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Christian shook his head sadly。 He did not laugh； but there was a trace of amused contempt in his eyes。 Wallace stopped chanting and lowered his arm。 The crucifix swung from his hand； shimmering when the moonlight caught it。
〃You are a fool；〃 said Christian。 〃You are a fool； and your myths are wrong。 If you touched me with that； it would not burn me。 It would not blacken my skin。 It would not poison my essence。 I have nothing against your Christ。 I am sure his blood tasted as sweet as anyone else's。〃
Christian imagined Wallace waving a crucifix in the faces of Molochai； Twig； and Zillah。 Those children； he thought； would laugh this silly old man into his grave。
〃Undead soul；〃 said Wallace； not quite steadily。
〃No。 I am alive。 I was born as you were born。〃 Well； not quite。 Christian thought of the mother he had never seen； wondered whether he had left her as torn and bloody as Jessy had been。 〃I am not the creature of your myths。 I did not rise from the grave。 I have never been one of your race； Wallace Creech…I am of a different one。〃
Now Christian was smiling； letting the sharp tips of his teeth show； it was an icy smile； masking his lust。 Wallace； no matter how ineffective； was a danger； a threat。 And that meant Christian should kill him now and let him follow his daughter into the river where their bones might drift together in the intimacy Wallace seemed to long for。
Still smiling； gazing steadily into the depths of Wallace's eyes； Christian stepped forward and rested his hands on the old man's stooped shoulders。 Wallace stared back as if hypnotized； but Christian could feel the man's muscles pulled painfully tight； tense to the point of trembling。
Christian lowered his head and brushed his lips against Wallace's throat。 And suddenly he found himself wishing that all the ancient human myths were true。 He had seen no others of his kind in fifteen years； since Molochai； Twig； and Zillah appeared by some Mardi Gras magic and left again when the sun set on Ash Wednesday。 Christian wished he had the power that the legends ascribed to him。 He wished his victims could rise again and run with him； others of his kind to share the smell of the streets past midnight； the long hot days with the shades drawn； the taste of the sweet fresh blood。 Even Wallace would do； even old tired Wallace with the pain in his eyes。 He put his mouth against Wallace's throat。 The skin there was dry； loose； it smelled of age。 He bit down and tasted blood for the second time that night。。。。
But it was bitter； it was foul； and he spat it back against Wallace's throat and gagged。 Christian's nostrils flared。 He had not detected it before； under the stinging mist of whiskey and sorrow； but now it was obvious； strong； and rank。 The smell of sickness； deep rotting sickness that rioted through Wallace's body； as wet and brown as the smell of the river。 Some virulent disease； probably a cancer。 The taste was corruption in his mouth。
If that had been all； Christian could have fled or fought。 He was very strong； surely stronger than Wallace。 But a second later the nausea hit him； worse than the drunken sickness brought on by the Chartreuse； worse than the sharp immediacy of that pain。 It knocked him down； and he lay as still as he could； languid with shock； trying not to move for fear of increasing the nausea。 He felt his stomach convulsing and he fought to keep the boy's blood down。 He did not want to relinquish that。
Through the haze of sickness he was aware of Wallace pulling something from behind his back； something that had been tucked into the waistband of his trousers。 The object caught the moon and became a thing of pure light； a slim pistol shining white and silver。
He saw Wallace taking aim and closed his eyes。 Then the night exploded and pain slammed into Christian's chest。 He could not breathe。 He felt the hot pellet of lead tunnelling into him； through him。 He kept his eyes dosed so that he would not have to see the triumph on Wallace's face。
His last thought before the pain and the sickness washed his mind away was one of regret： Three hundred and eight…three years。。。such a very long time 。 。 。 he should have been beautiful。。。 not this sad； old； tired man。。。he should have been lovely。
Chapter 10
Nothing hurried through the circle of brilliance made by a streetlight and slipped into the deserted darkness again。 He pulled his raincoat around him （O sensuous black silk； as erotic as the touch of someone else's skin！） and hoisted his heavy backpack on his shoulder。
His passage was hidden by luxuriant hedges and the shadows they cast on verdant lawns； by sleek cars parked at the curb。 Even if his parents missed him now； they'd never be able to find him。 He had a sudden vision of them cruising the dark streets in his mother's Volvo； calling his name； waving a bottle of good whiskey to lure him home。
He was forcing himself to be absolutely silent； making a game of it so that he would not have to think too hard about what he had left behind。 His room and all the things in it。 Most of his tapes； most of his books； all his records and old toys and the stars on his ceiling。 He thought of the stars still glowing there； lonely pinpoints of light above his empty bed； and he wondered if he would ever again sleep beneath a ceiling of painted yellow stars。 Tears pressed against the backs of his eyes。 He chewed his lower lip； hugged himself tight； and waited for the wave of loneliness to subside。 Not even two blocks away and already homesick。 This time tomorrow； alone on some Greyhound in the night； he might be a real mess。
He unzipped his backpack and felt around inside。 He had brought only the bare essentials： his collection of Dylan Thomas's poems； his notebook； the note stolen from his mother's drawer that would tell his family who he was when he found them； his Walkman； and as many tapes as he had been able to cram in。 He would honor the backpack well； it would never have to lug schoolbooks again。
