Lost Souls

by Poppy Z. Brite - (ebook by Undead)

  The dark metallic smell of blood. And beneath that, the bittersweet scent of rose petals.

  Now Zillah was beckoning to him from the couch. Nothing could tell from the tiny smirk on his lips what Zillah wanted, and he had to quash a tiny flare of irritation. Didn’t Zillah know how wrong it would be for them to make love in this house? Nothing could not go to him, not this time. At the end of that hall, drowning in that scent, might be Ghost. And Nothing thought that somehow the smell might be his fault. He should not have brought his new family here. He lived in a different world now, and could not cross back and forth.

  He started down that white passage.

  The hall was long. Light filtered into it from the open rooms. Someone had left the bathroom light on. Nothing reached in and turned it off as he passed, looking at the ivoried tub squatting on gryphons’ feet, the lone beer can on the edge of the sink. He was seeing things very lucidly now, aware of each detail. The air in the house was as clear as cool still water.

  Then he was at the door of someone’s bedroom. Ghost’s, it had to be. Delicate colored leaves and dead flowers were pinned to the ceiling. On the walls, in crayon and ink, pencil and Magic Marker, was a fabulous twisted riot of color—maps of real lands, maps of strange lands, faces that seemed about to speak. And words. Hundreds of words. There were words strung together in sentences and quotations and lyrics. There were words alone, written there because of their individual bright or dark glory. And there on the ceiling—above the bed, showing through a nest of brittle foliage—there were stars. A universe of stars and planets painted there, a thousand tiny heavenly bodies, yellow, glowing faintly.

  My god, I’m home, thought Nothing, and stepped into the room. And in that instant, the figure on the bed—the figure that Nothing had not seen because it lay so still, swathed in a great heap of bedclothes, because its pale hair fell so transparent across the pillow—sat bolt upright and shrieked, “NOTHING!”

  In the living room, three heads swivelled toward the sound. Molochai’s throat stopped working in midswig, and beer cascaded over his chin. “Nothing?” he sputtered.

  “Nothing,” said Twig, nodding.

  Zillah’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about Nothing,” he hissed. With one fluid movement he was off the couch, disappearing into the recesses of the house. For a moment Molochai and Twig gaped after him. Then they looked at each other, shrugged, and followed Zillah down the hall.

  Steve was dreaming. Somewhere in his head Ann struggled, beat her fists against the inside of his skull, trying to force her way out. Fuck her. She could rot in there. (What the hell do you think she’s doing? his mind asked nastily, but he ignored it.) Why was she complaining? She liked to play with his mind.

  But suddenly there were teeth.

  At first he thought he had imagined the gnawing. But pain flared inside his skull, razor-sharp, ripping, and he knew. She was trying to chew her way out of his head. She was trying to eat her way out. He felt her teeth tearing at the soft meat of his brain. He clawed at his forehead, trying to stop her, trying to wrench her out before she made wounds that would never heal—

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he gasped, jerking himself awake. A Penthouse centerfold grinned at him from the wall above his bed, pulling her anatomy open like pink bubble gum. Steve snarled and tore it down, crumpled it, threw it into the corner.

  Ghost shrieked from the next room, his voice clear and terrified. Nothing, it sounded like he’d said.

  Nightmares for everybody this morning. Or this afternoon, more likely. What time had they finally gone to bed? No idea. A hangover began its stealthy gnawing inside Steve’s head, no dream this time, and he almost rolled over and let Ghost sleep through it. But Ghost’s dreams were always just a little too real to ignore.

  He rolled out of bed, dragged on semi-clean underwear and a T-shirt that didn’t even approach a state of cleanliness. Got to do some laundry, he chided himself. Yeah, laundry, and maybe haul some whiskey bottles and beer cans out to the recycling dump, and maybe make some apologies and get his life back together while he was at it.

  That was when he heard the voices in the living room and the footsteps coming down the hall.

