Lost Souls

by Poppy Z. Brite - (ebook by Undead)

  Then she straightened her back, thrust out her chest, and smiled. None of that could happen to her. And if it did—well, then Simon couldn’t practice his emotional torture on her any more, and Steve would feel so bad that it would almost be worth it. “Why not?” she said. “I haven’t gotten stoned in three weeks.”

  She slid off the hood of the car, and Zillah took her arm and led her toward the van. Ann kept her arm squeezed against her body so that his fingers would come into contact with the sideswell of her breast. He didn’t move his hand away. Soon she felt his fingers begin to move, subtly caressing her, a forefinger darting out to graze her nipple. The nipple shivered erect, and he toyed with it a second longer. Ann felt something happening in her lower pelvis, a warm throbbing tension. If this man really got her stoned on opium, he might get more than the quickie he seemed to be looking for.

  Neither Ann nor Zillah looked back to see whether Nothing was following, but after a moment Nothing did.

  Ghost tailed Zillah and Nothing, keeping to the shadows, staying a good ways behind. They were well into the rundown section now. All the windows here were boarded up or broken. Ghost saw a milky swath of stars reflected in a long splinter of glass. The stars were cold in the sky. This part of town was always cold. Even in the middle of summer, night-walkers might shiver and pull their light clothes more tightly around them. The glinting spears of glass, the crust of dirt in the gutter, the cloud of steam that boiled like some gray-white phantom from a sewer grate cast a chill over everything.

  Ghost walked with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled down low. Once Zillah turned his head, and Ghost thought he could see hot green light spilling from those eyes. He ducked into a dark doorway, his heart beating faster.

  Zillah and Nothing melted into the cold shadows without a glance at the desolation around them. They moved silently and did not speak or touch, though their hands sometimes brushed together. Ghost stayed in the doorway and watched them. Down the sidewalk he saw a girl sitting on the hood of a car. She looked as if she might be crying. Her long hair could have been any color; the flat illumination of the few unbroken streetlights turned it black. But Zillah approached her and spoke to her, and when she looked up at him, Ghost saw her face. The girl was Ann Bransby-Smith.

  After talking to them for a minute, she slid down from the hood of the car. Frantically, Ghost reached out for Ann’s mind. If he could feel her, maybe he could warn her… of what? This kind, urbane man raising a baseball bat above his head, ready to split Ghost’s skull? Of Zillah’s smashed face that had magically repaired itself, of Zillah’s smooth voice murmuring cold lewd words in Ghost’s head?

  Ann would never believe it. And at any rate she wasn’t out there tonight, or if she was, he couldn’t find her. There was only the cold void of the dark. The ether, his grandmother had called that empty-feeling place. The ether was alone, and Ghost left it so. He watched as Ann walked away with Zillah, and when they had gone several paces, he started following again.

  When they got into the black van, Zillah helping Ann up and motioning Nothing in after her, Ghost thought it was all over. Up Shit Creek, Steve would have said, without a paddle. Now they would drive away, and Ghost would have to go back to the club and try to decide whether to tell Steve that his ex-girlfriend had just taken off with two of their mysterious visitors.

  But the headlights never came on; the motor didn’t start. The van didn’t move. A few times the back window lit up with the red flare of matches. Then the van stayed dark and still. Ghost walked closer, scared and confused. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go hammer on the windows, break the glass, rescue Nothing and Ann from that beautiful, awful creature with the bright green eyes.

  But Nothing had cast his lot already, and Ann was old enough to take care of herself. If Ghost tried to rescue her, she would probably punch him in the nose. So he prowled, and shivered, and wished for X-ray vision to see through the sides of the van. He closed his eyes and stood very still with his hands at his sides, swaying, but the van might have been a million miles away, might have been empty. He couldn’t feel anything.

  Ghost turned away, thinking he would go back to the club. He would keep his mouth shut if Steve was still conscious. He would take Steve home and give him a lot of coffee and maybe one of Miz Catlin’s potions. Maybe everything wouldn’t be so weird tomorrow. He turned away, and then he heard the door of the van slam.

