pzb.lostsouls-第18节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


wed　the　two　of　you　to　the　river；　and　here　I　saw　you…I　saw　you　do　what　you　did　to　the　other　boy　tonight。　And　I　wondered　how　many　other　children　you　had　put　in　the　river；　and　I　thought　of　Jessy's　body　sinking　out　of　sight　there；　in　that　cold　brown　water…〃　Wallace's　voice　broke。
　　Yes；　Jessy；　thought　Christian。　I　put　Jessy　in　the　river。　But　that　was　later；　after　the　baby　came。　And　I　didn't　kill　her；　I　wouldn't　have　killed　her…　In　an　instant　he　realized　who　had　killed　Jessy。　Zillah　had；　with　the　seduction　of　his　hands　and　his　lips；　with　his　fertile　seed。　Or　so　Wallace　would　see　it。　Christian　imagined　himself　trying　to　explain　the　events　of　that　Mardi　Gras　to　Wallace：　He　planted　his　child　in　her　womb；　and　by　the　time　the　baby　tore　her　apart　inside；　he　was　far；　far　away。　But　that　night　was　so　bloody；　and　oh　so　green　。　。　。
　　No。　Wallace　would　not　understand　the　drunkenness　that　es　with　blood　or　the　light　in　the　Mardi　Gras　sky。　He　would　see　only　the　image　of　Zillah's　hands　on　Jessy's　fragile　body。　He　would　picture　Zillah　writhing　atop　Jessy；　stifling　her　screams　with　his　tongue。　The　blame　would　be　taken　away　from　Christian；　and　Wallace　would　no　longer　want　to　kill　him。　He　would　want　Zillah's　blood。
　　Zillah；　with　those　languid；　graceful　hands；　with　those　glowing　green　eyes；　and　the　rest　of　that　loud　happy　trio　Christian　had　not　seen　for　fifteen　years；　though　he　had　looked　for　them　every　night　of　every　Mardi　Gras　when　the　bright　costumes　staggered　in　and　the　laughter　was　high　and　drunken　and　the　liquor　flowed　in　the　gutters。　The　only　ones　of　his　kind　Christian　had　seen　for　so　many　years；　more　years　than　he　wanted　to　remember；　and　the　youngest；　wildest；　finest　ones　he　had　ever　known。
　　No；　Wallace　could　not　be　allowed　to　go　after　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah。　He　would　never　be　able　to　find　them…they　might　be　anywhere　in　the　world；　anywhere　they　could　find　liquor；　sweets；　and　blood…and　if　by　some　chance　he　did　find　them；　they　would　laugh　in　his　face　as　they　killed　him。
　　But　Christian　would　not　give　Wallace　even　a　wisp　of　a　chance。　He　would　deal　with　Wallace　himself；　and　he　would　protect　his　kind。　He　did　not　love　what　he　did；　but　for　too　long　he　had　been　alone　in　doing　it。　Wallace's　blood　would　spill　for　Molochai's　sticky　smile；　for　the　cleverness　of　Twig's　foxlike　face；　for　Zillah's　luminescent　green　eyes。
　　〃All　right；〃　he　said。　〃You　knew　then。　Why　did　you　wait？　Why　have　you　e　to　me　now？〃
　　〃I　was　afraid　of　you　then。〃
　　Christian　nodded　and　took　a　step　toward　Wallace。　Wallace　didn't　back　away　this　time。
　　〃I　have　no　reason　to　fear　you　anymore。〃　Wallace　shut　his　eyes；　then　opened　them。　〃'You　are　a　godless　thing；　and　you　will　die　for　that。　Fifteen　years　ago　I　did　not　have　the　courage　to　avenge　Jessy；　but　nothing　else　matters　to　me　now。〃　He　unfastened　the　crucifix　from　his　throat　and　stepped　toward　Christian；　brandishing　it　at　the　end　of　its　chain。　〃Begone　from　the　face　of　God's　earth；　foul　creature；　thing　of　night；　sucker　at　Death's　teat…〃
