Poppy Z. Brite - 1992 - Lost Souls by Poppy Z. Brite Read Free Book Online Page A

dark.” No one bothered asking why. They knew
where the best city pickings were–in the clubs, in the alleys, under the
midnight moon.
                 “Yeah.”
Molochai managed a sticky smile, thinking of nights in the city. “So we stay in
DC for a couple of nights. Then what?”
                 Twig
thought. “We could check out California again. You liked the ice cream shops in
Chinatown.”
                 “But
that’s so far. And the whole desert in between us and it. Nothing to eat.
Nothing to drink. No people. No blood.”
                 Zillah
closed his eyes, stroked his eyelashes with the tip of one shiny black nail.
“We could drive down to New Orleans,” he said. “We could visit Christian.”
                 Twig’s
eyes lit up. “Christian! Remember Christian?”
            “Good old Christian!”
                 “He
doesn’t drink-wine!”
                 They
all laughed.
                 “Yeah,
but he might still be tending bar. Free drinks!”
                 “And
everyone’s blood full of wine and beer and whiskey.”
                 “And
Chartreuse,” said Zillah.
                 They
paused for a moment, tongues tasting a memory of altars, of the Garden of Eden.
                 “Let’s
do it.”
                 “Let’s
go see good old Christian.”
                 “Good
old Chrissy,” said Molochai.
                 “Chrissy!”
Twig collapsed in giggles over the wheel.
                 Zillah
passed the wine up to Molochai. “Let’s start saving our empties. We’ll need to
bottle some up tonight. Things may be quite a bit drier after DC.”
                 Molochai
and Twig were quiet, considering the possibility of a long dry spell.
                 Then
Twig shrugged and said, “Yeah, but fuck it—we’re going to New Orleans!”
                 Molochai
turned the music back on, and they sang along with Bowie, leaning on each
other, their voices soft and lilting as they got drunker. Zillah ran his hands
through Molochai’s hair, pulling out the knots. Twig grinned as the road
stretched out ahead, long and smooth and magical, unrolling like a carpet all
the way down to Christian’s bar in New Orleans.

  Chapter
4
                 Heading
south again, away from the Virginia border toward home, Steve swung the car
onto a side road and drove toward the hill. The town of Roxboro usually
fascinated Ghost, made him press his face to the window trying to see all its
barbecue shacks and barbershops; its Southern Pride car wash whose sign read,
mysteriously, AS WE THINK, SO
                 WE
ARE; its one dilapidated nightclub outside which dark shapes always lurked,
regardless of hour or temperature.
                 But
tonight Ghost had been silent all through Roxboro, his eyes open and vacant; he
seemed still lost in his story. Steve wanted to take him away from those twins,
those dream twins dying or dead. Too often the phantoms of Ghost’s dreams
possessed him even after he woke, claimed all his attention and a little of his
soul.
                 The
visions worried Steve as much as they enchanted him. Ever since they had become
friends, Steve had thought of himself as Ghost’s protector because he was a
year older and because so often Ghost seemed to hover precariously on the edge
of reality.
                 Ghost
lived with one foot in Steve’s world of beer and guitars and friends, the other
in the pale never-never land of his visions. Reality was often too much for
Ghost; it could puzzle and hurt him.
                 Sometimes
it seemed that Ghost consented to live in the world only because Steve was
there, and Ghost would not leave Steve alone. Please, God or Whoever—Steve
crossed his fingers on the steering wheel—please