pzb.lostsouls-第43部分

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o　stay　alive？　If　he　had　not　been　born　with　such　an　instinct；　could　he　have　taken　that　first　bite　out　of　Laine's　throat？
　　Nothing　tried　to　imagine　the　circumstances　that　would　lead；　purely　by　coincidence；　to　a　half…breed　vampire　leaving　home；　hitchhiking　more　than　two　hundred　miles；　and　being　picked　up　by　the　very　member　of　his　race　who　had　fathered　him　fifteen　years　before。　He　could　not　do　it。　This　was　not　coincidence；　this　had　all　been　meant　to　happen。　A　map　of　his　life　was　printed　somewhere；　and　for　a　long　time　he　had　been　wandering　its　boundaries；　hopelessly　lost。　Now　he　had　found　its　pattern。　That　the　map　might　be　printed　all　over　with　the　legend　Here　There　Be　Monsters　did　not　bother　him　in　the　least。
　　His　bond　to　Zillah　was　also　his　bond　to　this　world　of　blood　and　night。　He　knew　that　now　Zillah　would　not　leave　him；　would　not　abandon　him。　He　had　faced　Zillah　down　once；　and　he　could　do　it　again。　In　a　weird　way；　it　seemed　to　make　Zillah　proud　of　him。
　　Zillah　had　wanted　him　from　the　beginning。　There　must　have　been　some　biological　pull　between　them。　The　seed　returning　to　the　sower。　But　Zillah　hadn't　known　why。　The　sentiment　might　still　have　been　revocable。　The　pull　might　have　weakened；　even　dissolved；　when　the　next　bottle　of　cheap　wine　was　gone。　But　when　Christian　spoke　those　words　outside　the　club…those　terrifying；　magical　words；　You're　Zillah's　son…the　bond　had　bee　flesh。
　　No；　not　just　flesh。　Blood。　The　bond　was　forged　in　blood；　of　course；　his　and　Zillah's；　and　Jessy's　that　had　poured　out　of　her。　Nothing　was　of　Zillah's　blood；　and　Zillah　would　not　let　him　go　now；　not　in　a　thousand　years。　They　might　live　that　long；　might　live　a　thousand　years　or　more；　and　still　they　would　be　together。　He　would　ride　the　highways　with　Molochai；　Twig；　Zillah；　and　now　Christian；　forever。　They　would　drink　and　make　wild　love　and　never　grow　old。　And　he　would　never　have　to　be　alone。
　　Nothing　smiled　at　the　ceiling。　Though　he　did　not　know　it；　there　was　a　wantonness　to　his　smile　that　had　not　been　there　a　month　ago。
　　A　soft　footfall　made　him　look　toward　the　bedroom　door。　A　figure　stood　in　the　doorway；　a　black　shadow　haloed　by　a　thin　line　of　silver　light。　Long　wavy　hair；　straight　shoulders。　A　small　slight　figure　that　stood　as　if　it　might　be　seven　feet　tall；　massive　and　regal。　Zillah。
　　〃e　here；〃　said　Nothing。　Zillah　came　to　him　and　slipped　under　the　cold　sheets　with　him。　As　Zillah's　arms　tightened　around　him；　Nothing　heard　himself　say；　〃Daddy。〃
　　Zillah　kissed　his　eyelids；　his　forehead；　his　lips。　〃Yes。　That's　lovely。　Call　me　that。〃
　　〃Daddy；〃　Nothing　whispered　as　Zillah　unwound　the　sheets；　kissed　his　throat；　his　chest；　the　tender　concave　stretch　of　skin　below　his　ribs。
　　〃My　baby；〃　said　Zillah；　and　bit　him　gently。　Nothing　felt　the　last　tattered　shreds　of　his　old　life…the　town；　the　desperately　apathetic　crowd　at　Skittle's；　the　two　well…intentioned　fools　who　had　pretended　to　be　his　parents…tear　loose　and　drift　away　on　the　warm　river　of　Zillah's　tongue。　On　the　scent　of　blood；　of　herbs；　of　altars。
　　
　　A　night　for　reflecting。
　　A　night　for　thinking　of　matters　ordinarily　left　untouched；　left　half…buried　in　the　sludge　of　the　unconscious。　Some　nights　seem　shaped　by　an　unseen　dark　hand。　Some　nights　seem　made　for　lying　awake；　eyes　following　the　cracks　and　flyspecks　on　the　ceiling；　or　the　dead　leaves　and　flowers　pinned　there；　or　the　painted　stars。　Some　nights　seem　made　for　plodding　through　the　mind…sludge；　poking　at　swollen　and　corrupted　things；　then　ruthlessly　heaving　them　over　and　staring　them　full　in　the　face。