  Having his privacy or his belongings invaded anywhere, at any time, was enough to piss Steve off mightily. Someone had stolen the radio out of his T-bird right after he’d gotten it back in high school, and Steve had sat outside for three nights waiting for the asshole to show himself again. The asshole never had, of course. But the idea of this house, Miz Deliverance’s house, being broken into was almost unbearable. White magic had happened here. This place had sanctity, dammit.

  He had never expected anything bad to happen in this house, had vaguely thought it had a magic circle around it or something. But he hadn’t been willing to stake his life on it, so he kept a taped-up Louisville Slugger next to his bed. It reassured him, along with the claw hammer under the driver’s seat of the T-bird and the sock full of pennies he kept behind the cash register at the record store. Steve was hyperaware of the possibility that violence could erupt anywhere at any time; he supposed that meant he was really the one with the violent nature. But he was glad of it now.

  He grabbed the bat, hefted it, and stepped out into the hall.

  Right into the path of Zillah.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he had time to get out, and then the crazy green-eyed apparition was lunging at him, all bared teeth and hooked claw-hands, so Steve pulled the Slugger back and swung it straight into the fucker’s face. The crunch of bone and cartilage reverberated through the wood into Steve’s hands. It wasn’t a bad feeling.

  Green-eyes staggered back and hit the wall hard, but didn’t go down even with the fountain of blood pouring between his cupped hands. His mouth and nose were erupting blood; Steve had felt the bat take several teeth out. Two taller, bulkier figures were coming down the hall.

  Steve was afraid somebody might be in Ghost’s room too; he had to get in there first. He grabbed the bleeding figure by its long hair and one shoulder and with all his strength shoved it down the hall toward the approaching strangers. It crashed into them, spraying blood, and all three staggered and nearly went down.

  Steve ran into Ghost’s room, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.

  As Nothing approached the bed, Ghost went limp and collapsed back into the tangle of bedclothes. Reality did another slow giddy roll as Nothing stood looking down at the fair dreaming face, gone tranquil now. This was Ghost, the lost soul of all lost souls. This was his secret brother—some part of Nothing’s mind still clung dimly to that wish, though he knew now that it was not true. There was a deep scarlet rose in the lapel of Ghost’s rumpled army jacket, full blown and fragrant.

  Then he noticed the stain at the corner of Ghost’s mouth. Not much blood, not much at all. Just a drop. Ghost must have bitten his lip or his tongue. Nothing bent without thinking to lick the blood away, and Ghost’s eyes flew open and stared straight up into Nothing’s.

  “Born in blood,” Ghost whispered. “Born in blood and pain—”

  Then the door burst open and slammed shut again, and strong hands seized the back of Nothing’s raincoat and yanked him up. All at once he was flying toward the wall. His forehead caught the edge of something sharp. Tiny colored stars exploded through blackness. Blue, red, silver. All the stars from Ghost’s ceiling were showering down on him. He closed his eyes and let them land on his eyelids, tingling.

  Steve’s adrenaline rose another notch at the sight of the strange kid bending over Ghost’s bed. But he couldn’t bring himself to bash the kid’s skull in, not from behind. Instead he grabbed the kid by the back of his coat and threw him across the room. He did not know that he was screaming Ghost’s name, but later his throat would be sore.

  He turned, weighing the bat in both hands, keeping it between him and the kid, keeping himself between the kid and the bed. “What did he do to you?” he asked Ghost, who was looking dazed, not quite awake.

 
“I didn’t do anything,” the kid said. “I wouldn’t hurt him, honest. Or you either, Steve.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I like your music and—”

  “Yeah? This how you usually show your appreciation for art? Breaking into people’s houses?”

  The kid looked so sad and shamefaced that Steve almost felt sorry for him. Not quite, though. The kid didn’t seem dangerous, didn’t seem to have any fight in him, and he was locked in here with Steve and the baseball bat. This kid might be the only weapon he had against those three creeps in the hall if Steve handled it right.

  “Ghost. Wake up, Ghost, WAKE UP, YOU DUMB-FUCK.” Ghost would be worse than useless in your typical barroom brawl, but in mortal danger Steve suspected he could hold his own if he was fully awake.