  Nothing was standing on the sidewalk, half in the streetlights’ glare, half in the shadow of the storefronts. He stood as if he might be very tired or very drunk, but he held his head up, and there was strength in his face, strength and stubbornness and a resignation that should never have marked a face so young.

  “Hey,” said Ghost softly.

  Nothing’s eyes sharpened, and his lips parted a little. For a moment he stared into the darkness, but he didn’t look as if he cared much what came out of it. Then he saw Ghost and stepped forward, and they stood facing each other on the cold sidewalk.

  “That’s Steve’s girlfriend in the van there,” said Ghost.

  “That’s my lover in there with her,” Nothing said. “She’s on top now. He was on top before, when they started, and the sweat on his back was shining, and she screamed when he spread her legs and rammed it in…” His voice trailed away, and he stared at Ghost. His eyes were dark and huge, all pupil. His face was naked, exquisitely shadowed, desperate. “Be my brother,” he said. “Zillah loves me. He’ll let me stay now. I can stand it if you’ll be my brother just for one minute.”

  So Ghost put his arms around Nothing and hugged him tight, as he had wanted to do ever since he first saw the pain in those dark child-eyes. Nothing sagged against him as if never wanting to let go again, and Ghost felt all the exhaustion in that thin little body. There was strength in this boy, a lot of strength, but he was just a kid and God only knew what had been happening to him. He must have had about all he could stand for today.

  “Hold me,” said Nothing into the folds of Ghost’s jacket. “Please don’t let me go. Not yet.”

  “No,” Ghost told him. “Not yet. It’s all right.”

  He felt so damn helpless. It wasn’t all right. It would never be all right. If Nothing stayed with those three, with that one, he was lost. “Listen,” he said into the boy’s lank damp-smelling hair. “Do you want to come stay with me and Steve? I mean, he’ll cuss about it, but he won’t kick you out. Not if you need us.”

  Nothing looked up at Ghost for a second. Then he let his head fall back onto Ghost’s shoulder. The touch of his lips against Ghost’s throat was light, shivery. “I can’t,” he said. “If I went home with you, they’d come for me. Zillah would. And I have to go with them.”

  “Why? What are they to you?” Ghost knew his voice was getting louder, but he couldn’t stop it. “What the hell are they, Nothing? Steve’s pretty strong, but when that guy held him down, he couldn’t move. And I dreamed about you—or someone—and there was so much blood. What are they?”

  “Never mind,” said Nothing. “Never mind what they are. This is all you need to know: whatever they are, so am I.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “I wish you could tell me,” Nothing said. “I wish you remembered your dreams.” He let go of Ghost and turned toward the club.

  But in Nothing’s path was a shape that stood tall and awry, blocking the sidewalk. A scarecrow with hair wild and tangled, shirttails flapping, feet planted wide apart in a half-crouch, knees bent at crazy angles, arms outstretched, fingers clawing at the night. A shape that moved in a cloud of beer and murder-lust. Steve.

  His eyes found Ghost, wavered, shone. “Where the fuck is she? She’s with a guy. I know she’s with a guy. I’ll kill ’em both. Where the fuck—”

  The door of the van slammed again. Ann was there, steadying herself with one hand against the side of the van. Her hair was rumpled, her face flushed. Behind her, Zillah stepped out, placing his feet carefully on the sidewalk.

/>   Zillah was wearing pink sneakers, Ghost saw. The laces were printed with some kind of bright pattern—it looked like letters, but Ghost couldn’t make them out. Zillah looked at Nothing and smiled darkly. Nothing gave him a shaky smile in return, a smile that made Ghost want to cry, a smile that proved better than anything else that Nothing was lost.

  Steve looked from Zillah to Ann. His eyes gleamed; his mouth worked soundlessly. “Ann?” he managed at last. “You didn’… you cou’n’…”

  Ann walked right up to Steve. She held her head high and her back very straight, smiled sweetly into his stricken face.

  “I could and I did,” she said, “and you don’t have a goddamn thing to say about it.”

  “But he… but he…” Wordlessly, Steve gestured at Zillah, who turned away smiling. Ghost couldn’t tell whether Steve had noticed Zillah’s unmarked face.

