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〃I need a dye job。〃 Absently he twirled a piece of his hair； put it in his mouth。 Then he took a deep breath and asked； 〃What's it like to live such a long time？〃
Christian didn't reply。 He glanced at the window and said； 〃I have to leave。 I'm to be at the club at eleven。〃
Nothing wanted to hold Christian； to take away those years； to do something for him。 〃I could e with you；〃 he said。
〃Thank you； but no。 I'll lose my job if I keep slipping you drinks。 You stay here with the others。 When they wake up they'll want to go out。〃 Christian stepped into a pair of impossibly long black trousers； buttoned a black shirt up to his chin。 He turned to go。 At the bedroom door he paused。
〃Christian？〃 said Nothing。
〃I would not wish it upon anyone；〃 Christian told him。 He disappeared into the dark recesses of the trailer。 A moment later Nothing heard the front door close。 Then the Bel Air was grinding out of the driveway； heading down Violin Road toward town。
Nothing lay among the cool tangled sheets； staring at the rags of mist that drifted past the window and obscured the rosebushes。 For a while he played with his damp pubic hair； uncurling strands of it； gently tugging at them； letting them spring back。 It wasn't often he had a bed to himself anymore。 Usually he slept in a sweaty knot of blankets； hair； limbs。 He would wake to find Molochai's fingers in his mouth or drooling on his pillow。 Often he woke to the perverse； sometimes scatological endearments that Zillah liked to murmur in his ear。 So he relished this bit of privacy。 He lay and let his mind drift where it would。
How old was Christian now？ He calculated and came up with three hundred and eighty…three years。 Nothing's mind tried to balk at the thought of all those years； but he would not let it。 No； he told himself。 You might be that old yourself someday； so think about it。
That was so much time。 Unless you found others of your kind； others who lived as long； you were bound to spend a lot of that time alone。 Others…he made himself think it： humans …would just die on you。 Steve and Ghost would die； and he would still be young and roaring…but he would not think about Steve and Ghost
Still； he had Zillah； his father； his lover。 And he had Molochai and Twig and Christian。 They would be there with him； alive。 But there must be others of their race who were alone。 Christian had been。 Maybe that was why Christian seemed so reserved； yet so hungry for love when someone offered it。 Just because you got used to being alone didn't mean you had to like it
Maybe time passed differently in New Orleans。 Maybe a sort of dream…time existed there； a time that could stretch a single day or press three hundred and eighty…three years。 In New Orleans he had been conceived by the bright sperm of Zillah。 In New Orleans Christian had made love to Jessy。 His mother。 That thin； dark…haired girl of sixteen。 That girl who had died giving bloody birth to him。
Nothing tried to imagine that summer in the French Quarter。 The endless sweltering days above the bar。 Christian's long bony hands moving over Jessy's slick breasts； her distended belly。 Her belly that cradled him； unborn。 He wished he could be Christian's hands。 He wished he could feel Jessy's weight above him； her skin slick as if with oil。 He imagined Christian thrusting up into her； parting her womb； nudging up against the fetus there。 Me； he thought。 In the womb； had he been bathed with Christian's semen？ Had it nourished him along with the blood of Jessy？
And there in the womb； half…formed； had something in him known even then whose child he was？ Had he longed to be nourished by Zillah's sperm instead of Christian's？ Had something in him wanted his father？ Was that why he had spent the first fifteen years of his life alone； always alone； always searching for a place he might belong…for a perfect love？
Well； he had it now。 Body and soul and all the realm between。
He remembered the night outside the Sacred Yew； now a month past； and all that had transpired on the cold sidewalk。 The night of punishment and revelation。 He had awakened sometime past sunset the next evening…even then he was beginning to get used to the hours his new family kept sleeping most of the day and howling all night。 He woke back at the trailer； in Christian's bed。 Zillah lay beside him； his head turned slightly away； his hair making colored stripes on the pillow。 In slumber； Zillah's face was almost innocent。
When you could not see those eyes。
Father； Nothing thought。
