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〃Where are they now？〃 asked Ghost。
〃They took no blood from Ashley； but they sucked from him something just as vital；〃 Arkady went on； apparently unhearing。 〃They sucked his youth； his beauty。 That is what they live upon； they only feed on the lovely。 They left him a husk。 Ashley could never have lived without his beauty； the nerves of his skin ran to his soul…〃
He stopped； sighed； shook his head。 〃They are beautiful too；〃 he said。 〃They took all of Ashley's beauty； and their own beauty remains。 They rejuvenate it often。 And I cannot tell you why I let them live upstairs。 Perhaps I hope that one day I will have my chance for revenge。 Perhaps I am simply too afraid of them to refuse them anything。〃
Ghost's thoughts still ricocheted。 His skull felt too fragile； his mind might burst it。 He put a hand to his forehead； and his palm came away damp with sweat。 It was the sherry； the stuffy room。 But more than anything it was the tales Arkady had told。 Terrible love that sucked away beauty； that could invade your dreams； babies that could only be born in blood and agony。 What can we do？ he wanted to ask Arkady。 How can we help our friend now； before the vampires tear her apart inside and out？
But he couldn't say that。 Not in front of Steve。
And he was pretty sure he already knew the answer。
Chapter 27
Nothing awoke to bright afternoon sunlight filtered through dirty glass and dusty window shades。 He could see only a pair of indistinct humps beside him； and for a moment reality did another of those slow giddy rolls： he recognized no part of this place。 He had never seen it before。 There were no stars on the ceiling as in his old room； no thrumming of wheels and rich smell of old bloodstains as in the van。
He hitched himself up on his elbows and blew a limp sheaf of hair away from his eyes。 To his left curled Zillah； deep in his catlike sleep。 On his right slept Christian； laid out straight； narrow； immensely long； his eyes and mouth shut tight。 Molochai and Twig must be on the floor； cuddled in some er。 Nothing couldn't see them； but he thought he heard their breathing； deep and moist。
He yawned； licked his lips。 What was that taste in his mouth？ Fuzzy and rancid and somehow green 。 。 。
Nothing's eyes had begun to slip shut。 Now they flew open again。 He pushed the covers away； scrambled over Zillah； ran to the window。 He stood for a moment with the shade…pull in his hand； wondering what he would see outside； hoping it hadn't all been a drunken dream。
The shade clattered up。 No one else in the room stirred。 Nothing pressed his face to the window。 Below him lay a narrow alley strewn with broken glass that sparkled in the sunlight； and beyond that stretched a vista of bright streets。 Royal？ Bourbon？ Dimly he remembered names from last night； magic talismanic names； names of streets where anything might happen。 He saw tiny dark shops that beckoned to him； and he knew how they would smell…cool and dank and spicy； full of weird treasures。 He saw wrought…iron balconies hung with colored flags that fluttered and winked like some silken sea。 He saw gleaming whitewashed retaining walls spotted with soft brick…red where the paint had peeled away； and behind them； crumbling buildings that must surely house spiral staircases； palely lit ballrooms； secret chambers whose walls were stained with the leavings of blood sacrifice。
It was real； it was there； it was his。 New Orleans。 He had made it all the way from the false home of his childhood to the true city of his birth； to the wondrous glittering French Quarter； to the very room where he had emerged between Jessy's blood…slicked thighs。
Christian had arrived before them and secured their lodging。 The bar…the legendary bar where Zillah had met Jessy； had made love to her among the dusty cases of wine and liquor…was closed； its windows boarded up； but Christian's room was still empty and he had no trouble renting it again。 The landlady showed it to a prospective taker or two； Christian said with a glimmer of amusement； but they told her it smelled funny。
The room of his birth。 The thought made Nothing turn away from the window and stare into the dimness of the room。 His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow。 He wondered if the wraith of his mother would drift out of a corner； whispering to him： You killed me； my baby。 In this room you killed me。 On this very floor。
But whatever wraiths lived here were silent。 Nothing crouched to examine the threadbare carpet； but if the stains of his gory birth remained； he could not see them in this half…light。