  “He was the best lover I’ve ever had. He made you look pretty sorry. But you don’t need anyone to make you look sorry, do you? You do just fine on your own—or maybe with a little help from your bottle. Why don’t you just get out of my life, Steve? Why don’t you just drink yourself into an early grave?”

  “Shut up, Ann.” Ghost spoke mildly, but his face was pale, and his hands were clenched into tight fists. He wondered how events had managed to fall into place this way, the worst way anyone could imagine.

  Bad times coming, said a voice in his head. But they were already here.

  Ann’s eyes flickered to Ghost. “I’m sorry you have to see this,” she told him. “You’re good, Ghost, you really are. You better get away from this loser before he fucks up your life the way he fucked up mine.” She turned and walked away, back to Zillah, who was leaning against the van. Steve watched her go, terrible emotions warring in his face.

  Ann reached Zillah and tried to link her arm with his. For a moment it seemed that he would embrace her. But then Zillah’s hands closed on her shoulders, and he gave her a hard shove away from him. Ann staggered, almost lost her balance on the curb. Her head snapped back and hit the side of the van, and she barely managed to keep her balance.

  Zillah gazed at Steve. His eyes were triumphant. “So sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know the slut belonged to you.”

  With a low, desperate cry, Steve threw himself at Zillah. Ghost grabbed for him, trying to catch Steve’s arm or the back of his shirt, anything. He was afraid of what Zillah might do to Steve, who was hurting worse than ever before, who was too drunk to know what he was doing. But Ghost’s hands closed on air.

  Steve lurched forward. Zillah’s arm shot out, something pearly and silver glittering in his hand, and Ghost caught a glimpse of Zillah’s expression—amused boredom.

  Then Steve staggered back, blood dripping down his face, making dark flowers on his shirt. The razor had opened his forehead just above the eyebrows, and blood was pouring into his eyes, blinding him. He stumbled toward where he had last seen Zillah, taking wild swings at the air.

  Horrified, Ghost tried again to grab him. Surely now the razor would take out one of Steve’s eyes or slice straight across his throat.

  But Zillah had other things in mind. He sidestepped neatly, then stuck a pink-sneakered foot into Steve’s path. Before Ghost could get to him, Steve tripped over it and went down on the sidewalk.

  Ghost knelt beside Steve and shoved the messy hair back from his face. The cut across his forehead looked shallow, but it had to hurt like hell. Through some reflex not quite drowned in beer he had managed to get his hands in front of him as he hit the pavement, and his palms were scraped raw.

  Ghost searched for Steve’s mind with his own, wanting to soothe it. No good. Steve’s mind was inflamed, walled off, and Ghost could only feel around the edges of it. Its heat hurt him. He drew his own mind back, but held Steve tighter.

  “What the hell do you mean?” Ann asked. But there was little anger in her voice. She was edging toward Zillah. Her eyes never left his face; she didn’t seem to notice Steve bleeding on the sidewalk. “How can you call me a slut? That was magic. No one ever made me feel so good. Your cock—your tongue—” She shuddered.

  Ghost shut his eyes and pressed his face to Steve’s. Steve growled deep in his throat, low and feral, and tried to struggle back up. Ghost held him down. If Steve got loose now, he would kill someone or get killed, and the latter seemed a lot more likely.

  “My apologies,” said Zillah. “That was an unkind word. But you mustn’t love me. I have a lover already, if he has learned his lesson.” He held out his arms to Nothing. After the barest hesitation Nothing went to him, huddled into the curve of Zillah’s arm, laid his head on Zillah’s shoulder.

  “No,” said Ann. There was dull desperation in her voice. “No. I’ve never fucked anyone else like that. You can’t leave me.”

  Steve made a low choking sound, twisted his head, buried his face in Ghost’s lap. His raw hands scraped weakly at the sidewalk. Ghost caught them and held them tight.

  Nothing looked at Ann. His expression was pitying, a little disdainful. “Go away,” he told her. “Go find somebody else. I belong here—not you.”

  Ann’s face twisted. She stared around wildly, as if the night and the broken glass and the boarded-up storefronts were suddenly strange to her. Ghost ached to go to her, even after all she had said and done, but he couldn’t let go of Steve. Ann’s mouth opened, and for seconds it seemed as if her scream must split the night wide open.

