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t out。 Pale steam plumed from his mouth and his nostrils。 For a minute he stood on the sidewalk in front of the club； his hands deep in the pockets of his army jacket fumbling with the objects he found there。 Rose petals。 An old ace of spades he had found in the dead grass at the end of their driveway； water…marked and crusted with dirt。 A guitar pick； the lucky one Steve had given him。 Then； his hands still in his pockets； he crossed the street and stood in the middle of the empty block。
Missing Mile was not a large town； but it was big enough to have a couple of run…down areas。 The Sacred Yew was right in the middle of one。 The kids didn't care； and Kinsey liked the cheap rent。 Some of the shop windows were boarded up or broken。 Ghost stood in front of a building that had last been a dress shop。 Magic Marker signs in the display window still announced GOING OUT OF BUSINESS！ and ALL STOCK 75％ OFF！ and； optimistically； BEAT XMAS RUSH！
But between the signs the window was soaped in great cakey swashes。 Looking through one of the gaps； Ghost saw a pink torso splashed with moonlight and shadow。 Above it； a smooth； featureless oval of a head gazed back into the dark recesses of the building。 A mannequin； left behind to preside over ruin。
He did not turn when Ann came silently out of the club； her hair flying like a banner behind her； cold tears dripping off her chin。 He stood looking through the window of the abandoned dress shop for a long time。 The only voice in his head was his own； and his thoughts drifted like the clouds up by the moon。 Then； sometime later； he sensed a presence behind him。
When he turned； Zillah and Nothing were across the street； standing by the club door。 Zillah was still for a moment seeming to scent the cold night air。 Then he started down the street； walking fast； not looking back at Nothing。 Nothing hurried to catch up。
After a moment； Ghost followed too。
Christian turned away from the rangy guitarist without asking him to pay for his beer。 He had learned to know when a customer needed a drink on the house。 The boy nodded his thanks and walked away； already raising the beer to his lips。
As Christian pulled the Michelob tap forward and began drawing another beer； he glanced up at the bar clock…and his breath caught in his throat。 The glass clockface was reflecting three lights at once： the purple glow of the ancient TV set that flickered all night up in the corner； the green luminescence of a beer sign across the room； and the yellow of someone's striking a match。 That was all； but for a second those three colors flared together； and in that circle of glass Christian saw the tawdry splendor of a hundred Mardi Gras nights…the fire； the liquor； the beads； the burning glow of Chartreuse…all up there in the dusty clockface。
A wave of homesickness such as he had never known shuddered through him。 It did not matter that his bar had been way down Chartres； far from the heart of the Quarter。 In that moment he saw only Bourbon Street； the neon carnival going on all night； the glitter that lit up the dawn。 And he thought suddenly that New Orleans was his home as no place had ever been…not in all his years。 He must go back。 Better to face the dry danger of Wallace Creech than to stay in this dark little town serving endless cups of bad draft beer through every endless night。
Then； with an effort； he stifled his thoughts。 Of course he could not go back。 He had abandoned his bar。 When no rent check was sent to the owner； the bar and supplies would be seized； would no longer belong to him。 And did he wish to die at the hands of one such as Wallace； to die for the dogged obsessions of a sick old man； or to have to kill him and his endless string of true believers？
No。 He would stay here； where fate and the highways had brought him。 He would serve beer and sell roses as long as they grew。 He would put away money。 Someday； when he knew Wallace had to he dead； he could return to New Orleans。 But for the present； as soon as he had enough money； he would go north to look for the others。
He drew another beer。 Above the noise in the bar a loud voice said； 〃Hey； Count Dracula； can we get a drink？〃
Christian turned； his shoulders stiff； his eyes frigid。 But the two faces before him were familiar and as ically surprised as he must look。 The ridiculous smudges of kohl around the eyes。 The masses of ratted hair framing pallid cheeks。 One of them held a sticky red lollipop in his hand。 They had let their hair grow longer and wilder； and their style of dress was now tinged with punk。 One wore a studded leather collar around his neck； the other's black denim jacket seemed to he held together chiefly by hundreds of safety pins。 Otherwise Molochai and Twig had changed not at all since Christian last saw them； waving goodbye from the windows of their van on that Ash Wednesday night fifteen years ago。
His first clear thought was What happened to Zillah？ beautiful green…eyed Zillah？ he must be safe。 He blocked that thought； and his second one was They are here； they are really here； the time passed as if I were asleep and they have found me again。
Then Christian did something he had never done before； not once during a long； long bartending career。 He dropped the cup of beer he was holding。 It foamed around his boots and made a huge puddle on the floor。 Kinsey came out from the back and saw it and glared at him； and Christian could not have cared less。
Nothing gazed around at the kids in the club。 They were all so beautiful。 He loved their choppy hairstyles； their costume jewelry； their ragged black or multicolored clothes。 He loved the way they all somehow looked like him； and he wished he could make friends with every one of them。 Most of them smiled at him； and a few said 〃hey〃…they all seemed to say that instead of 〃hi〃 or 〃hello〃…but he didn't dare talk to any of them。 He couldn't make friends now。 Not when they might end up like Laine； alone in a culvert with rainwater washing through their hair。
Not yet。
He was content just to be among them； watching them talk； smoke； dance。 Zillah was beside him； and the others； so he wasn't alone。 And he had the show to remember。 The songs。 Ghost swaying at the microphone； bathed in golden light。 Steve bounding across the stage； playing guitar like the devil was chasing him。 Ghost's hands like pale birds shaping the music。 Nothing stood still； trying to absorb every detail of the club…the smells of clove…smoke and sweaty perfume； the mural sprawling across the wails； some of it faded or rubbed away； some bright as the fresh blood on the walls of the van。
Then Molochai and Twig stumbled off to the bar in search of some drink called a Suffering Bastard。 Zillah disappeared with them； but a few minutes later he was back。 He gripped Nothing's arm and nodded meaningfully toward the exit。
Outside； Zillah turned without a word and stalked away from the club。 Nothing stared after him for a moment； then ran along the sidewalk to catch up。
All day it had been like this。 Ever since slinking away from Steve and Ghost's house that was how Nothing thought of it。 In broad daylight they had slunk away。 Now