But he couldn't say that. Not in front of Steve.

And he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

CHAPTER 27

Nothing awoke to bright afternoon sunlight filtered through dirty glass and dusty window shades. He could see only a pair of indistinct humps beside him, and for a moment reality did another of those slow giddy rolls: he recognized no part of this place. He had never seen it before. There were no stars on the ceiling as in his old room, no thrumming of wheels and rich smell of old bloodstains as in the van.

He hitched himself up on his elbows and blew a limp sheaf of hair away from his eyes. To his left curled Zillah, deep in his catlike sleep. On his right slept Christian, laid out straight, narrow, immensely long, his eyes and mouth shut tight. Molochai and Twig must be on the floor, cuddled in some corner. Nothing couldn't see them, but he thought he heard their breathing, deep and moist.

He yawned, licked his lips. What was that taste in his mouth? Fuzzy and rancid and somehow green . . .

Nothing's eyes had begun to slip shut. Now they flew open again. He pushed the covers away, scrambled over Zillah, ran to the window. He stood for a moment with the shade-pull in his hand, wondering what he would see outside, hoping it hadn't all been a drunken dream.

The shade clattered up. No one else in the room stirred. Nothing pressed his face to the window. Below him lay a narrow alley strewn with broken glass that sparkled in the sunlight, and beyond that stretched a vista of bright streets. Royal?

Bourbon? Dimly he remembered names from last night, magic talismanic names, names of streets where anything might happen.

He saw tiny dark shops that beckoned to him, and he knew how they would smell-cool and dank and spicy, full of weird treasures. He saw wrought-iron balconies hung with colored flags that fluttered and winked like some silken sea. He saw gleaming whitewashed retaining walls spotted with soft brick-red where the paint had peeled away, and behind them, crumbling buildings that must surely house spiral staircases, palely lit ballrooms, secret chambers whose walls were stained with the leavings of blood sacrifice.

It was real, it was there, it was his. New Orleans. He had made it all the way from the false home of his childhood to the true city of his birth, to the wondrous glittering French Quarter, to the very room where he had emerged between Jessy 's blood-slicked thighs.

Christian had arrived before them and secured their lodging. The bar-the legendary bar where Zillah had met Jessy, had made love to her among the dusty cases of wine and liquor-was closed, its windows boarded up, but Christian's room was still empty and he had no trouble renting it again. The landlady showed it to a prospective taker or two, Christian said with a glimmer of amusement, but they told her it swelled funny.

The room of his birth. The thought made Nothing turn away from the window and stare into the dimness of the room. His eyes flicked from shadow to shadow. He wondered if the wraith of his mother would drift out of a corner, whispering to him: You killed me, my baby. In this room you killed me. On this very floor.

But whatever wraiths lived here were silent. Nothing crouched to examine the threadbare carpet, but if the stains of his gory birth remained, he could not see them in this half-light.

He decided not to wake the others. He wanted to explore the strange but somehow familiar maze of streets by himself. A small thrill of anarchy went through him as he tore a page out of his notebook and wrote a message to Zillah: Back by tonight was all it said. He signed it, the point of his t a dagger, the tail of his g an extravagant loop. This was the name Christian had given him, the name that undeniably belonged to him now. He would write it every chance he got. He signed the note again, then a third time, making the letters sprawl wildly across the page: Nothing, Nothing, Nothing. In this room Christian had held him all blood-slimed, had given him his name. Now he would go out and discover the streets that were his home.

When his sneakers hit the cement, it was as if the whole of the French Quarter jarred through his bones. Last night in the hazy hours after their arrival, he had been dazzled by the carnival of Bourbon Street, drunk on Chartreuse. Now, sober and clear-headed in watery afternoon sunlight, he wanted to bound through these old streets shouting I'm here, I'm here! He wanted to embrace each ornate lamppost and street sign, to fly from every balcony. The French Quarter was his, every ancient brick, every heady drop of it.

