pzb.lostsouls-第42部分

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　　Nothing　knew　that　if　he　turned　his　head；　he　would　be　able　to　look　through　the　bedroom　window　and　see　the　spiny　etchwork　of　the　rosebushes　against　the　night　sky。　But　he　didn't　really　want　to　turn　his　head。　Instead　he　lay　very　still；　stretched　out　flat　on　his　back　in　Christian's　bed。　His　hands　moved　through　Christian's　glittering　black　hair；　stroked　the　long　curve　of　Christian's　back。
　　Christian　sighed　and　moved　closer；　nestling　his　head　under　Nothing's　chin；　and　Nothing　felt　a　tiny　sweet　flare　of　pain　as　Christian's　teeth　slid　a　little　deeper　beneath　the　skin　of　his　throat。
　　He　knew　Christian　was　being　careful。　He　knew　Christian　wouldn't　hurt　him；　would　take　only　a　taste　of　his　blood。　This　was　not　feeding；　this　was　lovemaking。　Weren't　Christian's　long　fingers　moving　over　him；　tracing　patterns　on　his　ribs　and　his　thighs；　seeming　to　worship　the　texture　of　his　skin？　Still；　Nothing　had　seen　those　teeth。　They　were　beautiful；　he　envied　them　and　wished　he　might　have　been　born　hundreds　of　years　ago；　before　the　adaptations　of　life　among　humans　caught　up　with　his　race…but　having　to　stay　sober　every　night　of　his　life　would　he　too　great　a　price　even　for　fangs　that　curved　down　over　his　lips　like　hooks　of　ivory。
　　At　first　the　teeth　had　only　pricked　Christian's　lower　lip。　They　lengthened　imperceptibly。　Nothing　looked　into　Christian's　mouth；　but　he　could　not　see　how　it　happened。　They　were　simply　longer　all　of　a　sudden；　like　hooked　needles；　silver…white　and　glistening。　Nothing　felt　those　teeth　hard　against　his　lips　when　Christian　kissed　him；　and　when　he　drew　back　he　tasted　blood。
　　Christian　bit　into　Nothing's　throat　as　gently　as　a　junkie　sliding　a　hypo　into　a　sore　vein；　but　Nothing　still　caught　his　breath　and　shivered　at　the　cold　exquisite　pain。　Then　Christian's　tongue　was　there；　licking　the　blood　away。　Christian　stroked　him；　a　different　touch　from　Zillah's：　slower；　gentler；　less　sure。　They　strained　against　each　other。
　　At　last　Christian's　mouth　unfastened　from　Nothing's　threat；　and　blood　flowed　between　them；　trickling　over　Nothing's　chest；　staining　the　sheets　a　little　more。　Nothing　realized　he　had　been　holding　his　breath。　He　let　it　out　in　a　great　rush。　What　had　he　been　afraid　of？　Christian　wouldn't　hurt　him。　He　was　of　Christian's　kind。
　　Still；　he　hadn't　wanted　to　turn　his　head。
　　〃Nothing；〃　moaned　Christian：　a　breath　of　fading　ecstasy；　borne　on　the　scent　of　blood。　〃O　Nothing。　I　would　like　to　rip　your　throat　open。〃
　　'Thank　you；〃　said　Nothing。　He　knew　this　was　a　pliment。　Then；　after　a　moment：　'Tell　me　about　Jessy　again。〃
　　Christian　sighed。　〃She　looked　like　you。　The　same　great　dark　eyes。　The　same　pointed　chin。　The　same　listening　silence。〃
　　〃You；　um；　you　fucked　her。〃
　　A　pause；　then：　〃Yes。　Many　times　over　a　hot　New　Orleans　summer。
　　〃She　was　sixteen；〃　Nothing　said　thoughtfully。　
　　〃Something　like　that。〃　
　　〃A　year　older　than　me。〃
　　'Yes〃
　　〃How　old　were　you？〃
　　A　pause。　'Three　hundred　and　sixty…eight。〃
　　Nothing　wanted　to　laugh；　but　he　could　not。　The　thought　of　all　those　years　stored　up　in　the　being　who　lay　beside　him；　belly　warm　with　his　blood；　mouth　slick　with　his　spit　。　。　。　no；　he　could　not　laugh。　The　sheer　weight　of　those　years　overwhelmed　him。　He　wondered　how　it　was　for　Christian。　Surely　three　hundred　and　sixty…eight　years　of　feeling　could　not　be　borne。　Had　Christian　stopped　feeling？　Did　he　simply　look　upon　the　world；　watchful；　shutting　out　joy　to　keep　back　the　pain　of　all　the　years？
