Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (58 page)

 
          
And
the baby would have killed her. It wasn’t our fault. Not a damn thing could
have helped her.”

 
          
“The
vampires did it.” Soft, but simmering with rage and pain. “Yeah. Vampires.

 
          
So
what if they are? Does that mean they can just roll into town, fuck up my life,
then go off and party some more? I was fucking up my life just fine on my own.
I didn’t need them. Ann didn’t need them. I still loved her I would’ve–I
would’ve ”

 
          
“I
know you would’ve.”

 
          
“But
now I can’t.” Steve spread his hands wide. “There’s no choice anymore.

 
          
Everything
I wanted, everything she ever wanted—none of it can ever happen now. And how
come? Because some vampire was horny?” He hefted the knife. “No. It’s not
gonna
be that way. You can find them, Ghost. You can take
me to their lair.

 
          
“And
I’m
gonna
kick some vampire ass.”

 
          
Christian
clawed the bathroom door open and felt his way back along the landing.

 
          
His
good night vision could not help him now, because his eyes were squeezed shut
against the pain. It washed over him again, a green nausea that felt as if it
were turning his guts into bloody lace, a sickness that clutched the softest
core of him and squeezed.

 
          
Twice
already he had made his way to the bathroom. His fastidiousness would not allow
him to vomit on the floor as the others were doing, though now he was far
sicker than any of them, except possibly Nothing.

 
          
He
swore at himself. Stupid, stupid—falling for Zillah’s tricks, trying to buy
their love.

 
          
You
can never be like them. They are young and strong and wild. To them the blood
is just another path to drunken gratification. You are old, and for you the
blood is life itself.

 
          
But
as the Chartreuse blazed down, he had felt as if he were drinking those eyes,
Zillah’s eyes. Zillah had made him drink half the bottle. Molochai and Twig
egged him on between bouts of retching. Nothing lay silent, slit-eyed, beaded
with icy sweat.

 
          
Christian
pushed the door shut, stumbled across the room, and fell on the bed beside
Nothing. He heard no gagging or moaning; everyone else seemed to be asleep. The
blaze of green pain lessened a little. Christian opened his eyes and studied
the delicate pattern of water marks on the ceiling, following their lines,
wondering if they formed maps that someone might travel. Wondering if they
formed the map that had brought him and Nothing and the others here, to this
city, to this room.

 
          
Soon
his eyes closed, and he slept dark dreamless sleep.

 
          
His
feet sore from all the night’s running, his heart ready to burst with Steve’s
pain and his own, Ghost led Steve along Chartres Street. Steve had jammed the
dagger into the waistband of his jeans. The
jewelled
handle protruded obscenely.

 
          
Ghost
was pretty sure he knew where Nothing and the others were staying. He didn’t
have to be psychic to use the phone book, and Christian’s bar was still listed.

 
          
But
how do you know about the bar, the long-ago nights empty even at Mardi Gras?
How do you know about the room upstairs where a girl gave birth to her own
death? These were questions best asked in dreams. Ghost let his feet lead him
along.

 
          
He
shouldn’t be taking Steve on this fool mission at all, putting them both in
danger. He should lead him to a dead end, an empty room somewhere. Or a bar.
But Steve had been put through enough bullshit tonight. Something in Ghost
rebelled at lying to him. Anyway, the vampires would surely be out drinking
somewhere. Steve could go upstairs and bang on the door until he saw the room
was empty. Then there would be no reason to stay.

 
          
Steve
saw the boarded-up window, the shabby door with the faded sign above it that
still said CHRISTIAN’S. Beside it, an unmarked door stood open; a long
staircase ascended into darkness.

 
          
“Is
this it?” Steve didn’t wait for an answer; the truth was in Ghost’s eyes. He
put his hand on the
jewelled
haft and started up.

 
          
Halfway
to the top, the darkness took on a velvety tangibility, as if Ghost might
stroke it with his hand. Above him he heard Steve feeling his way up the
stairs, banging his head against the walls, missing a step and stumbling when
he finally reached the landing. Up here there was a little light, dim and
watery, as if the moon shone in through an unseen hole in the roof.

 
          
“This
door?” Steve asked. There were three.

 
          
“Yeah,
but—” Ghost stared at the door. He had thought the room would be empty, but it
didn’t feel empty.

 
          
Steve
twisted the knob and gave the door a vicious kick with the toe of his boot.

 
          
It
swung open, and before Ghost could react, Steve had stepped inside.

 
          
It
was even darker in the apartment. Steve couldn’t see the bed or its two shadowy
occupants until he was upon them. His knees hit the edge of the mattress, and
he nearly lost his balance. Only the thought of falling into bed with two
vampires steadied him.

 
          
The
room reeked of blood and vomit. Steve’s stomach clenched, and all the beer he
had drunk earlier threatened to make itself known to him again. But he was past
being sick. There was another smell too, something herbal and alcoholic. It was
coming, he realized, from one of the figures on the bed. It was on his breath.