He pulled a pair of cheap sunglasses from his coat pocket and put them on. He 'd taken to swiping them from convenience stores and gas stations in lieu of Lucky Strikes, which he 'd almost stopped smoking. The cigarettes just didn't taste good anymore. His newest pair of shades had small round frames with rainbow-mirrored lenses; they made him feel like John Lennon in his trippier days. It was good to keep a couple of pairs of sunglasses on you all the time. Daylight didn 't hurt him and the others as it did Christian, but it could give them a headache that pulsed red and maddening behind the eyes.

Nothing wandered the streets and the sidewalks for hours. A string of purple Mardi Gras beads was draped over a wrought-iron gatepost, left over from the carnival in the spring, a garland to welcome him home. He fastened it around his throat.

He visited St. Louis Cathedral with its dizzy vaulted ceilings and its thousand votive candles flickering in stained -glass light. In the cathedral's gift shop he palmed a rosary and added it to the beads around his neck; the two strands jangled against each other, then nestled together in an uneasy camaraderie of sacred and profane.

He sat at the Cafe du Monde and sipped a cup of coffee shot through with hot steaming milk. He wandered to the top of the levee and looked down upon the surging brown river. My mother's bones lie there, he told himself. And they do not rest, they drift and break apart and come back together year by year, and they never rest.

When shadows began to stretch across the sidewalks and tired eyes watched his progress past the doorways of the bars, Nothing retraced his steps toward Christian's room. The others would be ready to wake by now. Christian might accompany them on their rounds tonight, or might find some other way to amuse himself, since he no longer needed a job. "We get money in other ways," Zillah had told him coolly when he proposed going back to work at some bar.

They would descend upon the French Quarter, reeling from bar to bar, singing down Bourbon Street with their arms around one another's shoulders. In the company of Molochai, Twig, and Zillah, Nothing was served drinks without a second glance. The taste of Chartreuse was magical, fragrant and heady beyond imagining; yet somehow it also tasted natural to him, as if he had been weaned on the blazing green liqueur. Already it felt as if they had been here forever.

And all the bloodstreams here were sure to be sweet. With a shock, Nothing realized how hungry he was. The memory of Laine's blood gave him no guilt now. He remembered only how rich it had tasted, its heat, the way it had pumped into his mouth with the beat of life itself. But now Laine's death felt like something that had happened a long time ago. Too long ago.

Since then, there had been those drifters in Missing Mile, and the child. They had been easier. When he found out how Molochai, Twig, and Zillah filed their teeth to make them sharp, Nothing had sharpened his too. Now he liked to run his tongue over them, teasing the small points. But not even the kid from Violin Road had tasted as sweet as Laine. In the French Quarter all blood would taste alcoholic, purple....

Yes, tonight they would surely go out for blood.

Now he was almost home. Some small rational part of his mind wondered how he was able to walk these streets so easily. But he could not really think it strange. He had dreamed of this city, of roaming these streets. A glittering map of the French Quarter seemed to unfold in his head, half -imagined and half-remembered, as clear as the burn of Chartreuse. He swung around a lamppost, and his coat floated out in an undulating circle of black silk.

Not until he was half a block from the room did Nothing notice the man following slowly behind him. The man walked bent slightly at the waist, one arm clamped across his stomach as if it hurt him to move. He was only a shape in the fading light, neither large nor small, featureless. Nothing slowed his steps. The man slowed too. Nothing walked faster. So did the man, doubling up even more.

Instead of stopping at the boarded-up bar, Nothing turned right. He would lead the man into the alley that ran beneath Christian's window. The alley was fenced off at the other end and blocked by a heap of garbage-he might be trapping himself. But he could face the man there, find out what he wanted and deal with him however necessary. He didn 't look like much of a threat.

Nothing heard the man follow him into the alley, shoes crunching over broken glass. He stopped and swung around, his hands on his hips and his sneakers planted firmly on the pavement, trying to look dangerous.

