Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (56 page)

 
          
As
the twins’ song touched Ghost, he thought he caught their scent too, their
heady bouquet of strawberry incense, clove cigarettes, wine and blood and rain
and the sweat of passion. All the things they had loved when they were alive,
the things that had dragged them down and carved the rich white flesh from
their bones, the things that sustained them now.

 
          
Incense
and spice, wine and blood, sex and rain … and the juice of other lives, sucked
away to saturate their brittle tissues, to restore them.

 
          
They
whispered their song to him.

 
          
Death
is dark, death is sweet.

 
          
Death
is eternal beauty—

 
          
A
lover with a thousand tongues—

 
          
A
thousand insect caresses—

 
          
Death
is easy.

 
          
Death
is easy …

 
          
DEATH
IS EASY … DEATH IS EASY …

 
          
DEATH
… IS … EASSSSSSY.

 
          
The
patrons of the club must have seen these twins perform before, must have heard
this
susurrant
song many times. They took up the
chant. “Death is easy,” they wailed. A girl near Ghost raised her arms,
swaying. She wore a little black hat with a tattered veil that hung down over
her face. A mourning hat. Beside her, a boy draped in fishnet and leather—a boy
about Nothing’s age—wrapped his thin arms around himself.

 
          
Ghost
saw tears glistening on the boy’s fine-boned face.

 
          
“Death
is easy,” the children whispered, and Ghost closed his eyes, but he could not
keep their minds from brushing his. He knew that they believed those words. Why
else did they shroud themselves in funeral garb; why else were their thin
wrists scarred with razor-tracery delicate as
spiderwebs
?
Why else did they make trysts in graveyards, starve themselves and then kill
their hunger with cigarettes, suck down their drinks and swallow their exotic
drugs with all the enthusiasm of children turned loose in a candy store?

 
          
Why
else did they love the vampires?

 
          
If
Arkady had spoken truly, the twins were vampires of a different sort. They did
not live on blood, like Zillah and his pair of lollipop thugs, like Christian
and Nothing. These vampires sucked lives. They had sucked Ashley
Raventon’s
life out, or so Arkady implied. They had left
Ashley a dry husk, a skeleton bound together by withered skin, with only the
strength to finish what they had begun. Ghost could see the withered body
suspended in the tower, slowly turning.

 
          
The
twins shared a microphone now, giving it head, taunting the crowd with their
erotic narcissism. Their hands twined in each other’s hair; their ripe lips
nearly touched. The rest of the band was obscured, east into shadow; all eyes
were on the twins.

 
          
Suddenly,
through the fog of drunkenness that clouded Ghost’s brain, suspicion flared.

 
          
Why
were they so opulent tonight? Why did their lips shine so wetly; why did their
bright hair writhe, alive with color? What had they found to sate them before
the show?

 
          
Now
the redheaded twin had a skull in his hands. He held it up and slowly turned
it, letting the colored
stagelights
play over its
ivory surface. The eye sockets caught two beams of golden light, and a ripple
of pleasure went through the crowd. Now all the lights went off except the ones
shining directly on the skull. It hung above the stage, suspended in darkness,
revolving slowly.

 
          
Ghost
thought he recognized it.

 
          
Had
the twins been back to the shop tonight?

 
          
And
if they had, who was taking care of Ann?

 
          
Steve
was watching the band and the audience, transfixed if not actually enjoying
himself. Ghost grabbed his elbow. Steve swayed a little as he turned; somehow
his drinking had gotten ahead of Ghost’s. He rolled his eyes. “We never
shoulda
trusted Arkady’s taste in music.

 
          
You
heard enough of this Gothic crap? You
wanna
go find a
bar?”

 
          
“No,”
said Ghost. He tightened his grip on Steve’s arm. “Listen. I think we better go
back to Arkady’s. I think something might be wrong.”

 
          
At
any other time the look Steve gave him would have hurt like hell. But there was
no time to worry about himself. Ghost only stared back, and at last Steve
dropped his gaze and muttered, “Okay. Whatever you say, man.”

 
          
“Death
is easy!” a boy with red lipstick smudged around his eyes shouted into Steve’s
face. Steve shoved the boy out of his way and continued toward the door. The
kid stumbled backward, as drunkenly limp as a rag doll, and spilled his fancy
cocktail all over his friend. The friend’s cigarette sputtered out.

 
          
Steve
didn’t give a fuck. He stared at the back of Ghost’s head, at the pale hair
that straggled over the collar of Ghost’s army jacket. For a second—just for a
second–Steve wanted to grab a handful of that dirty, tangled, silky hair and
yank it as hard as he could. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

 
          
Not
for the first time, and surely not for the last, Steve found himself wishing he
could reach inside Ghost’s skull and pull out the magic there. He wished he
could grind it under his boot, leave it smeared across the beer-sticky floor.
He’d been standing there minding his own damn business, drunk enough to groove
on the stupid music, a beer in each hand. For a couple of hours Steve had
managed to forget Ann and everything else. Now they were tearing off on some
mission that could only mean more pain and trouble. Ghost’s thoughts brushed
Steve’s, Ghost’s fear was in him, and for a second he hated Ghost. If Ghost
really did have a shining eye in his heart, as Arkady had said, Steve wished he
could gouge it out.

