　were　born。〃　Well；　not　quite。　Christian　thought　of　the　mother　he　had　never　seen；　wondered　whether　he　had　left　her　as　torn　and　bloody　as　Jessy　had　been。　〃I　am　not　the　creature　of　your　myths。　I　did　not　rise　from　the　grave。　I　have　never　been　one　of　your　race；　Wallace　Creech…I　am　of　a　different　one。〃
　　Now　Christian　was　smiling；　letting　the　sharp　tips　of　his　teeth　show；　it　was　an　icy　smile；　masking　his　lust。　Wallace；　no　matter　how　ineffective；　was　a　danger；　a　threat。　And　that　meant　Christian　should　kill　him　now　and　let　him　follow　his　daughter　into　the　river　where　their　bones　might　drift　together　in　the　intimacy　Wallace　seemed　to　long　for。
　　Still　smiling；　gazing　steadily　into　the　depths　of　Wallace's　eyes；　Christian　stepped　forward　and　rested　his　hands　on　the　old　man's　stooped　shoulders。　Wallace　stared　back　as　if　hypnotized；　but　Christian　could　feel　the　man's　muscles　pulled　painfully　tight；　tense　to　the　point　of　trembling。
　　Christian　lowered　his　head　and　brushed　his　lips　against　Wallace's　throat。　And　suddenly　he　found　himself　wishing　that　all　the　ancient　human　myths　were　true。　He　had　seen　no　others　of　his　kind　in　fifteen　years；　since　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　appeared　by　some　Mardi　Gras　magic　and　left　again　when　the　sun　set　on　Ash　Wednesday。　Christian　wished　he　had　the　power　that　the　legends　ascribed　to　him。　He　wished　his　victims　could　rise　again　and　run　with　him；　others　of　his　kind　to　share　the　smell　of　the　streets　past　midnight；　the　long　hot　days　with　the　shades　drawn；　the　taste　of　the　sweet　fresh　blood。　Even　Wallace　would　do；　even　old　tired　Wallace　with　the　pain　in　his　eyes。　He　put　his　mouth　against　Wallace's　throat。　The　skin　there　was　dry；　loose；　it　smelled　of　age。　He　bit　down　and　tasted　blood　for　the　second　time　that　night。。。。
　　But　it　was　bitter；　it　was　foul；　and　he　spat　it　back　against　Wallace's　throat　and　gagged。　Christian's　nostrils　flared。　He　had　not　detected　it　before；　under　the　stinging　mist　of　whiskey　and　sorrow；　but　now　it　was　obvious；　strong；　and　rank。　The　smell　of　sickness；　deep　rotting　sickness　that　rioted　through　Wallace's　body；　as　wet　and　brown　as　the　smell　of　the　river。　Some　virulent　disease；　probably　a　cancer。　The　taste　was　corruption　in　his　mouth。
　　If　that　had　been　all；　Christian　could　have　fled　or　fought。　He　was　very　strong；　surely　stronger　than　Wallace。　But　a　second　later　the　nausea　hit　him；　worse　than　the　drunken　sickness　brought　on　by　the　Chartreuse；　worse　than　the　sharp　immediacy　of　that　pain。　It　knocked　him　down；　and　he　lay　as　still　as　he　could；　languid　with　shock；　trying　not　to　move　for　fear　of　increasing　the　nausea。　He　felt　his　stomach　convulsing　and　he　fought　to　keep　the　boy's　blood　down。　He　did　not　want　to　relinquish　that。
　　Through　the　haze　of　sickness　he　was　aware　of　Wallace　pulling　something　from　behind　his　back；　something　that　had　been　tucked　into　the　waistband　of　his　trousers。　The　object　caught　the　moon　and　became　a　thing　of　pure　light；　a　slim　pistol　shining　white　and　silver。
　　He　saw　Wallace　taking　aim　and　closed　his　eyes。　Then　the　night　exploded　and　pain　slammed　into　Christian's　chest。　He　could　not　breathe。　He　felt　the　hot　pellet　of　lead　tunnelling　into　him；　through　him。　He　kept　his　eyes　dosed　so　that　he　would　not　have　to　see　the　triumph　on　Wallace's　face。
　　His　last　thought　before　the　pain　and　the　sickness　washed　his　mind　away　was　one　of　regret：　Three　hundred　and　eight…three　years。。。such　a　very　long　time　。　。　。　he　should　have　been　beautiful。。。　not　this　sad；　o