  Ghost blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the last shreds of nightmare. Steve edged closer to the kid, who was still sprawled on the floor staring miserably up at him. He had enormous street-orphan eyes and that phony dyed black hair that so many kids wore and Steve hated.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  “Nothing?” said Ghost. “Did you send a—”

  Something crashed against the door. It shuddered in its frame. The kid looked toward the source of the sudden noise. Steve reached down, hauled him up by his coat collar, and pinned his arms behind his back. It must have hurt, but he didn’t cry out; he was a tough little kid. Steve didn’t really want to hurt him. But he would if he had to. He got a good grip on the baseball bat and pulled Nothing back toward the bed.

  The object crashed against the door again—they must be using the big piece of quartz that sat in the hall; nothing else could make that much noise—and Steve saw the doorknob splinter loose from its moorings. Another crash and the door swung halfway open. From the corner of his eye Steve saw Ghost scrambling up in bed, pressing his back against the headboard.

  The two larger figures appeared in the doorway, supporting the smaller one between them. The entire lower half of the small one’s face was a mask of bruise and blood. His hands dangled at his sides, bloodied, the fingers clenching and unclenching. When he opened his mouth to speak, Steve saw with grim satisfaction that he had taken out most of the bastard’s front teeth.

  “You hurt my face,” said Green-eyes. Through the mush of blood and ruined tissue, his voice was low and smooth, smoother than it should have been considering how much he must be hurting. “I don’t like it when people hurt my face. We’re going to tear you up.”

  “Try it if you want your ugly face smashed in worse,” Steve said. He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. To pull this off, he could not show an iota of fear in the presence of these creeps, even though they smelled as if they’d been eating roadkill for breakfast. Steve jerked his arm tight across the kid’s throat. He saw the light-colored roots of the kid’s hair and the tender scalp beneath, and knew that he could bring the Slugger down on it if he had to.

  Green-eyes stared at him for a moment, considering. “Let him go,” he said. “If you do, we’ll just settle our score with you. But if I have to take him away from you, I’ll rip open your pretty friend and have his intestines for breakfast.”

  “Yeah, fucker. I’m real eager to make deals with a bag of pus like you.” Steve throttled the kid a little harder and heard him choke, though he had not struggled or cried out.

  “Not ‘fucker,’ ” said Green-eyes. “Zillah. Remember the name. Remember it when you feel my teeth sink into your heart.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna sink ’em into my heart, you better go pick ’em out of the hall runner first.” Steve thought he felt the kid stifle a helpless laugh, of all things. He eased up on the boy’s throat a little.

  Zillah glanced right and left at his cohorts. They were poised like springs, like big cats on the prowl. “Molochai—Twig—take him down,” he said. “Save the boy if you can.”

  Steve knew his shaky bargaining chip was gone. He thrust Nothing as far away from him as he could and started swinging the bat as Molochai and Twig closed in.

  One came at him high, one low. He brought the bat down on a shaggy head and felt it thunk against a cushion of hair. The owner of the hair staggered but recovered fast. Then one long pair of arms was wrapped around his legs and one slobbering feral face was pushed up close to his, and he lost his balance and went back onto the bed with both of them crushing him.

  Sharp nails raked across his chest, drawing beads of blood. Sharper teeth sank deep into the meat of his hand, and he screamed and lost his grip on the bat. It clattered to the floor and rolled under the bed. In an instant Zillah had darted across the room and retrieved it.

  A snorting, snuffling head burrowed in between Steve’s neck and shoulder. The filthy dishevelled hair tickled horribly. Steve whipped his head around, tried to bring his chin down tight against his chest. He felt hot drool on his neck. Teeth found his skin and nipped.

  “Don’t do him just yet,” said Zillah mildly, and the teeth went away. One creep had Steve pinned on the bed, sitting on his chest and trapping his arms. Molochai and Twig were heavy and bulky and amazingly strong, and Steve couldn’t catch his breath with the full weight of whichever one it was on top of him. Ghost hadn’t even had time to struggle before the other creep had pinned him. Steve aimed a useless kick at Zillah, who stepped gracefully away.

