Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls (23 page)

 
          
“Bewitch
me,” Nothing managed to say, and then Zillah was sucking at his mouth again.

 
          
Nothing
slipped his hands inside the baggy black jacket, under the soft shirt.

 
          
When
he felt the rings through Zillah’s nipples, his eyes widened a little—this was
a wilder crowd than he was used to. Not that he was complaining.

 
          
Zillah’s
teeth were at his throat, biting hard enough to hurt, then seeming to hesitate
and release his skin an instant before drawing blood. He had made out with
virtual strangers before-among his friends back home this was almost as
fashionable as bisexuality—but he had never done it with anyone half as
beautiful as Zillah.

 
          
There
was an explosion of loud laughter from the front seat. Zillah was whispering
something in Nothing’s ear. The words were jumbled, but Zillah’s voice was as
smooth as
Kahlua
with cream, and the junk in
Nothing’s blood made him passive. His body felt heavy and very warm. He lay
back, not knowing what Zillah wanted to do to him, not caring. Later, he could
only remember trying to raise his hands, wanting to push Zillah’s head away
from his chest because Zillah was biting his nipples too hard. But he could not
raise his hands, could not move them at all, so he lay back and concentrated on
enjoying the pain. It was easy. He had been doing it for so long.

 
          
“I
guess we could take you to Missing Mile,” said Twig, trying to focus on
Nothing’s face. “We’re headed for New Orleans. We’re going to see our friend
there.”

 
          
New
Orleans! That sounded good too. Nothing had never realized how many places
there were to go. You could spend your whole life going from place to place,
seeing everything and never getting sick of it. That was exactly how Zillah and
the others seemed to spend their time.

 
          
The
piles of clothes and bottles and the heavy, almost meaty smell made him think
they must live in the van. Again, he wasn’t complaining. The smell did not seem
unpleasant to him, and the idea of life in a travelling caravan was as
glamorous as anything Nothing had ever dreamed of.

 
          
“Who’s
your friend in New Orleans?” Nothing asked. But Twig didn’t answer at all, and
Molochai only mumbled “Chrissy” through his mouthful of chocolate cupcake and
washed down the sweet stickiness with a swig of strawberry wine. Nothing turned
to Zillah, wanting to ask about New Orleans, but Zillah met Nothing’s mouth
with his own, his tongue flickering in and out like a snake’s.

 
          
Nothing
clung to the edge, teetering happily. He was laboring under the influence of
more drugs than he’d ever had all at once before. He wasn’t exactly drunk, and
he wasn’t exactly high; he simply floated. Fucked up, Jack would have
said
—in that other world, in that other life.

 
          
Just
plain
ol
’ fucked up.

 
          
Zillah
had claimed him immediately, which scared him a little and excited him a lot.

 
          
Zillah
was a rougher and more thorough lover than any of the inexperienced kids back
home, He had a purple, gold, and green streak in his hair—he said they’d been
in New Orleans for Mardi Gras a while back—and he teased the skin of Nothing’s
stomach with it, flicked it over the ridges of Nothing’s hipbones. Molochai and
Twig stared at them, then laughed and opened another bottle of wine.

 
          
An
hour ago, sometime after midnight, Twig had slumped over the wheel, and
Molochai had had to grab it and steer them away from the guardrail. Now they
were parked in a field somewhere in southern Virginia, or maybe already in
North Carolina.

 
          
Nothing
sat up and cleared a spot on the foggy window with the sleeve of his raincoat.
He saw rows and rows of stunted tobacco outside. The window was cold against
his hand. He put his cheek on the glass and realized how hot his face was, how
hot his whole body was.

 
          
Then
his stomach convulsed, and he fumbled at the door handle. Molochai said,

 
          
“Just
puke on the floor,” but Nothing fell out of the van and rolled over the crackling
dead tobacco leaves and vomited copiously on the frosty earth. He choked, spat,
felt steam from his vomit wash over his face. He tasted fried chicken,
strawberry wine, bile.

 
          
Dimly
he became aware that Zillah was holding him, that Zillah’s hands were smoothing
his hair back from his burning face.

 
          
Zillah
bent to Nothing’s lips and licked away the sour sticky spit that webbed them,
tenderly forced Nothing’s mouth open, kissed Nothing full and deep.

 
          
“I
love you,” Nothing told Zillah before he knew what he was going to say. But
Zillah only looked at him with those glowing green eyes, and Nothing thought he
saw a touch of amusement there.

 
          
Back
in the van, Nothing expected howls of derision; in this crowd throwing up
surely meant you were a pussy. But Molochai and Twig didn’t laugh at him. They
were snuggled down on the mattress, clutching each other like children. Nothing
lit a Lucky but wrinkled his nose and pitched the cigarette out the window
after two drags.

 
          
“Still
sick?” said Molochai. “I bet we can make you better.” A glance passed between
the three of them. Molochai dug under the mattress and pulled out a wine bottle
half full of a dark liquid, ruby-brown and thicker than wine. The outside of
the bottle was covered with dried smears and fingerprints of the liquid. “Drink
this. It’ll fix you up.”

 
          
“If
it doesn’t kill you,” Twig added with his quick blade of a smile.