　　Some　nights　are　made　for　torture；　or　reflection；　or　the　savoring　of　loneliness。
　　Zillah　lay　draped　around　Nothing。　To　someone　who　lifted　the　tin　roof　off　the　trailer　and　looked　upon　the　two　small　figures　tangled　in　the　sheets；　Zillah's　position　would　have　appeared　both　protective　and　possessive。　He　lay　with　his　cheek　against　Nothing's　smooth　hair；　and　he　thought；　Mine。　More　than　anything　was　before；　more　than　anything　will　ever　be　again；　this　is　mine。　My　seed；　my　blood；　my　soul。
　　In　town；　a　bad　country…and…western　band　took　the　stage　at　the　Sacred　Yew。　Christian　wiped　down　the　bar　and　tried　not　to　listen　to　the　mournful　strains　of　the　Rickenbacker；　tried　to　blot　out　lyrics　like　'This　heart　was　made　for　drinkin'；　not　for　thinkin'。〃　His　mind　turned　to　Zillah　and　Nothing；　to　their　obsessive　incestuous　passion　for　each　other。　Well；　he　asked　himself；　what　difference　can　it　make？　Who　can　it　hurt？　There　are　so　few　of　us；　and　if　it　stops　two　souls　from　being　alone；　then　where　is　the　harm？
　　He　worried　for　Nothing　because　he　knew　Zillah　was　mad。　Madder　even　than　he　had　been　fifteen　years　ago　at　Mardi　Gras。　The　green　light　in　his　eyes　was　crazier；　his　passion　for　violence　and　pain　more　evident。　But　perhaps　the　whole　race　was　mad　in　one　way　or　another。　Surely　years　upon　years　of　living　on　the　fringes　of　the　world　would　drive　anyone　to　madness。　Zillah　and　the　others…their　madness　was　that　they　had　grown　to　love　living　as　nomads；　outlaws；　murderers。　Their　madness　made　them　happy。　And　as　for　Nothing；　perhaps　being　loved　by　his　mad；　beautiful　father　was　better　than　being　alone。
　　In　another　part　of　town；　out　where　the　pines　hung　heavy　and　green；　where　the　October　colors　of　the　other　trees　flamed　darkly　in　the　night；　where　the　kudzu　marked　the　passage　of　the　road；　Ghost　lay　curled　in　bed。　He　was　aware　of　Steve　in　the　next　room；　sleeping　the　sleep　of　alcohol；　sodden　and　dreamless。　Steve　wasn't　drinking　se　much　beer　lately。　He　had　started　on　Jim　Beam　instead。　Tonight　he　had　begun　by　drinking　it　with　tap　water　and　ended　up　taking　straight　slugs　from　the　bottle；　and　by　the　time　Ghost　helped　him　stagger　to　bed；　he　had　put　away　a　fifth　of　the　stuff。
　　Steve　talked　and　talked。　Laying　blame。　That　bitch；　he　said。　That　fucking　betraying　bitch。　And　that　green…eyed　mother…fucker；　I　wonder　how　he'd　smirk　if　somebody　cut　off　his　balls　。　。　。
　　Ghost　listened；　saying　〃yeah〃　and　〃uh…huh'　at　the　appropriate　places。　But　where　was　the　point　in　laying　blame？　Zillah　had　bewitched　Ann。　Ghost　knew　from　his　grandmother　that　love…spells　don't　work　on　people　who　don't　want　them；　and　they　are　surely　the　hardest　kind　of　spells　to　undo　once　they　are　done。　And　as　for　Nothing　。　。　。　well；　Nothing　was　home　after　all；　wasn't　he？　Blood　calls　to　blood。　If　Nothing　wanted　to　sleep　every　night　in　his　father's　arms；　then　Ghost　guessed　that　was　what　he　must　do。
　　He　wrapped　his　arms　around　his　pillow　and　wondered；　What　will　e　of　all　this？　Where　will　all　these　lost　souls　go？　But　that　was　not　the　question　he　wanted　to　ask。　What　would　e；　would　e。　He　reached　out　with　his　mind　and　found　Ann　in　the　dark　somewhere；　wandering　by　herself；　searching　for　something　that　would　only　hurt　her　if　she　found　it。　Bewitched。　She　could　not　feel　his　mind　brushing　hers；　would　not　answer　him。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　tried　to　will　himself　to　sleep。　He'd　been　crying　a　lot　lately。　But　he　didn't　want　to　cry　alone　in　the　dark。