　　Nothing　pressed　his　face　into　the　pillow。　His　eyes　had　gone　hot　and　wet。　He　kissed　Christian's　throat；　his　mouth。　It　was　just　a　mouth　again；　a　rather　cold　mouth　now；　with　a　dark　sweet　taste　on　the　tongue。　Two　of　the　top　front　teeth　were　unusually　sharp　。　。　。　but　Christian　didn't　smile　much。　Probably　no　one　ever　noticed　those　teeth。
　　〃Will　I　live　that　long？〃　Nothing　asked。
　　〃Perhaps。　If　you're　smarter　than　Molochai　and　Twig；　and　more　cautious　than　Zillah。〃　Christian　stroked　Nothing's　head。　〃I　can　see　the　true　color　of　your　hair　at　the　roots。　Golden…brown。　It　was　that　color　when　you　were　a　baby。〃
　　〃I　need　a　dye　job。〃　Absently　he　twirled　a　piece　of　his　hair；　put　it　in　his　mouth。　Then　he　took　a　deep　breath　and　asked；　〃What's　it　like　to　live　such　a　long　time？〃
　　Christian　didn't　reply。　He　glanced　at　the　window　and　said；　〃I　have　to　leave。　I'm　to　be　at　the　club　at　eleven。〃
　　Nothing　wanted　to　hold　Christian；　to　take　away　those　years；　to　do　something　for　him。　〃I　could　e　with　you；〃　he　said。
　　〃Thank　you；　but　no。　I'll　lose　my　job　if　I　keep　slipping　you　drinks。　You　stay　here　with　the　others。　When　they　wake　up　they'll　want　to　go　out。〃　Christian　stepped　into　a　pair　of　impossibly　long　black　trousers；　buttoned　a　black　shirt　up　to　his　chin。　He　turned　to　go。　At　the　bedroom　door　he　paused。
　　〃Christian？〃　said　Nothing。
　　〃I　would　not　wish　it　upon　anyone；〃　Christian　told　him。　He　disappeared　into　the　dark　recesses　of　the　trailer。　A　moment　later　Nothing　heard　the　front　door　close。　Then　the　Bel　Air　was　grinding　out　of　the　driveway；　heading　down　Violin　Road　toward　town。
　　Nothing　lay　among　the　cool　tangled　sheets；　staring　at　the　rags　of　mist　that　drifted　past　the　window　and　obscured　the　rosebushes。　For　a　while　he　played　with　his　damp　pubic　hair；　uncurling　strands　of　it；　gently　tugging　at　them；　letting　them　spring　back。　It　wasn't　often　he　had　a　bed　to　himself　anymore。　Usually　he　slept　in　a　sweaty　knot　of　blankets；　hair；　limbs。　He　would　wake　to　find　Molochai's　fingers　in　his　mouth　or　drooling　on　his　pillow。　Often　he　woke　to　the　perverse；　sometimes　scatological　endearments　that　Zillah　liked　to　murmur　in　his　ear。　So　he　relished　this　bit　of　privacy。　He　lay　and　let　his　mind　drift　where　it　would。
　　How　old　was　Christian　now？　He　calculated　and　came　up　with　three　hundred　and　eighty…three　years。　Nothing's　mind　tried　to　balk　at　the　thought　of　all　those　years；　but　he　would　not　let　it。　No；　he　told　himself。　You　might　be　that　old　yourself　someday；　so　think　about　it。
　　That　was　so　much　time。　Unless　you　found　others　of　your　kind；　others　who　lived　as　long；　you　were　bound　to　spend　a　lot　of　that　time　alone。　Others…he　made　himself　think　it：　humans　…would　just　die　on　you。　Steve　and　Ghost　would　die；　and　he　would　still　be　young　and　roaring…but　he　would　not　think　about　Steve　and　Ghost
　　Still；　he　had　Zillah；　his　father；　his　lover。　And　he　had　Molochai　and　Twig　and　Christian。　They　would　be　there　with　him；　alive。　But　there　must　be　others　of　their　race　who　were　alone。　Christian　had　been。　Maybe　that　was　why　Christian　seemed　so　reserved；　yet　so　hungry　for　love　when　someone　offered　it。　Just　because　you　got　used　to　being　alone　didn't　mean　you　had　to　like　it