He decided not to wake the others。 He wanted to explore the strange but somehow familiar maze of streets by himself。 A small thrill of anarchy went through him as he tore a page out of his notebook and wrote a message to Zillah： Back by tonight was all it said。 He signed it； the point of his 't' a dagger； the tail of his 'g' an extravagant loop。 This was the name Christian had given him； the name that undeniably belonged to him now。 He would write it every chance he got。 He signed the note again； then a third time； making the letters sprawl wildly across the page： Nothing； Nothing； Nothing。 In this room Christian had held him all blood…slimed； had given him his name。 Now he would go out and discover the streets that were his home。
When his sneakers hit the cement； it was as if the whole of the French Quarter jarred through his bones。 Last night in the hazy hours after their arrival； he had been dazzled by the carnival of Bourbon Street； drunk on Chartreuse。 Now； sober and clear…headed in watery afternoon sunlight； he wanted to bound through these old streets shouting I'm here； I'm here！ He wanted to embrace each ornate lamppost and street sign； to fly from every balcony。 The French Quarter was his； every ancient brick； every heady drop of it。
He pulled a pair of cheap sunglasses from his coat pocket and put them on。 He'd taken to swiping them from convenience stores and gas stations in lieu of Lucky Strikes； which he'd almost stopped smoking。 The cigarettes just didn't taste good anymore。 His newest pair of shades had small round frames with rainbow…mirrored lenses； they made him feel like John Lennon in his trippier days。 It was good to keep a couple of pairs of sunglasses on you all the time。 Daylight didn't hurt him and the others as it did Christian； but it could give them a headache that pulsed red and maddening behind the eyes。
Nothing wandered the streets and the sidewalks for hours。 A string of purple Mardi Gras beads was draped over a wrought…iron gatepost； left over from the carnival in the spring； a garland to wele him home。 He fastened it around his throat。
He visited St。 Louis Cathedral with its dizzy vaulted ceilings and its thousand votive candles flickering in stained…glass light。 In the cathedral's gift shop he palmed a rosary and added it to the beads around his neck； the two strands jangled against each other； then nestled together in an uneasy camaraderie of sacred and profane。
He sat at the Cafe du Monde and sipped a cup of coffee shot through with hot steaming milk。 He wandered to the top of the levee and looked down upon the surging brown river。 My mother's bones lie there； he told himself。 And they do not rest； they drift and break apart and e back together year by year； and they never rest。
When shadows began to stretch across the sidewalks and tired eyes watched his progress past the doorways of the bars； Nothing retraced his steps toward Christian's room。 The others would be ready to wake by now。 Christian might acpany them on their rounds tonight； or might find some other way to amuse himself； since he no longer needed a job。 〃We get money in other ways；〃 Zillah had told him coolly when he proposed going back to work at some bar。
They would descend upon the French Quarter； reeling from bar to bar； singing down Bourbon Street with their arms around one another's shoulders。 In the pany of Molochai； Twig； and Zillah； Nothing was served drinks without a second glance。 The taste of Chartreuse was magical； fragrant and heady beyond imagining； yet somehow it also tasted natural to him； as if he had been weaned on the blazing green liqueur。 Already it felt as if they had been here forever。
And all the bloodstreams here were sure to be sweet。 With a shock； Nothing realized how hungry he was。 The memory of Laine's blood gave him no guilt now。 He remembered only how rich it had tasted； its heat； the way it had pumped into his mouth with the beat of life itself。 But now Laine's death felt like something that had happened a long time ago。 Too long ago。
Since then； there had been those drifters in Missing Mile； and the child。 They had been easier。 When he found out how Molochai； Twig； and Zillah filed their teeth to make them sharp； Nothing had sharpened his too。 Now he liked to run his tongue over them； teasing the small points。 But not even the kid from Violin Road had tasted as sweet as Laine。 In the French Quarter all blood would taste alcoholic； purple。。。。
Yes； tonight they would surely go out for blood。
Now he was almost home。 Some small rational part of his mind wondered how he was able to walk these stree