 
          
“Have
a nice night,” the doorman called nastily after them as they left the club.

 
          
When
the cool night air touched his face, Steve calmed down a little. Crazy shit to
be thinking about. What did he love best about Ghost? What had he always loved
about Ghost? The magic. The weird, illogical, irritating magic.

 
          
“I’m
sorry,” he said, bumping into Ghost, hugging him. For one more moment they were
safe, they did not have to hurt. Neither wanted to move.

 
          
But
finally Ghost stepped away and pulled Steve by the arm. “Come on,” he said.

 
          
“We
got to get back.”

 
          
Steve
knew there was more trouble ahead. More stupid shit and agony. But he could not
hate Ghost, no way, no how. He followed his best friend—maybe his only
friend—through the maze of streets and alleys that led back to Arkady’s shop,
and the wind that fingered their hair blew off the river, smelling of oysters
and pearls, of dark mud and the bones of children.

 
          
“I’m
dying,” Molochai moaned. The floor beside him was spattered with fresh blood.

 
          
“I
already died,” Twig told him. “I’m a zombie, I
wanna
eat your BRAINS—” He lunged at Molochai, got a mouthful of hair. Molochai began
to choke. After a moment he vomited a long stream of blood, some of which
soaked the front of Twig’s jacket. They collapsed across the floor.

 
          
“Not
again—”

 
          
“I
can’t help it ”

 
          
“SHUT
UP!” screeched Zillah. The room fell silent except for the sound of Molochai
and Twig softly gagging. At the first onset of the sickness Zillah had
collapsed in a corner, shivering madly. He would let no one near him; no one
wanted to go near him.

 
          
Nothing
lay on the bed bathed in icy sweat. Long streaks of crimson marked the side of
the mattress where he had vomited.

 
          
Christian
stood at the window. His back was rigid, his face drawn with disgust.

 
          
The
shade was pulled down. When he had tried to raise it, the others shrieked
piteously at the faint light that filtered up from the gas lamps far below. At
last, when the retching had subsided, he said, “Do none of you possess the
sense of smell?”

 
          
No
one replied.

 
          
“Do
none of you possess the sense of taste?”

 
          
Still
no answer.

 
          
“Because
if his cancer was far enough along to make all of you this sick, Wallace Creech
must have reeked like a fresh grave. Or were you so eager to make your kill in
our alley, under our window—that you paid no attention to the very things that
give you power? ARE YOU ALL

 
          
MAD?”
Wild-eyed, Christian surveyed the room for a moment. Then, as if he knew the
answer to his own question, he turned back to the window.

 
          
Nothing’s
voice wavered toward him in the darkness. “Are we
gonna
die?”

 
          
Christian
snorted. “No. You’re going to—how would you put it?—puke your guts out. For
about twenty-four hours. Then you’ll be weak and tired for twenty-four more.

 
          
Essentially,
you have food poisoning. A fine way to spend your first full night in the French
Quarter, no?”

 
          
“You’re
so smug,” hissed Zillah from the corner. “But what happens when you drink our
poisons? Give you a double shot of Chartreuse and you’d be flat on your back
just like us.”

 
          
“Yes.”
Christian permitted himself a faint cold smile. “But I would be wise enough not
to drink a double shot of Chartreuse.” He remembered a time when he had not
been so wise, and phantom pain shot through him. If they were hurting that
badly, they deserved more sympathy.

 
          
After
all, he supposed they had thought they were doing him a favor.

 
          
But
Zillah didn’t want sympathy. He hauled himself up on his elbows and glared at
Christian. His eyes snapped green fire, visible from across the room. “Yeah?”
he whispered.

 
          
“Yeah?
You know what I think? I think if we have to be sick, then you should be sick
too.”

 
          
Christian
hesitated, wary. “What do you mean?”

 
          
“I
mean … maybe you should have a drink, Chrissy.”

 
          
Molochai
giggled. “Have a drink, Chrissy.”

 
          
Twig
took up the chant. “Have a drink … Chrissy, have a drink …” Their voices chased
each other around the room. Only Nothing was silent. He lay absolutely still
against the red-streaked sheets. Christian saw the shadow of his ribs under his
white skin.

 
          
“You
can’t make me,” said Christian, but cold fear trickled down his spine.

 
          
“Twenty-four
hours puking our guts out,” mused Zillah. “Then twenty-four more to recover. We
could be on the road by the next night. The van’s gassed up. Twig has the
keys.”

 
          
“There’s
no Chartreuse,” said Christian wildly.