His fingers found the Walkman and the edge of a cassette tape。 He didn't care what he listened to。 He just wanted to hear something； something to carry him away； to blot out his thoughts for a while。 He knew he didn't really have to watch for his parents。 They'd never miss him。 He had heard them e in sometime after ten； boozed up on expensive wine and stuffed with French food； arguing about him。 〃You want him to follow any asinine whim that catches his fancy；〃 Father had said； and Mother replied； 〃He has to find himself；〃 but she didn't sound as serene as usual。 They'd gone into their bedroom and shut the door。 Nothing lay in bed and thought about going south where he could follow his whims； asinine or not。 Where no one would ever have to argue about him again。
He put on the Lost Souls？ cassette。 The music was soft and wailing； the singer's voice pulling him down south； down along the ways the trains travelled； down through the green land。 Nothing wondered whether these musicians might be his family； his long…lost brothers。 He thought again of the eerie…sounding town where they lived。 Maybe he would go there。
What the hell； he decided； and lit a cigarette。 Its red firefly glow would pick him out of the darkness if anyone was looking for him。 But no one was。 He knew that。 Even if his parents missed him； they would figure he'd sneaked out to party with his friends。 We'll cancel his allowance for a week； they'd say； and then they'd roll over and sleep their dreamless sleep。 When he didn't e home the next day； they would call the police and set up a halfhearted search for him； but perhaps they would be secretly relieved。 Now they could live their fortable lives with no strange son to look at them and silently judge them。 Now they need no longer wonder what they had raised； why their child had disappointed them so； whether they might have been happier if he had not been left on their doorstep that cold morning。 Now he was on the road。 He would smoke Lucky Strikes and wander； and he would find his home。 He was on his way already。
Skittle's was almost empty when Nothing walked in。 The cuffs of his jeans were wet with night…dew。 The fresh cut on his wrist throbbed in time with his heartbeat。 He saw Jack in a corner booth with four other kids； two boys and two girls。 One of the boys was Laine。 The table was littered with empty wax cups and half…eaten pizza； the ashtray choked with butts。
Nothing looked at Jack。 〃Can you still drive me to Columbia？〃
〃I said I would； dude。 Since when do I go back on my word？ I need the five dollars if you have it。〃 Nothing handed him a bill； and Jack tucked it into his pack of Marlboros。
〃I have to be at the bus station by one；〃 Nothing said pointedly。 〃The bus leaves then。〃
Jack heaved a great sigh。 〃Okay。 Okay。 Let's peel out。〃 He stood up； the chains on his boots jangling。
The others stood too； Laine slipped out of the booth and pressed up close to Nothing。 His breath； sweet with cloves； tickled Nothing's ear。 〃Where are you gonna go？〃
〃I don't know。 South。〃
〃How e you didn't tell me？〃
〃I didn't know until tonight。〃
Laine took Nothing's hand between both of his； twined his fingers into Nothing's。 〃You should've called me。 I would have gone with you。 I hate it here too。〃
Nothing looked at Laine。 Laine's lips were smeared with black lipstick； his feathery white…blond hair hid his eyes。 Nothing wanted to brush the hair away； but he couldn't。 He slid his hand out of Laine's and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans。 〃I thought you were going out with Julie；〃 he said。
Laine shrugged； an unconcerned； eloquent gesture。 〃We broke up。 She's such a damn poser。〃
〃She's all right；〃 said Nothing。 〃She gave me her Lost Souls？ tape。〃
〃Yeah； well； she never listened to it anyway。 She doesn't listen to anything but English fashion bands。〃 Laine sneered。 Nothing wondered whether Julie had dumped Laine this afternoon； or possibly even earlier tonight。 The wounds seemed fresh。
If Laine wanted Nothing to lick them； though； he was out of luck。 Laine wasn't getting an invitation to go south with him。 No way。 Nothing was leaving all this behind tonight… the school； the parents； and this goddamn pizza joint where the kids sat and smoked and talked about how great their lives would be if only they lived anywhere but here。
Jack and the others were heading for the parking lot。 Laine grabbed Nothing's hand and pulled him along。 〃You don't want to get left； do you？ You're getting the hell out of here！〃 Laine's voice was exalted； envious。
The ride to Columbia seemed to take no lime at all。 Guardrails； underpasses； dead orange sodium lights flashed past at a great speed。 Skinny Puppy played on Jack's tape deck； so loud that the notes were mangled beyond recognition。 Someone passed around a flask of cheap vodka； and Jack drank most of it in one long gurgling swallow…like the Irishman chauffeur in a story Nothing had read； Jack could not drive unless he was blind drunk。
Nothing was squeezed in the backseat between Laine and a diminutive purple…haired girl who called herself Sioux。 Sioux pulled a little knife from her boot and passed it over to Laine。 〃See what Veronica traded me for that Cramps poster？ It's fucking sharp！〃
Laine fingered the tip of the knife and yelped as the blade pierced his skin。 〃Seriously！ That hurt。〃
A spot of blood glistened on Laine's fingertip； wet and black in the orange light of the highway。 Nothing bent and took Laine's finger into his mouth and licked the blood away。 Laine lay back smiling。 Nothing touched his tongue to the spot； questing for more； but Laine slid his other hand under Nothing's chin； tilted Nothing's face up； and kissed him deeply； wetly； hugging him close。
〃I'll miss you；〃 said Laine into Nothing's mouth； and pushed Nothing against the back of the seat and kissed him again。
Then Sioux leaned over and licked Nothing's throat； and Laine's hands were in his hair and Sioux's hands were on his thighs； sliding up under his shirt。 Nothing closed his eyes and smiled into the darkness。 His friends had disappointed him in every other way； but they certainly knew how to give a good send…off。
The others waited at the bus station with him un