　　Christian　shook　his　head　sadly。　He　did　not　laugh；　but　there　was　a　trace　of　amused　contempt　in　his　eyes。　Wallace　stopped　chanting　and　lowered　his　arm。　The　crucifix　swung　from　his　hand；　shimmering　when　the　moonlight　caught　it。
　　〃You　are　a　fool；〃　said　Christian。　〃You　are　a　fool；　and　your　myths　are　wrong。　If　you　touched　me　with　that；　it　would　not　burn　me。　It　would　not　blacken　my　skin。　It　would　not　poison　my　essence。　I　have　nothing　against　your　Christ。　I　am　sure　his　blood　tasted　as　sweet　as　anyone　else's。〃
　　Christian　imagined　Wallace　waving　a　crucifix　in　the　faces　of　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah。　Those　children；　he　thought；　would　laugh　this　silly　old　man　into　his　grave。
　　〃Undead　soul；〃　said　Wallace；　not　quite　steadily。
　　〃No。　I　am　alive。　I　was　born　as　you　were　born。〃　Well；　not　quite。　Christian　thought　of　the　mother　he　had　never　seen；　wondered　whether　he　had　left　her　as　torn　and　bloody　as　Jessy　had　been。　〃I　am　not　the　creature　of　your　myths。　I　did　not　rise　from　the　grave。　I　have　never　been　one　of　your　race；　Wallace　Creech…I　am　of　a　different　one。〃
　　Now　Christian　was　smiling；　letting　the　sharp　tips　of　his　teeth　show；　it　was　an　icy　smile；　masking　his　lust。　Wallace；　no　matter　how　ineffective；　was　a　danger；　a　threat。　And　that　meant　Christian　should　kill　him　now　and　let　him　follow　his　daughter　into　the　river　where　their　bones　might　drift　together　in　the　intimacy　Wallace　seemed　to　long　for。
　　Still　smiling；　gazing　steadily　into　the　depths　of　Wallace's　eyes；　Christian　stepped　forward　and　rested　his　hands　on　the　old　man's　stooped　shoulders。　Wallace　stared　back　as　if　hypnotized；　but　Christian　could　feel　the　man's　muscles　pulled　painfully　tight；　tense　to　the　point　of　trembling。
　　Christian　lowered　his　head　and　brushed　his　lips　against　Wallace's　throat。　And　suddenly　he　found　himself　wishing　that　all　the　ancient　human　myths　were　true。　He　had　seen　no　others　of　his　kind　in　fifteen　years；　since　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　appeared　by　some　Mardi　Gras　magic　and　left　again　when　the　sun　set　on　Ash　Wednesday。　Christian　wished　he　had　the　power　that　the　legends　ascribed　to　him。　He　wished　his　victims　could　rise　again　and　run　with　him；　others　of　his　kind　to　share　the　smell　of　the　streets　past　midnight；　the　long　hot　days　with　the　shades　drawn；　the　taste　of　the　sweet　fresh　blood。　Even　Wallace　would　do；　even　old　tired　Wallace　with　the　pain　in　his　eyes。　He　put　his　mouth　against　Wallace's　throat。　The　skin　there　was　dry；　loose；　it　smelled　of　age。　He　bit　down　and　tasted　blood　for　the　second　time　that　night。。。。
　　But　it　was　bitter；　it　was　foul；　and　he　spat　it　back　against　Wallace's　throat　and　gagged。　Christian's　nostrils　flared。　He　had　not　detected　it　before；　under　the　stinging　mist　of　whiskey　and　sorrow；　but　now　it　was　obvious；　strong；　and　rank。　The　smell　of　sickness；　deep　rotting　sickness　that　rioted　through　Wallace's　body；　as　wet　and　brown　as　the　smell　of　the　river。　Some　virulent　disease；　probably　a　cancer。　The　taste　was　corruption　in　his　mouth。
