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and beer and all the drinkers who had been here。 If he breathed in deeply enough； he thought he could still catch the scent of Wallace Creech the dry sick smell。
Wallace。 Poor Wallace； who thought he had killed his nemesis； his daughter's supernatural defiler。 What would he do when he discovered otherwise？
Christian closed his eyes。 He would not think about Wallace now； would not plan。 He looked around the room； saw the dark wood of the bar； the bottles gleaming softly on their shelves； the colored light faltering through the unbroken stained…glass window。 In here the light could not hurt him。
But his eyes were sore； exhausted。 He climbed the stairs to his room and burrowed into bed； into his own forting； familiar smell。 Cool dry skin and ancient spice and a hint of something darker； something thick and garnet…colored and faintly rotten。 The smell from deep inside him； where the blood never quite washed clean。 Borne away on the river of it； he slept。
When he awoke； the light seeping around the edges of the window shade was diffuse； milky； no longer bright and searing。 Outside on the street； twilight must be drawing nigh。 The streetlamps would blink on soon； softly illuminating each corner through opaque glass panes； and all the children of the French Quarter would e out to play。
Christian lay flat on his back； tangled in sheets that were not so very much paler than his skin。 He pulled tendrils of his hair over his shoulder and twisted them as he daydreamed； and he stared at the delicate brown and cream pattern of water marks that had spread across the ceiling over the years； almost too dim to see in this fading light。 He was not planning； not worrying； not even truly thinking。 He was only waiting for full night to e； for he knew it was time to leave again。
This had happened so many times before。 He might live in a place for five years or fifty before anyone became suspicious of him。 But someone always became suspicious； and he always moved on。 It was easier than trying to hide from them； it made him less heartsick than fighting them。 When he was young he had fought them； and he had never lost。 But he always had to kill so many。 Eventually he realized that when he was not killing for lust and hunger； he hated it。 Breaking the fragile span of their forty or fifty or eighty years made him feel vicious and cruel。 He could outlast them； he could return long after they were dust and bones。
And it was most important to remain secretive； to remain a little afraid。 For even if he killed them all； tore their throats out one by one； there were always more。 This was the one thing he knew Molochai； Twig； and even Zillah would never recognize： no matter how invulnerable they thought they might be； their race was few； and the others were many。
Once he had been found out； they would rain down upon him。 They would scream for his blood in return for the blood he had taken； and they would have it no matter what the cost。
Wallace might not be so dangerous。 Not by himself。 He was old and alone； perhaps he would have no friends to tell。 But Wallace had God； and the godly。 He belonged to a church。 Christian knew the eagerness of the religious to believe in evil and their lust to crush it。 To do something tangible in return for the intangible reward they spent their lives awaiting。 Wallace by himself might not be so dangerous； but his faith could be deadly。
And so it was time to leave again。 It was easier than being on his guard all the time； easier than slapping a hundred crucifixes out of a hundred hands； easier than ripping into a hundred terrified faces。 Let Wallace die believing he had avenged his daughter。
Christian packed a very small bag。 There was little to pack； for a long time now possessions had seemed fleeting and cumbersome； and his room was almost bare。 He brought his day clothes； his hat and gloves and glasses； and he brought the money he had saved from the bar。 He kept it in a box under the bed； but there wasn't very much of it。 No one else would have been able to afford the rent and the upkeep…the bar was so far down Chartres； and no one ever came in until ten…but Christian had none of the expenses of a usual human life。 He did not need food； he did not go out drinking。 His enjoyments were more exotic and carried a potentially higher price。 This money he would spend along the way； for gasoline。 He could get more money when he needed it； there was always work for a good bartender。 With a glimmer of hope； he put three bottles of Chartreuse in his bag。 There was no telling whom he might meet on the road。
It had begun to rain； and the street was deserted。 This was cold； grimy rain； rain that drifted down from the sky like broken spiderwebs and danced on the hood of Christian's car as if possessed by some mindless elemental joy。 The golden cones of brightness beneath the streetlamps shimmered like spirits。 Rain misted up from the sidewalks and rose back toward the sky。 The clouds hung low and leaden； reflecting back the light of the French Quarter dull purple； like light seen through thick dirty glass。
Christian turned onto Bourbon Street。 The rain hadn't stopped tonight's carnival。 Crowds huddled on the sidewalks and made occasional mad dashes across the street； like fish darting between brightly lit riverbanks。 The street was a riot of lights。 Glittering gold ribbons； pink and green martini glasses； a giant red neon crawfish。 He drove past Jean Lafitte's Old Absinthe House and remembered when it had first begun serving that bitter liqueur。 The sign proclaimed Since 1807； and Christian had to trust it。 His memory was good； but he had been in and out of the city in those years； more restless then。 He had seen Lafitte； though； a handsome； sensual man who could hold forth on any subject and draw an audience whether he knew what he spoke of or not。 Christian's eyes had met Lafitte's across a crowded barroom one night； and Lafitte had pulled a face at him； toothy and menacing； then winked。
The pirate had been drunk on absinthe； which produces visions。 Molochai； Twig； and Zillah would have loved absinthe in its true form； before the poisonous wormwood was taken out of the recipe。 But they had been mewling babes when it was banned in the United States in 1912。
Inside the strip clubs； spangles gyrated and flashed。 Christian stopped his car for a crowd of people milling across the street。 Soldiers； tourists； street…corner musicians…and the omnipresent children in black。 He had seen those pale smudged faces before； in the clubs； in his arms 。 。 。 but no； those had been different faces。
Most of the crowd was drunk。 Some turned and waved at Christian； and he lifted a gloved hand in return； half…smiling。 Surely those could not be tears on his face。 He had not cried in too many years。 He could not remember what crying felt like。 This was only leftover rain； dripping from his hair； pooling in his eyes。
Christian waved goodbye to the Bourbon Street crowd and wiped the rain from his cheeks。 Then he turned north and drove out of town。
Chapter 12
As early afternoon light touched her eyelids； the sleeping girl moaned and buried her face in soft black