  Nothing pushed himself away from the wall, flung his arms out in a pleading gesture. “Don’t hurt them.”

  Zillah snorted and hawked a bright pink gob of blood to the floor. “Why not?” he said, dangerously quiet.

  “Because they know me. Ghost knows who I am. He said so.”

  “Yesss?” Zillah’s smashed face convulsed in what might have been a smile. “I know who you are too. You’re a pretty little boy who hasn’t learned his place yet. You’re a pest who is going to have his throat ripped out in about two minutes if he doesn’t SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Zillah rounded on Nothing, jabbed him hard in the stomach with the baseball bat. The boy staggered backward, the wind knocked out of him.

  “I want him to watch,” Zillah continued. He held the bat up, waved its broad end in front of Steve’s face. “I don’t need this, you know. I could kill both of you with one hand while I jerked off with the other. But since you used it on me…”

  Zillah moved to the head of the bed, stood over Ghost’s prone form. By craning his head back, Steve could just see him. Zillah shoved the bat into Ghost’s face, and Steve’s mouth went dry. “Such a fine, straight, hard piece of wood. But so plain. It needs brightening up, don’t you think? . . . with some pretty red GORE?… and some silky blond HAIR?… and some MAGIC BRAAAINS?”

  Zillah’s voice rose to a shriek on the last word, and he raised the bat high above his head. Steve brought his knees up hard, bucked and arced and thrashed. But the creep’s grip on him did not slacken and the bat was falling, falling …

  “NOOOOOO!” A black blur was in the air, raincoat billowing like great wings, arrowing straight across the bed and slamming into Zillah. The bat flew out of Zillah’s hands and sailed across the room. It connected with the window and punched through the glass, and then the Slugger was gone, no longer a factor in the equation.

  Nothing’s momentum carried him and Zillah straight into the opposite wall. Zillah took most of the impact. He slid down the wall and lay against it, dazed, his head bracketed by words in pencil and paint and crayon. There was a comma-shaped smear of blood on the wall where Zillah’s head had hit. Minute cracks in the plaster radiated from it.

  Nothing crouched astride Zillah, still gasping for breath. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “You made me kill Laine and I did it. But not Ghost. Not Ghost.”

  Molochai and Twig were so surprised by the whole spectacle that they let go of Steve and Ghost. Steve scrambled up, expecting them to go for him at once. Instead they bounded across the room to Zillah.

  Twig grabbed Nothing and pulled him up by the front of his coat.
Molochai raised his hand to his face. After a moment Steve saw that he was biting through the skin of his own wrist. When Molochai’s blood began flowing freely, he pressed his wrist to Zillah’s mouth.

  Steve’s hands ached. He supposed it was an aftereffect of the adrenaline rush. Later he would realize he had been gripping the bat so tightly that his fingers were still curled in the shape of its handle.

  Nothing’s teeth clacked together when Twig hauled him up, and he tasted blood again. The taste reminded him of the potion in the wine bottle, the feast of Laine’s blood they had shared. More than anything he wanted to be back in the van, singing, drinking, on his way to New Orleans. Going away from here. Something had gone terribly wrong.

  At least Zillah wasn’t dead, though he looked as if he ought to be. He had taken a baseball bat in the face without going down, and Nothing thought he could have taken the blow against the wall too, though it had been hard enough to break someone’s neck. But the two blows so close upon each other had stunned him. Maybe Molochai’s blood would bring him around. If it did, Nothing didn’t know what Zillah would do to him, or to Steve and Ghost. He had to get them out of here before Zillah came all the way back.

  He reached up, grasped Twig’s hands, and removed them from the lapels of his coat. “You want to waste time fucking with me?” he asked. “Zillah didn’t tell you to fuck with me. And he’s hurt bad.”

  “Because of you,” Twig growled.

  Nothing could feel Twig’s hands trembling in his grasp, aching to go for his throat. He knew Twig could kill him in a heartbeat. “Then save me for him. Let him punish me for getting him hurt. He’ll be pissed if he comes round and you’ve already sucked me dry, won’t he?”