 
          
Steve
pulled the knife out. The haft felt good in his hand, heavy and sure. It would
cleave straight through the motherfucker’s heart blood for Ann’s blood. And
then he would keep carving. He would take out as many of them as he could.

 
          
The
weight of the knife tugged at Steve’s arm, as if the thin sharp blade were
hungry for blood. A thread of doubt touched him. Blood for blood: that was right.
But somewhere in him he knew that this was not the one who had killed Ann. This
was not Zillah. Did they all have to die for Zillah’s sins?

 
          
Steve
wavered, nearly dropped the knife. But then the demon in his mind began to
whisper. Not his old familiar demon. This was a new one, darker and more
twisted, with a dark shapeless mouth and eyes that wept blood. Ann died like a
roadkill
, it told him. And you know it was your fault. Fuck
what Ghost says, you know the part you played. If you can’t do this, you might
as well carry her bloody corpse back to Missing Mile slung over your shoulders.

 
          
Steve’s
hands tightened convulsively around the haft of the knife. The sharp facets of
the jewels cut into his palms. Zillah was somewhere in this room, he knew that.

 
          
And
Zillah would be next.

 
          
Then
the demon was pulling his arms down, and Steve screamed his exultant rage as
the blade cracked the vampire’s breastbone and sank into his soft dark heart.

 
          
Nothing
struggled to wake up. Something was wrong. His body felt sheathed in dry sweat,
and he could not force his eyelids open.

 
          
He
had been so sick from Wallace’s blood. They all had. The smell of vomit was
still strong in the room, vomit and Chartreuse and beer …

 
          
No
one had drunk beer tonight. That much he was certain of. Nothing managed to
open his eyes.

 
          
He
had just enough time to see Steve standing over the bed, his face terrified but
crazily exultant, his arms raised high above his head–and then Nothing saw the
blade plunge down into Christian’s body beside him. Christian’s black blood
arced up from his chest, splattering the moonlight, soaking into the carpet to
mingle with the faded blood of Jessy.

 
          
The
impact brought Christian up from sleep.

 
          
For
a moment there was pain, deep and cold. But compared with the sickness he had
felt earlier, the pain was not very bad. It was like being adrift on a river,
one that smelled of mud and bones like the Mississippi, but this river was
green. Its gentle luminescence bathed him and soaked through him. At last he
was drunk. The river made him drunk, and his mind grew dim and began to rest.

 
          
Heartblood
welled up in his mouth, and he licked it from
his lips. The taste was sweet, dark, familiar, and it would stay with him
forever; it was the essence of him.

 
          
Through
the bright film that washed over his eyes, he saw a face above him: translucent
hair hanging like a waterfall, pale eyes wide and stricken.

 
          
As
Christian sank beneath the green waters of his death, he thought, Three hundred
and eighty-three years. And he was as beautiful as he should have been. He was
lovely.

 
          
There
were too many words in Ghost’s mouth, ready to spill into the silence of the
room.

 
          
Murderer,
he wanted to say, my best friend, my only brother. I once saw you run your ear
off the road to keep from hitting a stray dog. How could you stab someone
through the heart? How could you bear it as you looked into his eyes?

 
          
But
in the end he didn’t say any of those words, because the silence erupted around
them.

 
          
Ghost
had come up beside the bed. He was standing a little behind Steve, and he never
saw Zillah coming. Steve must have seen him, because he stepped backward.

 
          
There
was only a
heartstopping
blur of motion launching
itself out of the darkness. Then the razor flashed, and every speck of light in
the room seemed to coalesce along its deadly edge.

 
          
Wetness
hit Ghost’s face, hot and stinging. The taste was in his mouth, in his throat.
Blood.

 
          
Steve’s
blood, spraying.

 
          
Zillah
had Steve around the chest, forcing him down. Steve bucked and clawed at him.

 
          
But
Zillah’s free hand had the razor, and now it was swinging down, toward Steve’s
throat. The knife still protruded from Christian’s chest, jewels glittering
dully in the faint light. Ghost reached out and pulled it free. Christian’s
heart made a faint sucking sound as the blade came away. Blood seeped from the
wound.

 
          
Ghost
felt that he moved in slow motion: the razor was still swinging down. He took
two steps forward. Easily, he slid his left arm around Zillah’s neck
effortlessly he pulled Zillah’s chin up and back.

 
          
Then
he drove the knife straight into Zillah’s temple, and that was the hardest
thing he had ever done.

 
          
Nothing
saw it all. He was still on the bed, half-propped on his elbows, naked except
for the vomit-stained sheet that covered him. He saw Steve bring the knife down
into Christian’s chest, and he had not even had time to react to that when
Zillah flew like a demented bat out of the corner and whipped his razor across
Steve’s upraised forearms.

 
          
Then
the most extraordinary thing of all happened: Ghost took the knife, stepped
forward, and lifted Zillah straight off the floor. He only had one arm around
Zillah’s neck, but Nothing saw Zillah’s feet dangling an inch above the
floorboards. Ghost hoisted Zillah around so that he was facing the bed.