 
          
Nothing
took the bottle, uncapped it, lifted it to his mouth, and sipped. There was
some kind of liquor—vodka or gin, something oily and stinging—but mingled with
that was another taste, dark and sweet and a little decayed. Familiar. He
brought the bottle down, blinked, then lifted it again and drank deep.
Molochai, Twig and Zillah watched him. All three sat very still, seeming to hold
their breath. Nothing stopped drinking, licked his lips, and smiled.

 
          
“I
don’t think drinking blood is so weird,” he said.

 
          
At
first they only looked surprised. Molochai and Twig were perhaps a little
disappointed; Nothing thought he saw a faint feral glow fading out of their
eyes. Zillah raised his eyebrows at them, lifted one shoulder in a slight
shrug. The air in the van was thick, tense; something seemed to be passing
between them, something Nothing could not read. Then Zillah laid his hand over Nothing’s
and pushed the bottle to Nothing’s lips again.

 
          
They
passed it around, drinking until the insides of their mouths were stained
rotten red, Nothing no longer felt sick. He was giddy with joy, and when Zillah
grabbed him again, he kissed back hard, then hooked his fingers through
Zillah’s nipple rings and tugged gently.

 
          
“Do
that again, about three times as hard,” sighed Zillah. Nothing complied, dizzy
with arousal. He could not have imagined a better lover if he had been given
the blueprint. He didn’t know where the blood had come from, whether it was
something they used to scare outsiders or a taste they genuinely cultivated,
and right now he didn’t care. Anyone who wanted to play vampire was all right
by him.

 
          
Everyone
passed out sometime before dawn. Nothing slept close by Zillah, his smooth
cheek resting against Zillah’s arm. Zillah watched him in the darkness, studied
the lashes lying
smudgily
against the pale skin, the
sweet lips parted in sleep, the breath from them rich with wine and blood. He
brushed a strand of dirty black hair away from the boy’s brow, traced the shape
of the boy’s face with his forefinger. It was a fine clear face, the delicate
yet strong bone structure just beginning to emerge from the mask of childhood.
He was perhaps the most attractive hitchhiker they had ever picked up.

 
          
And
what was so strange about him?

 
          
He
had drunk from the bottle of blood without choking, without spitting or
gagging. To the contrary—the blood had seemed to revive him, freshen his skin,
brighten his eyes.

 
          
Most
hitchhikers were glad enough to party with them, to share a pipe or a tab of
acid or a tumble on the mattress. Then—always after these pleasures, for it
made their blood sweeter—the wine bottle was brought out. Or the whiskey
bottle, or whatever they had put the latest batch in.

 
          
This
was Molochai and Twig’s favorite part: the hitchhiker, already drunk or high or
fried on acid, would swig eagerly from the bottle. Then his eyes—or her
eyes—would grow big and frightened, and his mouth-or her mouth would twist in
terror and disgust as the blood drooled back out of it, and Molochai, Twig, and
Zillah would be upon him. Or her. One rescuing the wine bottle, one holding the
hitchhiker’s panicked hands, and one at the throat. The sweet,
rended
, pulsing throat. Or the belly.

 
          
Or
the crotch. Anywhere would do, any spot that would bleed.

 
          
But
none of that had happened with this boy—Nothing. Where had he come by such a
name? And where had he come by a taste for blood? Again Zillah studied the dear
sleeping face, the dark fringe of hair that fell across the eyes. This one
could stay around for a few days. There was magic in his bloodstream, surely,
but maybe a sort of magic that should be saved for a while.

 
          
With
the tip of his finger he touched Nothing’s lips. And in his sleep, Nothing
smiled.

 
          
The
birth of morning found them all heaped on the mattress, tangled, hair across
faces, hearts to backbones, hands clutching hands. Zillah stirred and muttered
as the first light touched his eyelids—the last ancestral vestige of a reflex
he scarcely remembered, even in his nightmares.

 
          
He
pressed his mouth against Nothing’s throat. Then he came half-awake and,
remembering that he had decided to keep this boy, did not bite but had to suck
like a baby before he could sleep.

 
          
Steve
had awakened with a hellacious hangover. This was no rare occurrence for
him—usually he could sleep it off or chew Excedrin until he felt better—but
today’s was a real bulldog, tenacious and ugly, with pounds of power in its
drooling jaws.

 
          
Now
Ghost was trying to talk to him. The guy had some nerve. Steve glowered across
the kitchen table. “You want to go where?”

 
          
“
Miz
Catlin’s. You remember her, my grandmother’s friend?
She has her own store now.

 
          
It’s
out on Forty-two toward Corinth. Just down the road, west.”

 
          
“West,”
said Steve stupidly. He poked at his banana pancakes, then sipped the beer
Ghost had given him. Hair of the dog he told himself. Hair of the dog that bit
me.

 
          
Who
says there aren’t nerves in the brain? He pressed his hands to his temples,
winced, lifted the beer again. That was all the exercise he planned on getting
this morning.

 
          
“What
do you want to go out there for?”

 
          
“She
makes herb remedies. I want to get some balm of angelica.” Ghost
shovelled
in a forkful of pancake, licked honey off his
lips. “I got a wisdom tooth coming in.”

 
          
“I’ll
take you down to the 7-Eleven. You can get a bottle of Tylenol.”

 
          
Ghost
pulled his hair in front of his face and looked disdainful. “That’s no good. I
can’t use any of that stuff—it makes me sick. Come on, you ought to get out of
the house.”