　　Maybe　time　passed　differently　in　New　Orleans。　Maybe　a　sort　of　dream…time　existed　there；　a　time　that　could　stretch　a　single　day　or　press　three　hundred　and　eighty…three　years。　In　New　Orleans　he　had　been　conceived　by　the　bright　sperm　of　Zillah。　In　New　Orleans　Christian　had　made　love　to　Jessy。　His　mother。　That　thin；　dark…haired　girl　of　sixteen。　That　girl　who　had　died　giving　bloody　birth　to　him。
　　Nothing　tried　to　imagine　that　summer　in　the　French　Quarter。　The　endless　sweltering　days　above　the　bar。　Christian's　long　bony　hands　moving　over　Jessy's　slick　breasts；　her　distended　belly。　Her　belly　that　cradled　him；　unborn。　He　wished　he　could　be　Christian's　hands。　He　wished　he　could　feel　Jessy's　weight　above　him；　her　skin　slick　as　if　with　oil。　He　imagined　Christian　thrusting　up　into　her；　parting　her　womb；　nudging　up　against　the　fetus　there。　Me；　he　thought。　In　the　womb；　had　he　been　bathed　with　Christian's　semen？　Had　it　nourished　him　along　with　the　blood　of　Jessy？
　　And　there　in　the　womb；　half…formed；　had　something　in　him　known　even　then　whose　child　he　was？　Had　he　longed　to　be　nourished　by　Zillah's　sperm　instead　of　Christian's？　Had　something　in　him　wanted　his　father？　Was　that　why　he　had　spent　the　first　fifteen　years　of　his　life　alone；　always　alone；　always　searching　for　a　place　he　might　belong…for　a　perfect　love？
　　Well；　he　had　it　now。　Body　and　soul　and　all　the　realm　between。
　　He　remembered　the　night　outside　the　Sacred　Yew；　now　a　month　past；　and　all　that　had　transpired　on　the　cold　sidewalk。　The　night　of　punishment　and　revelation。　He　had　awakened　sometime　past　sunset　the　next　evening…even　then　he　was　beginning　to　get　used　to　the　hours　his　new　family　kept　sleeping　most　of　the　day　and　howling　all　night。　He　woke　back　at　the　trailer；　in　Christian's　bed。　Zillah　lay　beside　him；　his　head　turned　slightly　away；　his　hair　making　colored　stripes　on　the　pillow。　In　slumber；　Zillah's　face　was　almost　innocent。
　　When　you　could　not　see　those　eyes。
　　Father；　Nothing　thought。
　　He　had　slipped　quietly　out　of　bed；　not　wanting　to　wake　Zillah　yet。　He　had　looked　at　himself　in　the　bathroom　mirror；　still　able　to　meet　his　own　eyes；　and　he　had　told　himself：　For　a　week　now　you　have　been　fucking　your　own　father。　His　tongue　has　been　in　your　mouth　more　times　than　you　could　count。　You've　sucked　him　off。。。you've　swallowed　stuff　that　could　have　been　your　brothers　and　sisters！
　　But　he　could　not　disgust　himself。　He　could　not　make　himself　ashamed。　He　knew　these　were　things　he　was　supposed　to　feel；　things　the　rational　daylight　world　would　expect　him　to　feel。　But　he　could　not　force　himself　to　feel　them。　In　a　world　of　night；　in　a　world　of　blood；　what　did　such　pallid　rules　matter？
　　He　wasn't　sure　he　could　ever　have　felt　the　things　expected　of　him　in　the　normal　world；　not　even　when　he　had　been　an　unwilling　part　of　it。　Its　morals　had　never　been　his；　its　baubles　of　status　had　never　hypnotized　him　with　their　false　glitter。　He　tried　to　imagine　his　friends　back　home　making　love　with　their　fathers：　Julie　humping　her　fastidious　attorney　dad；　Laine　sucking　off　his　hippie…throwback　old　man　who　grew　stunted　pot　plants　in　his　study　and　was　supposed　to　be　a　genius　at　puter　language。　The　idea　did　not　offend　him；　it　was　sort　of　gross；　because　most　of　the　fathers　were　not　what　Nothing　would　call　hot…looking；　but　he　could　not　label　it　with　words　like　wrong　or　bad。　He　wondered　if　he　had　ever　known　what　those　words　meant。　Were　members　of　his　race　born　with　some　sort　of　amoral　instinct　that　shielded　them　from　the　guilt　of　killing　to　stay　alive？　If　he　had　not　been　born　with　such　an　instinct；　could　he　have　taken　that