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anted the kids to have someplace to go。 He wanted them to have someplace where they could be happy for a while。
But sometimes it was a backbreaking job。 Long ago he had learned that to make it go smoothly； he had to attend to every detail himself the booking； the ordering； even the decor。 When there was no one else to do it； he also had to make the soup and sandwiches and tote all the kegs and cases of beer。 A week ago he had fired his latest assistant bartender for serving beer to a fourteen…year…old； trying to put the make on her。 The boy was astonished when mild…mannered Kinsey Hummingbird blessed him out； came within an inch of slugging him； then gave him his walking papers。 But the Yew could lose its license for a thing like that。 Nobody fucked with Kinsey where the Sacred Yew was concerned。
So he had been tending bar solo for a week。 Steve and Ghost from Lost Souls？ helped him out sometimes…Ghost； whose grandmother had left him her house and all the money he would ever require to live on； would do it gratis。 But just now they were busy practicing a bunch of new songs。 They played at the club once a week or more； and they were his biggest draw。 People came from as far away as Raleigh and Chapel Hill to see them。 They were getting good； and he wanted them to practice。
But Kinsey was tired。 So when the guy walked in and said he'd tended bar in New Orleans for twenty years； Kinsey hired him on the spot。 He wasn't fazed by the funereal clothes and the cold pale face； or by the fact that the guy was even taller than him and maybe skinnier。 When you ran a club； you met plenty of weirdos。 This particular weirdo struck him as a good bartender。
〃Christian； hm？ Were your folks Holy Rollers？〃 That could drive anybody to a life of bartending。
The guy shook his head。 〃It's a family name。〃
〃Whatever；〃 said Kinsey amiably。
That same night； Christian fell back into the routine of popping bottle tops； tapping kegs and drawing foamy draft beer into plastic cups； replying to small talk without really hearing it。 The bar seemed primitive： Kinsey served no liquor or even wine； only beer； and not many varieties of that。 Without shots to set up； without Sazeracs and Hurricanes to mix； Christian felt he was hardly working。
Gradually and gratefully he came to realize that this was no redneck bar。 He saw children in black； which he had not expected in a small southern town； and he watched them and began to know their faces。 But he would wait。 Some of these children might be drifters or flotsam from the state university in Raleigh； but he could not afford to be greedy too soon。 He had waited before。 Soon someone would e to town； alone and a stranger； someone he could take safely。
His wages from the bar would not be quite enough to pay for the trailer he rented…it was on Violin Road； but it was cheap…and the gasoline to drive to work each night。 On his way north he had seen wooden stands by the side of the road。 They sold flowers； fruit； trinkets。 Behind his trailer was a scrap heap and a great thicket of roses rioting wild。 Christian cut the huge blossoms and wrapped their stems in newspaper。 In an overgrown patch of garden he found a few stunted pumpkins； a few gourds gone dry on the vine。 He got some sixpenny nails and a hammer from the hardware shop in town； dragged several boards out of the scrap heap； put together a stand and painted a sign。
When the sun was not too bright； he drove around the outskirts of Missing Mile and set up his stand on different corners。 Sometimes people stopped to buy from him； he answered their chatter with the practiced glibness that came from a few centuries of bartending。 From behind his dark glasses he watched their faces and their throats； wondering how long it would be until his mouth began to water at the smell of their blood。
Christian would stay in Missing Mile as long as he could； and when he had saved some money； he would fill the tank of his Bel Air and start driving north again。 North was where Molochai； Twig； and Zillah might be； and he still thought of finding them。 Sometimes at night he would take out the three bottles of Chartreuse he had brought from New Orleans。 He read the legend on the green…and…gold foil label again and again； thinking of Wallace Creech and the children of the French Quarter and the dirty slow river； but he never cracked the seals on any of the bottles。 He still remembered how the green fire had blazed through him on his last night in New Orleans。
Chapter 15
By ten o'clock the next morning； Nothing was so hungry and lonely that he almost cried from sheer relief when the biker stopped and picked him up。
Sleeping in a barn hadn't been any fun。 He'd gotten out of the rain for a few hours； but he woke up sore； hunger nibbling at his stomach and the taste of dust and rotten blood in his mouth。 When he stumbled out of the barn； morning sunlight blinded him for a moment。 Nothing squeezed his eyes shut； then opened them a crack； cautiously。 The countryside glistened in green splendor around him。 Tendrils of vine crept up the side of the barn； poked inquisitively through a hole in the roof。 He dosed his eyes again and breathed the smell of sunlight drying up last night's rain。
Back on the highway； not many cars went by。 None stopped。 He saw some men eating biscuits and drinking coffee in a pickup truck； and saliva rushed into his mouth。 He spat on the side of the road； to swallow hunger…spit would only make him hungrier。 Experimentally； he put his hand on his stomach。 Through the damp cloth of his T…shirt； it already felt more hollow。 Surely his hipbones were sharper than they had been two days ago。 He lit a Lucky and sucked up the smoke as if it were orange juice。
The next haft hour crawled by。 Nothing walked slowly along the shoulder of the road sticking out his thumb whenever a car went by。 Everyone in the cars stared at him； but no one stopped。 Then he heard the growl of a motor around the bend he'd just passed。 Something was ing down the highway fast…no car； no decrepit pickup。 A motorcycle。 A big one。 He stared pleadingly as it approached； and when the driver saw him； the bike slowed and pulled up short beside him。
