pzb.lostsouls-第18部分

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　　Then　the　whole　night　came　rushing　back；　and　he　gave　an　involuntary　shudder　and　let　the　relief　and　the　fury　wash　over　him。　Relief　because　he　had　not　wanted　to　die　at　the　hands　of　one　like　Wallace；　so　clumsy　and　drained　of　passion；　fury　because　Wallace　should　not　have　been　able　to　defeat　him；　Wallace　with　his　tired；　ancient　eyes。　Christian's　belly　should　be　warm　and　heavy　with　Wallace's　blood　now；　Wallace　should　be　drifting　away　along　the　river　bottom；　the　water　filling　his　eyes；　the　creatures　of　the　mud　beginning　to　nibble　at　his　hands。
　　Christian　sat　up　and　examined　himself。　There　was　a　scorched　hole　in　the　fine　black　cloth　of　his　shirt；　its　edges　perfectly　round。　He　undid　the　top　two　buttons。　The　bullet　had　shattered　the　third　one。　In　the　center　of　his　chest　was　a　shiny　pink　sear；　the　skin　pulled　tight　and　slightly　rippled。　There　would　be　no　matching　scar　on　his　back；　Wallace's　bullet　was　still　in　him；　and　there　it　would　stay。　It　was　not　the　first。
　　He　had　bled　only　a　little。　There　was　a　crust　of　dried　blood　on　his　skin；　ringing　the　scar；　and　the　ground　where　he　had　lain　all　night　was　stained　dark　red。　But　the　spot　was　small；　hardly　worth　noticing。　The　fool；　he　thought　with　a　touch　of　incredulity。　He　had　to　destroy　my　brain　or　my　heart；　and　he　had　his　chance　at　either　one；　and　the　old　fool　missed　my　heart　by　an　inch。　With　an　intensity　that　he　had　not　thought　himself　still　capable　of；　Christian　wished　that　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　had　been　there。　They　would　have　taken　Wallace's　silver　cross　away；　thrown　it　in　the　river；　and　ripped　Wallace's　throat　out；　joking　all　the　while。
　　But　the　fury　faded　even　as　he　recognized　it；　and　Christian　sat　quietly　in　the　breaking　light　for　several　minutes；　resting　his　head　on　his　drawn…up　knees；　unable　to　identify　his　new　emotion。　As　he　pushed　himself　to　his　feet　and　gathered　his　cloak　around　him；　he　realized　what　this　was；　his　reaction　to　waking　healed　and　alive　and　still　alone。　It　was　disappointment。
　　Last　night's　trash　lay　tranquil　in　the　gutter　as　he　made　his　way　home。　The　toe　of　his　boot　connected　with　a　plastic　Hurricane　glass　and　sent　it　skittering　across　the　pavement。　The　noise　was　too　loud　in　this　early…morning　calm。　Christian　caught　the　odor　of　the　sticky　drops　left　in　the　bottom　of　the　glass：　rum　and　passion　fruit　gone　sour；　a　rancid　pink　smell。　The　glass　rolled　into　the　arch　of　a　courtyard　where　green　and　golden　light　was　beginning　to　filter　down　through　mimosa　branches。　The　smell　of　the　blossoms　reached　him；　rosy…delicate；　clear　as　the　smell　of　water。
　　The　Quarter　was　nearly　quiet　Christian　trailed　his　hand　along　the　walls；　along　wrought…iron　gates　between　high　ornate　pillars　of　brick　and　stone；　along　the　doors　and　windows　of　the　dark　shops；　the　sleeping　bars。　He　passed　an　all…night　diner　and　caught　a　stew　of　breakfast　odors：　the　savory；　greasy　smell　of　sausage　and　eggs　and　coffee　for　those　on　their　way　to　early…morning　jobs；　hot　fried　oysters　and　the　sliced　ham　and　vinegar　tang　of　po…boys　fur　those　who　had　been　out　drinking　all　night；　who　would　soon　head　back　to　cheap　hotel　rooms　and　drab　boardinghouses　fur　sodden　daytime　slumber。　He　felt　his　stomach　shift；　last　night's　nausea　raise　its　head；　roll　over；　and　settle　back　into　uneasy　sleep。