　　As　Ghost　began　to　dream；　the　inhabitants　of　the　trailer　on　Violin　Road　congregated　in　the　tiny　kitchen　and　greeted　the　new　night　with　plastic　cups　of　wine。　At　the　Sacred　Yew；　Christian　watched　the　bar　clock　and　counted　off　the　hours　until　closing　time。
　　Night。
　　
　　　Chapter　22
　　
　　　（Scratch）
　　（Pop！）
　　A　yellow…orange　explosion　in　the　dark。　Steve　lit　a　fat　joint　that　had　been　rolled　from　more　of　Terry's　Popacatepetl　Purple。　Sparks　showered　down；　flared　like　tiny　nighttime　suns　among　the　clamp　pine　needles；　and　died。
　　It　was　Halloween　night；　and　they　were　sitting　in　the　tiny　Civil　War　graveyard　in　the　woods　behind　their　house。　Ghost　liked　to　e　out　here　to　smoke；　to　be　among　the　trees　and　lie　on　the　thick　carpet　of　pine　needles。　He　liked　the　gravestones　that　seemed　to　sprout　like　mushrooms　from　the　forest　floor；　the　weathered　crosses　of　wood　and　granite；　the　white　lambs　and　winged　death's…heads　so　worn　away　that　they　might　have　been　natural　outcroppings。
　　When　Steve　sucked　at　the　twisted　cigarette；　its　light　made　his　eyes　into　deep　dark　pools；　threw　his　sharp　nose　and　chin　into　spooky　shadowed　relief。　Ghost　took　the　joint　and　dragged　deeply。　The　glow　turned　his　hanging　pale　hair　fiery；　suffused　his　eyes。　He　held　his　breath　for　a　long　time；　sighed　out　a　great　plume　of　smoke；　and　leaned　back　against　his　favorite　gravestone：　that　of　Miles　Hummingbird；　1846…1865。　Kinsey's　great…great…great…uncle。　A　private　in　the　Confederate　army；　shot　somewhere　in　the　Virginia　woods　on　a　rainy　day　near　the　end　of　the　war；　trundled　home　to　North　Carolina　and　buried　in　the　springtime　mud。　Miles's　gravestone　was　rough　and　gray　and　moldering；　and　Miles's　bones　fell　softly　away　to　dust　below。　In　the　drifts　of　his　body　lay　a　shell　with　creamy　pink　insides；　a　shell　he　had　carried　home　from　his　family's　one　trip　to　the　shore　when　he　was　twelve；　a　shell　his　sister　had　laid　in　his　hands；　over　his　torn　chest；　a　shell　with　dry　tears　inside　a　hundred　and　twenty　years　old。
　　Ghost　put　his　cheek　against　the　cool　granite　and　thought；　Is　it　cold　in　the　shell　tonight；　Miles？；　and　Miles's　rusty　Carolina　voice；　so　very　far　away；　said；　It's　warm；　Ghost。　It's　warm　and　yellow　as　the　sand；　and　the　ocean　is　the　color　my　sister　eyes　once　were。
　　〃Blue…green？〃　said　Ghost。　〃Like　the　calm　ocean？　Or　blue…gray；　like　before　a　storm？〃　He　didn't　realize　he　had　spoken　aloud　until　Steve　glared　at　him。
　　〃Shit。　What　a　way　to　spend　Halloween；　in　the　graveyard　listening　to　you　talk　to　the　spooks。　I　ought　to　be　over　at　R。J。's　party　with　five　or　six　brews　already　down　and　another　one　ready　to　go。　Not　in　the　damn　graveyard　getting　stoned。〃　Steve　lay　back　in　the　pine　needles　with　his　hands　behind　his　head　and　regarded　the　smeary　glittering　stars　that　were　beginning　to　appear。　He　looked　as　if　he　would　like　to　snuff　them　out。
　　〃You　don't　need　any　beer；〃　Ghost　told　him。　〃You've　been
　　drinking　too　much。　Weed　clears　out　your　brain。〃　
　　〃You　think　Ann　will　be　at　that　party？〃　
　　〃Not　if　she　thinks　you　will。〃
　　〃No；　I　guess　not。　I　guess　she's　still　hanging　around　that　trailer　on　Violin　Road。　Out　where　those　creeps　moved　in。〃　Steve　was　silent　for　a　moment。　〃You　know；　they　never　let　her　in。　I　drove　past　there　one　day　and　saw　her　in　their　yard。　Thought　maybe　her　car　had　broken　do