The man stopped a few feet away, badly hunched now. His breathing sounded harsh and painful. His face was a wavering pale blotch on the dusk. Below it, a silver cross on a chain gleamed. He stared at Nothing for a long moment, his lips working silently, his eyes disbelieving. Then he took two unsteady steps forward.

"Jessy..." he whispered.

Nothing felt his heart cannon against his ribs, bounce crazily off his breastbone. Hush, he willed it, hush, heart, no one can hurt me. Zillah is close by, and I have no fear.

The man came closer. With dry fingertips he touched Nothing's face. Nothing thought, He's old. He is much older than I thought. And he looks so sick. He cannot hurt me. He caught the man's hand in his and pulled it easily away from his face.

The fingers were like bones wrapped in parchment.

"Jessy," the man said again, more evenly this time.

Nothing tried to make his voice calm. It came out husky, as if he'd smoked a whole pack of Luckies that day. "That's not my name," he said.

"You are so like her-" The old man pulled himself upright. His face contorted. Nothing imagined tissue pulling loose inside him, bleeding bad blood. He gripped the man's arm, trying to give what support he could. The man breathed deeply and was able to continue. "My daughter died many years ago. But you are so very like her..."

It's Wallace, Nothing realized wildly. The sick old man who nearly killed Christian and drove him away from here.

He is my grandfather. He shot Christian in the chest... but he is my grandfather. His heart caromed again. Should he tell Wallace his name, or should he lie? Something in him rebelled at denying his name. It was truly his now, and he would claim it.

"My name is Nothing," he said.

"Who are you?" The man grabbed Nothing's shoulders and gave him a feeble shake. "Who are you, child?"

Nothing half-wanted to fall into Wallace's arms and sob out the whole confusing story. After all, this man was his grandfather. He had almost killed Christian, but he hadn't known the truth then. He thought Christian had lured Jessy to her death. Nothing could explain the truth.

But then he realized he couldn't. Even if Nothing was Wallace's only grandson, even if Nothing looked so much like his dear dead Jessy. Because if Wallace heard the whole story, he would know who had really killed his daughter.

Zillah. Zillah had caused Jessy's death, hadn't he? He didn't mean to, it was my fault-J tore her apart inside before I was ever born, Nothing thought hysterically. But Wallace would not blame him. Wallace would love him because he was Jessy's offspring, because he looked like Jessy and was just the age she had been when Wallace had lost her. And Wallace would want to take him away from Zillah, away from his family.

Besides, Wallace was in pain. Suffering.

Maybe Nothing could do one small mercy for his grandfather.

"My mother's name was Jessy," he said.

Doubt flickered in Wallace's eyes, brighter than the pain and weariness. If Nothing wanted Wallace to trust him, he had to think of some kind of proof. At once it came to him.

"She disappeared fifteen years ago, at Mardi Gras," he told Wallace. "That was when she met my father."

Not until the words were out, hanging in the cool still air of the dusk, did Nothing realize his mistake.

"Then you are one of the unholy creatures too," Wallace whispered. "The city has become riddled with them." With a convulsive motion he tore the crucifix from his neck and thrust it at Nothing, trying to drive him toward the end of the alley.

"Repent-while you are still young-in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, tear the bloodlust from your heart-"

Nothing could not bring himself to laugh. He caught Wallace's hand and took the cross away. "I'm sorry, Grandfather,"

he said. "That doesn't work on all of us."

"Then it's lucky that the Lord told me to carry other protection," said Wallace. In one jerky movement he whipped a small pistol from the waistband of his trousers and aimed it at Nothing's forehead.

"Bless you, my grandson," he said. "When you look upon the face of God, you will thank me."