  But then, from far down the sidewalk, another voice came. A loud voice, full of drunken cheer. “Hey! Zillah! Look who we found—it’s Chrissy!”

  Christian could barely stand up straight. This was what it must be like to be drunk. Of course, Twig’s arm was looped tight around Christian’s neck and Molochai seemed to be leaning his full weight against Christian, but it was not the burden of Molochai and Twig that made him unsteady on his feet. It was a combination of relief and giddiness, their warm coppery smell and the touch of skin that would not soon be dead and cold.

  They had waited for him until his shift at the bar was over, chattering about cities they had seen over the past years, rare new drugs they had taken, impossible scenes of carnage through which they had come unscathed. They assured him that Zillah was with them, still very much alive.

  After the bar closed, they dragged him out of the club before Kinsey could give him his cash pay. Their van was parked a few blocks away. Christian saw an assortment of figures on the sidewalk near it. One of them was Zillah, and something in Christian loosened at the sight of those brilliant green eyes, that face still so insouciant and smooth. For fifteen years he had waited to see that face again. Zillah greeted him with a raised eyebrow and a small evil smile.

  But who were these others? Two of them he had seen before. The girl with the smudged face, she had been at the club tonight. And the fair boy, the one whose pale eyes widened when he saw Christian—well, he was the singer for Lost Souls? But there was something else about him… Seeing him up close, Christian remembered. This was the boy who had come riding his bicycle at twilight, when Christian was about to close up his flower stand and go hunting. He had been so hungry, barely able to wait, but for reasons he could not explain to himself he had not wanted to take that boy.

  Another boy—the guitarist, Christian thought—lay on the sidewalk, his face buried in the fair one’s lap, his long legs sprawled at an uncomfortable angle. Christian smelled his blood, but it was of secondary interest to him. For there was another figure here, an unfamiliar one.

  Huddled beside Zillah, standing in Zillah’s shadow so that Christian had not noticed him at once…

  This must surely be the true child of night, the soul of all the thin children who wore black, who traced their eyes in kohl and stared out their windows waiting for the sun to set. This boy looked as if he had been raised in the back room of some hole-in-the-wall nightclub, fed on bread soaked in milk and whiskey, the bones of his face shaped fine by hunger. That was the word for this child: hungry. For what?—for drun
kenness, for salvation or damnation, for the night itself. The shadows beneath his eyes might have been painted in watercolor. The wrists protruding from the cuffs of his raincoat were thin, delicately knobby.

  Christian disengaged himself from Molochai and Twig, took a step closer. He did not know that he licked his lips. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “This is Nothing,” Zillah told him.

  The name took a moment to register. But Christian had never forgotten Jessy or her beautiful sugar-candy baby. All through the years he had wondered whether he might have kept the baby and cared for it himself; time after time he had reminded himself that he had abandoned it to give it a chance at a life untainted by blood. But he had never forgotten. Now he knew that he might as well have kept the baby after all. Blood calls to blood; curses and blessings find the ones they were meant for.

  “Nothing?” he asked, and took another step toward the boy. Shyly, the child nodded.

  Christian closed his eyes, and the words of his note pinned to a blanket on some long-ago cold dawn came back to him. “ ‘His name is Nothing,’ ” he quoted. “ ‘Care for him and he will bring you luck.’ ”

  He was not at all prepared for the boy’s reaction. Nothing tore himself away from Zillah and launched himself at Christian, threw his arms around Christian’s waist. Christian felt the boy’s body pressing against him, warm and vital.

  “Yes!” Nothing cried. “Yes! Yes! They changed my name! They called me Jason but I hated them and I’m still Nothing and now I’m home and you know who I am! Tell me! Tell me who I am!”

  “Why, you’re Zillah’s son,” said Christian. He had assumed they knew. But there was silence. Absolute silence. Even Molochai and Twig were quiet.

  Nothing only stared up at Christian. The shadows beneath his eyes were suddenly deeper; his mouth was limp, half-open. He had the look of an ill-used child, a child kept out too late. “Oh,” he said. That seemed to be all he could say. “Ohhh.”