　　The　sky　was　brightening　more　quickly　now。　As　he　turned　east　from　Bienville　onto　Chartres；　the　nascent　sunlight　caught　him　full　in　the　face。　Again　came　pain　that　burned　through　his　eyes　and　seared　his　brain。　Christian　flung　up　his　arm　and　sagged　back　against　the　wall。　The　bricks　were　rough　and　cool。　He　pressed　his　face　to　them；　resting　for　a　moment。　His　eyes　felt　scorched。　When　he　had　to　venture　out　into　sunlight；　he　always　wore　dark　glasses；　a　wide…brimmed　black　hat；　gloves；　and　dark　loose　clothing　that　he　could　huddle　into。　This　morning　he　had　only　the　cloak　to　pull　around　him。　Already　he　was　beginning　to　be　blinded　by　the　new　day；　and　he　was　so　very　tired。　The　sidewalk　seemed　to　stretch　endlessly　before　him；　shimmering　and　baking　in　the　sunlight。
　　Surely　his　bar　was　just　ahead。　He　groped　along　the　wall。　He　had　to　rely　on　his　sense　of　smell；　but　the　melange　of　odors　confused　him；　he　could　not　tell　where　he　was。　Was　the　bar　in　this　block；　or　the　next？　He　couldn't　have　crossed　Conti　yet。　Idiot；　he　told　himself。　How　long　have　you　lived　here？　How　many　nights　have　you　walked　this　street？　You　should　carry　a　map　of　scents　in　your　head；　in　your　very　being。。。。
　　He　forced　himself　to　concentrate　on　separating　the　smells　and　identifying　them。　Here　was　the　slimy　sea…smell　of　the　trashcans　behind　an　oyster　bar。　Here　was　a　sewer　smell；　brown　and　gassy。　Here　was　the　leather　trade　shop；　black　tanned　hides　and　chrome　and　the　dizzying　chemical　bite　of　butyl　nitrate；　and　that　meant　his　bar　was　only　a　few　doors　down。
　　He　felt　his　way　to　it　and　let　himself　in。　There　was　a　separate　street　entrance　that　led　straight　up　to　the　rooms；　but　Christian　usually　came　in　through　the　bar　because　that　way　he　knew　he　would　meet　no　one　on　the　stairs。　For　a　long　time　he　stood　in　the　lightening　gloom　of　the　bar；　breathing　the　dark　dust；　the　ghosts　of　liquor　and　beer　and　all　the　drinkers　who　had　been　here。　If　he　breathed　in　deeply　enough；　he　thought　he　could　still　catch　the　scent　of　Wallace　Creech　the　dry　sick　smell。
　　Wallace。　Poor　Wallace；　who　thought　he　had　killed　his　nemesis；　his　daughter's　supernatural　defiler。　What　would　he　do　when　he　discovered　otherwise？
　　Christian　closed　his　eyes。　He　would　not　think　about　Wallace　now；　would　not　plan。　He　looked　around　the　room；　saw　the　dark　wood　of　the　bar；　the　bottles　gleaming　softly　on　their　shelves；　the　colored　light　faltering　through　the　unbroken　stained…glass　window。　In　here　the　light　could　not　hurt　him。
　　But　his　eyes　were　sore；　exhausted。　He　climbed　the　stairs　to　his　room　and　burrowed　into　bed；　into　his　own　forting；　familiar　smell。　Cool　dry　skin　and　ancient　spice　and　a　hint　of　something　darker；　something　thick　and　garnet…colored　and　faintly　rotten。　The　smell　from　deep　inside　him；　where　the　blood　never　quite　washed　clean。　Borne　away　on　the　river　of　it；　he　slept。
　　
　　When　he　awoke；　the　light　seeping　around　the　edges　of　the　window　shade　was　diffuse；　milky；　no　longer　bright　and　searing。　Outside　on　the　street；　twilight　must　be　drawing　nigh。　The　streetlamps　would　blink　on　soon；　softly　illuminating　each　corner　through　opaque　glass　panes；　and　all　the　children　of　the　French　Quarter　would　e　out　to　play。
　　Christian　lay　flat　on　his　back；　tangled　in　sheets　that　were　not　so　very　much　paler　than　his　skin。　He　pulled　tendrils　of　his　hair　over　his　shoulder　and　twisted　them　as　he　daydreamed；　and　he　stared　at　the　delicate　brown　and　cream　pattern　of　water　marks　that　had　spread　across　the　ceiling　over　the　years；　almost　too　dim　to　see　in　this　fading　light。　He　was　not　planning；　not　worrying；　not　even　truly　thinking。　He　was　only　waiting　for　full　night　to　e；　for　he　knew　it　was　time　to　leave　again。