He had slipped quietly out of bed； not wanting to wake Zillah yet。 He had looked at himself in the bathroom mirror； still able to meet his own eyes； and he had told himself： For a week now you have been fucking your own father。 His tongue has been in your mouth more times than you could count。 You've sucked him off。。。you've swallowed stuff that could have been your brothers and sisters！
But he could not disgust himself。 He could not make himself ashamed。 He knew these were things he was supposed to feel； things the rational daylight world would expect him to feel。 But he could not force himself to feel them。 In a world of night； in a world of blood； what did such pallid rules matter？
He wasn't sure he could ever have felt the things expected of him in the normal world； not even when he had been an unwilling part of it。 Its morals had never been his； its baubles of status had never hypnotized him with their false glitter。 He tried to imagine his friends back home making love with their fathers： Julie humping her fastidious attorney dad； Laine sucking off his hippie…throwback old man who grew stunted pot plants in his study and was supposed to be a genius at puter language。 The idea did not offend him； it was sort of gross； because most of the fathers were not what Nothing would call hot…looking； but he could not label it with words like wrong or bad。 He wondered if he had ever known what those words meant。 Were members of his race born with some sort of amoral instinct that shielded them from the guilt of killing to stay alive？ If he had not been born with such an instinct； could he have taken that first bite out of Laine's throat？
Nothing tried to imagine the circumstances that would lead； purely by coincidence； to a half…breed vampire leaving home； hitchhiking more than two hundred miles； and being picked up by the very member of his race who had fathered him fifteen years before。 He could not do it。 This was not coincidence； this had all been meant to happen。 A map of his life was printed somewhere； and for a long time he had been wandering its boundaries； hopelessly lost。 Now he had found its pattern。 That the map might be printed all over with the legend Here There Be Monsters did not bother him in the least。
His bond to Zillah was also his bond to this world of blood and night。 He knew that now Zillah would not leave him； would not abandon him。 He had faced Zillah down once； and he could do it again。 In a weird way； it seemed to make Zillah proud of him。
Zillah had wanted him from the beginning。 There must have been some biological pull between them。 The seed returning to the sower。 But Zillah hadn't known why。 The sentiment might still have been revocable。 The pull might have weakened； even dissolved； when the next bottle of cheap wine was gone。 But when Christian spoke those words outside the club…those terrifying； magical words； You're Zillah's son…the bond had bee flesh。
No； not just flesh。 Blood。 The bond was forged in blood； of course； his and Zillah's； and Jessy's that had poured out of her。 Nothing was of Zillah's blood； and Zillah would not let him go now； not in a thousand years。 They might live that long； might live a thousand years or more； and still they would be together。 He would ride the highways with Molochai； Twig； Zillah； and now Christian； forever。 They would drink and make wild love and never grow old。 And he would never have to be alone。
Nothing smiled at the ceiling。 Though he did not know it； there was a wantonness to his smile that had not been there a month ago。
A soft footfall made him look toward the bedroom door。 A figure stood in the doorway； a black shadow haloed by a thin line of silver light。 Long wavy hair； straight shoulders。 A small slight figure that stood as if it might be seven feet tall； massive and regal。 Zillah。
〃e here；〃 said Nothing。 Zillah came to him and slipped under the cold sheets with him。 As Zillah's arms tightened around him； Nothing heard himself say； 〃Daddy。〃
Zillah kissed his eyelids； his forehead； his lips。 〃Yes。 That's lovely。 Call me that。〃
〃Daddy；〃 Nothing whispered as Zillah unwound the sheets； kissed his throat； his chest； the tender concave stretch of skin below his ribs。
〃My baby；〃 said Zillah； and bit him gently。 Nothing felt the last tattered shreds of his old life…the town； the desperately apathetic crowd at Skittle's； the two well…intentioned fools who had pretended to be his parents…tear loose and drift away on the warm river of Zillah's tongue。 On the scent of blood； of herbs； of altars。
A night for reflecting。
A night for thinking of matters ordinarily left untouched； left half…buried