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o stay alive？ If he had not been born with such an instinct； could he have taken that first bite out of Laine's throat？
Nothing tried to imagine the circumstances that would lead； purely by coincidence； to a half…breed vampire leaving home； hitchhiking more than two hundred miles； and being picked up by the very member of his race who had fathered him fifteen years before。 He could not do it。 This was not coincidence； this had all been meant to happen。 A map of his life was printed somewhere； and for a long time he had been wandering its boundaries； hopelessly lost。 Now he had found its pattern。 That the map might be printed all over with the legend Here There Be Monsters did not bother him in the least。
His bond to Zillah was also his bond to this world of blood and night。 He knew that now Zillah would not leave him； would not abandon him。 He had faced Zillah down once； and he could do it again。 In a weird way； it seemed to make Zillah proud of him。
Zillah had wanted him from the beginning。 There must have been some biological pull between them。 The seed returning to the sower。 But Zillah hadn't known why。 The sentiment might still have been revocable。 The pull might have weakened； even dissolved； when the next bottle of cheap wine was gone。 But when Christian spoke those words outside the club…those terrifying； magical words； You're Zillah's son…the bond had bee flesh。
No； not just flesh。 Blood。 The bond was forged in blood； of course； his and Zillah's； and Jessy's that had poured out of her。 Nothing was of Zillah's blood； and Zillah would not let him go now； not in a thousand years。 They might live that long； might live a thousand years or more； and still they would be together。 He would ride the highways with Molochai； Twig； Zillah； and now Christian； forever。 They would drink and make wild love and never grow old。 And he would never have to be alone。
Nothing smiled at the ceiling。 Though he did not know it； there was a wantonness to his smile that had not been there a month ago。
A soft footfall made him look toward the bedroom door。 A figure stood in the doorway； a black shadow haloed by a thin line of silver light。 Long wavy hair； straight shoulders。 A small slight figure that stood as if it might be seven feet tall； massive and regal。 Zillah。
〃e here；〃 said Nothing。 Zillah came to him and slipped under the cold sheets with him。 As Zillah's arms tightened around him； Nothing heard himself say； 〃Daddy。〃
Zillah kissed his eyelids； his forehead； his lips。 〃Yes。 That's lovely。 Call me that。〃
〃Daddy；〃 Nothing whispered as Zillah unwound the sheets； kissed his throat； his chest； the tender concave stretch of skin below his ribs。
〃My baby；〃 said Zillah； and bit him gently。 Nothing felt the last tattered shreds of his old life…the town； the desperately apathetic crowd at Skittle's； the two well…intentioned fools who had pretended to be his parents…tear loose and drift away on the warm river of Zillah's tongue。 On the scent of blood； of herbs； of altars。
A night for reflecting。
A night for thinking of matters ordinarily left untouched； left half…buried in the sludge of the unconscious。 Some nights seem shaped by an unseen dark hand。 Some nights seem made for lying awake； eyes following the cracks and flyspecks on the ceiling； or the dead leaves and flowers pinned there； or the painted stars。 Some nights seem made for plodding through the mind…sludge； poking at swollen and corrupted things； then ruthlessly heaving them over and staring them full in the face。
Some nights are made for torture； or reflection； or the savoring of loneliness。
Zillah lay draped around Nothing。 To someone who lifted the tin roof off the trailer and looked upon the two small figures tangled in the sheets； Zillah's position would have appeared both protective and possessive。 He lay with his cheek against Nothing's smooth hair； and he thought； Mine。 More than anything was before； more than anything will ever be again； this is mine。 My seed； my blood； my soul。
In town； a bad country…and…western band took the stage at the Sacred Yew。 Christian wiped down the bar and tried not to listen to the mournful strains of the Rickenbacker； tried to blot out lyrics like 'This heart was made for drinkin'； not for thinkin'。〃 His mind turned to Zillah and Nothing； to their obsessive incestuous passion for each other。 Well； he asked himself； what difference can it make？ Who can it hurt？ There are so few of us； and if it stops two souls from being alone； then where is the harm？
He worried for Nothing because he knew Zillah was mad。 Madder even than he had been fifteen years ago at Mardi Gras。 The green light in his eyes was crazier； his passion for violence and pain more evident。 But perhaps the whole race was mad in one way or another。 Surely years upon years of living on the fringes of the world would drive anyone to madness。 Zillah and the others…their madness was that they had grown to love living as nomads； outlaws； murderers。 Their madness made them happy。 And as for Nothing； perhaps being loved by his mad； beautiful father was better than being alone。
In another part of town； out where the pines hung heavy and green； where the October colors of the other trees flamed darkly in the night； where the kudzu marked the passage of the road； Ghost lay curled in bed。 He was aware of Steve in the next room； sleeping the sleep of alcohol； sodden and dreamless。 Steve wasn't drinking se much beer lately。 He had started on Jim Beam instead。 Tonight he had begun by drinking it with tap water and ended up taking straight slugs from the bottle； and by the time Ghost helped him stagger to bed； he had put away a fifth of the stuff。
Steve talked and talked。 Laying blame。 That bitch； he said。 That fucking betraying bitch。 And that green…eyed mother…fucker； I wonder how he'd smirk if somebody cut off his balls 。 。 。
Ghost listened； saying 〃yeah〃 and 〃uh…huh' at the appropriate places。 But where was the point in laying blame？ Zillah had bewitched Ann。 Ghost knew from his grandmother that love…spells don't work on people who don't want them； and they are surely the hardest kind of spells to undo once they are done。 And as for Nothing 。 。 。 well； Nothing was home after all； wasn't he？ Blood calls to blood。 If Nothing wanted to sleep every night in his father's arms； then Ghost guessed that was what he must do。
He wrapped his arms around his pillow and wondered； What will e of all this？ Where will all these lost souls go？ But that was not the question he wanted to ask。 What would e； would e。 He reached out with his mind and found Ann in the dark somewhere； wandering by herself； searching for something that would only hurt her if she found it。 Bewitched。 She could not feel his mind brushing hers； would not answer him。 He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep。 He'd been crying a lot lately。 But he didn't want to cry alone in the dark。
As Ghost began to dream； the inhabitants of the trailer on Violin Road congregated in the tiny kitchen and greeted the new night with plastic cups of wine。 At the Sacred Yew； Christian watched the bar clock and counted off the hours until closing