　　This　had　happened　so　many　times　before。　He　might　live　in　a　place　for　five　years　or　fifty　before　anyone　became　suspicious　of　him。　But　someone　always　became　suspicious；　and　he　always　moved　on。　It　was　easier　than　trying　to　hide　from　them；　it　made　him　less　heartsick　than　fighting　them。　When　he　was　young　he　had　fought　them；　and　he　had　never　lost。　But　he　always　had　to　kill　so　many。　Eventually　he　realized　that　when　he　was　not　killing　for　lust　and　hunger；　he　hated　it。　Breaking　the　fragile　span　of　their　forty　or　fifty　or　eighty　years　made　him　feel　vicious　and　cruel。　He　could　outlast　them；　he　could　return　long　after　they　were　dust　and　bones。
　　And　it　was　most　important　to　remain　secretive；　to　remain　a　little　afraid。　For　even　if　he　killed　them　all；　tore　their　throats　out　one　by　one；　there　were　always　more。　This　was　the　one　thing　he　knew　Molochai；　Twig；　and　even　Zillah　would　never　recognize：　no　matter　how　invulnerable　they　thought　they　might　be；　their　race　was　few；　and　the　others　were　many。
　　Once　he　had　been　found　out；　they　would　rain　down　upon　him。　They　would　scream　for　his　blood　in　return　for　the　blood　he　had　taken；　and　they　would　have　it　no　matter　what　the　cost。
　　Wallace　might　not　be　so　dangerous。　Not　by　himself。　He　was　old　and　alone；　perhaps　he　would　have　no　friends　to　tell。　But　Wallace　had　God；　and　the　godly。　He　belonged　to　a　church。　Christian　knew　the　eagerness　of　the　religious　to　believe　in　evil　and　their　lust　to　crush　it。　To　do　something　tangible　in　return　for　the　intangible　reward　they　spent　their　lives　awaiting。　Wallace　by　himself　might　not　be　so　dangerous；　but　his　faith　could　be　deadly。
　　And　so　it　was　time　to　leave　again。　It　was　easier　than　being　on　his　guard　all　the　time；　easier　than　slapping　a　hundred　crucifixes　out　of　a　hundred　hands；　easier　than　ripping　into　a　hundred　terrified　faces。　Let　Wallace　die　believing　he　had　avenged　his　daughter。
　　Christian　packed　a　very　small　bag。　There　was　little　to　pack；　for　a　long　time　now　possessions　had　seemed　fleeting　and　cumbersome；　and　his　room　was　almost　bare。　He　brought　his　day　clothes；　his　hat　and　gloves　and　glasses；　and　he　brought　the　money　he　had　saved　from　the　bar。　He　kept　it　in　a　box　under　the　bed；　but　there　wasn't　very　much　of　it。　No　one　else　would　have　been　able　to　afford　the　rent　and　the　upkeep…the　bar　was　so　far　down　Chartres；　and　no　one　ever　came　in　until　ten…but　Christian　had　none　of　the　expenses　of　a　usual　human　life。　He　did　not　need　food；　he　did　not　go　out　drinking。　His　enjoyments　were　more　exotic　and　carried　a　potentially　higher　price。　This　money　he　would　spend　along　the　way；　for　gasoline。　He　could　get　more　money　when　he　needed　it；　there　was　always　work　for　a　good　bartender。　With　a　glimmer　of　hope；　he　put　three　bottles　of　Chartreuse　in　his　bag。　There　was　no　telling　whom　he　might　meet　on　the　road。
　　It　had　begun　to　rain；　and　the　street　was　deserted。　This　was　cold；　grimy　rain；　rain　that　drifted　down　from　the　sky　like　broken　spiderwebs　and　danced　on　the　hood　of　Christian's　car　as　if　possessed　by　some　mindless　elemental　joy。　The　golden　cones　of　brightness　beneath　the　streetlamps　shimmered　like　spirits。　Rain　misted　up　from　the　sidewalks　and　rose　back　toward　the　sky。　The　clouds　hung　low　and　leaden；　reflecting　back　the　light　of　the　French　Quarter　dull　purple；　like　light　seen　through　thick　dirty　glass。
　　Christian　turned　onto　Bourbon　Street。　The　rain