〃Where you headed？〃 the biker asked。 The question already seemed familiar。
〃Missing Mile； North Carolina。〃 Nothing wasn't sure if he was really going there； but the name had bee a sort of talisman。
〃Yeah？ I'm going to Danville。 That's almost over the Carolina border。 Hop on。〃
Nothing had never been on a motorcycle before； though he had always wished he could drive one。 This was a heavy bike； chopped and channelled； chrome winking through a layer of highway dirt。 Nothing stood looking at the machine until the biker said； 〃You want a ride or not？〃
〃Yeah； sure。〃 Nothing looked up into the biker's face。 White blond hair going dark at the roots； frazzled by wind。 No crash helmet。 Enormous hollow eyes； as round and glowing as a bushbaby's。 Eyes like little moons； set back in gray hollows of bone。 A young…old face； road…tough yet somehow melancholy； hanging over the turned…up collar of a black leather jacket。 〃What's your name？〃 Nothing asked。
〃Spooky；〃 the biker told him； and it seemed right。
Nothing climbed up behind Spooky and wrapped his arms around the biker's waist。 Under the heavy jacket Spooky's body felt loose…jointed； thin as a whippet。 The wide saddle thrummed； it was like climbing astride something living。 Then Spooky let out the clutch； and the bike leaped forward。 The wind pummelled Nothing's bare head； blew his hair straight back； stung his eyes。 He wondered whether they were going very fast。
Around noon they stopped in a little town and got a bucket of fried chicken； which they ate in an old tumbledown graveyard some miles down the highway。 Nothing wolfed the crisp flesh and sucked at the bones； but Spooky only picked at a drumstick； peeling off shreds of meat and shoving them listlessly into his mouth。 Nothing licked the grease off his fingers and leaned back against the door of a crumbling family vault。 The iron bars shifted beneath his weight； and Nothing waited to see whether he would spill in among the bones。 The door held。 A little disappointed； he looked back at Spooky。 The biker's hands were shaking now。
〃Shit；〃 said Spooky。 〃Are you cool？ I need to fix。〃 He mimed jabbing something into the vein of his arm。
〃Oh；〃 said Nothing； understanding。 〃Oh。 Sure I'm cool。〃 He tried to look cool。 〃Who do you think I'd tell？〃
〃Just gotta be sure。 You never know。〃 Spooky dug through the pockets of his jacket and pulled out several objects。 A tarnished silver spoon； a dirty shred of cheesecloth； a cheap plastic lighter。 From the saddlebag of the bike he took a Thermos full of water。 Last； he reached into some inner partment of his jacket and removed a flat lacquered box inlaid with a bright scene of tropical birds。 He opened it reverentially； Nothing half…expected silver light to spill out； bathing Spooky's face； engulfing him。 But inside the box was only a plastic bag full of little foil packets； seemingly hundreds of them。 And them； as innocuous as a dull gray viper； the syringe。
Nothing watched closely； trying to look as if he had seen it all before。 Spooky removed his studded leather belt； shrugged off his jacket； and pulled the belt tight around his upper arm。 His skin was faintly damp； mottled。 He poured a little water into the spoon and shook a grainy white powder out of one of the foil packets。 Then； as if remembering his manners； he glanced up at Nothing。 〃Oh； hey； you want to fix？〃
〃Yes；〃 said Nothing without thinking。 If he thought； he might panic。 Dead rock stars flitted through his mind。 William Burroughs chided him。
〃I'll do you first。 You're just a kid； you don't know how to do it。 You might shoot an air bubble。〃
Nothing closed his eyes as Spooky unbuckled the belt from his own arm and drew it snug around Nothing's。 He stroked the inside of Nothing's elbow； pressing down； smoothing out the skin。 His touch was very gentle； but had no sexual quality to it。 All of Spooky's erotic energy seemed to go into the handling of his drug。
〃Okay； here's your vein。 Keep your finger on it。〃 Spooky held the lighter under the spoon until the mixture started to bubble。 Then he laid the cheesecloth over the surface and drew the solution into the syringe。 Spooky's hands were steady now。
〃Still got that vein？ Okay； hold it 。 。 。〃 He held up the syringe and flicked the needle's tip with his finger。 〃Don't worry。 I can smell you're scared； but this is good shit。 There goes the bubble。 Safe as milk； like Nick Drake used to say。 Okay。 Okay 。 。 。〃 He bent over Nothing's arm and probed the soft flesh with the needle。 〃There you go。〃 Spooky drew back the plunger。 A diaphanous swirl of blood filled the syringe。 Nothing realized he had been holding his breath。
〃My turn。〃 Spooky mixed the solution again and injected himself with a cool eagerness。 He shivered when the needle went in。 A moment later Spooky just seemed to start fading。 His eyelids fluttered； and his voice began to drag like a m…cord played at low speed。 As Nothing watched； those luminous bushbaby eyes slipped shut。
Nothing felt the junk spreading through him； tendrils venturing into his hands and his legs； turning his blood as clear and pure as water。 He didn't feel sleepy at all。 His mind was sharp； cold。 He felt as powerful as a god。
Spooky was pletely gone now。 He slumped against the vault； his eyes closed； his breathing shallow； harsh。 His mouth was slightly open。 Nothing saw the tip of his tongue glistening。
Nothing moved closer to Spooky； moved so close that he was almost on top of the biker。 He encircled Spooky's shoulders with his arm。 At the neck of Spooky's dirty white T…shirt his skin was chill； sweaty； goosepimpled。 With the tip of his finger Nothing stroked Spooky's throat and found the spot under the ear where the pulse beat。 He left his finger there for a moment； then shook his head。 What was he thinking？ If you bit somebody there； you might kill him。 Instead he picked up Spooky's limp arm and bit at the soft skin of the inner elbow； where Spooky had fixed。
The vein was already open； and the blood began to flow easily。 From s