　　If　that　had　been　all；　Christian　could　have　fled　or　fought。　He　was　very　strong；　surely　stronger　than　Wallace。　But　a　second　later　the　nausea　hit　him；　worse　than　the　drunken　sickness　brought　on　by　the　Chartreuse；　worse　than　the　sharp　immediacy　of　that　pain。　It　knocked　him　down；　and　he　lay　as　still　as　he　could；　languid　with　shock；　trying　not　to　move　for　fear　of　increasing　the　nausea。　He　felt　his　stomach　convulsing　and　he　fought　to　keep　the　boy's　blood　down。　He　did　not　want　to　relinquish　that。
　　Through　the　haze　of　sickness　he　was　aware　of　Wallace　pulling　something　from　behind　his　back；　something　that　had　been　tucked　into　the　waistband　of　his　trousers。　The　object　caught　the　moon　and　became　a　thing　of　pure　light；　a　slim　pistol　shining　white　and　silver。
　　He　saw　Wallace　taking　aim　and　closed　his　eyes。　Then　the　night　exploded　and　pain　slammed　into　Christian's　chest。　He　could　not　breathe。　He　felt　the　hot　pellet　of　lead　tunnelling　into　him；　through　him。　He　kept　his　eyes　dosed　so　that　he　would　not　have　to　see　the　triumph　on　Wallace's　face。
　　His　last　thought　before　the　pain　and　the　sickness　washed　his　mind　away　was　one　of　regret：　Three　hundred　and　eight…three　years。。。such　a　very　long　time　。　。　。　he　should　have　been　beautiful。。。　not　this　sad；　old；　tired　man。。。he　should　have　been　lovely。
　　
　　　Chapter　10
　　
　　Nothing　hurried　through　the　circle　of　brilliance　made　by　a　streetlight　and　slipped　into　the　deserted　darkness　again。　He　pulled　his　raincoat　around　him　（O　sensuous　black　silk；　as　erotic　as　the　touch　of　someone　else's　skin！）　and　hoisted　his　heavy　backpack　on　his　shoulder。
　　His　passage　was　hidden　by　luxuriant　hedges　and　the　shadows　they　cast　on　verdant　lawns；　by　sleek　cars　parked　at　the　curb。　Even　if　his　parents　missed　him　now；　they'd　never　be　able　to　find　him。　He　had　a　sudden　vision　of　them　cruising　the　dark　streets　in　his　mother's　Volvo；　calling　his　name；　waving　a　bottle　of　good　whiskey　to　lure　him　home。
　　He　was　forcing　himself　to　be　absolutely　silent；　making　a　game　of　it　so　that　he　would　not　have　to　think　too　hard　about　what　he　had　left　behind。　His　room　and　all　the　things　in　it。　Most　of　his　tapes；　most　of　his　books；　all　his　records　and　old　toys　and　the　stars　on　his　ceiling。　He　thought　of　the　stars　still　glowing　there；　lonely　pinpoints　of　light　above　his　empty　bed；　and　he　wondered　if　he　would　ever　again　sleep　beneath　a　ceiling　of　painted　yellow　stars。　Tears　pressed　against　the　backs　of　his　eyes。　He　chewed　his　lower　lip；　hugged　himself　tight；　and　waited　for　the　wave　of　loneliness　to　subside。　Not　even　two　blocks　away　and　already　homesick。　This　time　tomorrow；　alone　on　some　Greyhound　in　the　night；　he　might　be　a　real　mess。
　　He　unzipped　his　backpack　and　felt　around　inside。　He　had　brought　only　the　bare　essentials：　his　collection　of　Dylan　Thomas's　poems；　his　notebook；　the　note　stolen　from　his　mother's　drawer　that　would　tell　his　family　who　he　was　when　he　found　them；　his　Walkman；　and　as　many　tapes　as　he　had　been　able　to　cram　in。　He　would　honor　the　backpack　well；　it　would　never　have　to　lug　schoolbooks　again。
　　His　fingers　found　the　Walkman　and　the　edge　of　a　cassette　tape。　He　didn't　care　what　he　listened　to。　He　just　wanted　to　hear　something；　something　to　carry　him　away；　to　blot　out　his　thoughts　for　a　while。　He　knew　he　didn't　really　have