Nothing was never sure how long he stood there staring down the round black barrel of the gun, wondering whether he would see the flash of fire or hear the explosion before the bullet smashed into his face. The brain or the heart, Christian had told him. He had time to think of all he had found, all he was about to lose, all the miles he would not travel.

A mist seemed to surround Wallace's head, suffusing his face with dim light. Nothing saw Wallace's finger tightening on the trigger: actually saw that.

Then something was plummeting toward them. Nothing saw the large dark shape hit Wallace dead-on, saw Wallace's body jerk forward and his arm fly up. The shot went wild. Brick splintered far overhead.

Zillah crouched atop Wallace's prone form. He must have launched himself from the second-story window, but he was not even breathing hard. The other man's body had stopped his fall.

Wallace lay on the pavement in the shards of glass. He groped weakly for the pistol. Zillah stamped on Wallace's hand, and Nothing heard a sound like strands of raw spaghetti breaking. Wallace screamed once, a shrill, despairing sound. Then he began to mumble softly. Nothing realized he was praying. Did he still think his God was going to pull him out of this one?

"Some fine messes you get yourself into," said Zillah. "What if I hadn't seen you from up there?" His eyes gleamed; his lips were purple with fury. "You little fool"-the pointed tip of his shoe met Wallace's cheekbone; black blood sprayed-"do you think you're too smart to die? Do you think I can always watch out for you?"

Zillah knelt above Wallace, pulled Wallace's head up by a handful of bloodied gray hair, and smashed Wallace's face into the pavement. The sound made Nothing think of eggs being dropped onto broken glass. Gore began to pool beneath Wallace's head. "I won't lose you now, Nothing." Zillah rolled Wallace over and began to slap him across the face, over and over, glaring up at Nothing. "Don't you know"-slap-"I love you?" Slap. "I LOVE YOU." Slap.

Zillah's long nails dug into the loose flesh of Wallace 's face. He wrenched Wallace's head back, exposing his throat.

Incredibly, Wallace was still praying: "...the flesh of the Son," Nothing heard him mumble.

For a moment Zillah seemed ready to sink his fingernails into the old man 's throat. But he only ground Wallace's face down again, then leaped off him and came for Nothing. He grabbed Nothing by the front of his coat, nearly choking him. With his other hand he cupped Nothing's chin. The gesture was almost tender, except that Zillah dug his long nails into the flesh of Nothing's cheeks. Zillah was hurting him on purpose. Nothing felt a clear, icy fury begin to rise within him.

"Get your hands off me," he said.

Zillah's eyes flared brighter. "What?"

"I said get them off me." Nothing shoved Zillah's hand away from his face and twisted out of Zillah's grasp. They faced each other in the darkening alley. Nothing's heart beat painfully fast, but he was pleased to realize he wasn't trembling. "I'm sorry I get myself into stupid messes, okay? I haven't been doing this very long. I don't know what's right and what's wrong.

Nobody except Christian ever tells me anything." With each word he grew angrier. "You don't treat me like your son-you treat me like I'm half sex slave and half lapdog. When I'm good, you pat me on the head, and when I fuck up you yell at me and hurt me. But you never explain anything to me. What kind of a father are you, anyway?"

Nothing gasped for breath. He could see only two bright green spots on the darkness. "All I have to say is this," he continued. "Don't ever hurt me again. I love you. I want to stay with you. But don't you hurt me. I'm not Molochai or Twig. I won't take it. I'm sick of it."

Zillah stared at him. Slowly the blaze in his eyes died down; they became cool, appraising. "Wait here," he said.

Then Zillah did an odd thing. He knelt beside Wallace again and yanked Wallace's trouser legs up past his ankles. When Zillah reached into the purple silk lining of his jacket, Nothing knew what he was going to do. He wanted to look away; instead, he watched helplessly as Zillah unfolded his pearl-handled razor and carefully sliced through the back of each ankle.

He drew the blade through the old man's threadbare socks, through the thin skin, through the big tendon as if it were butter.

Nothing saw the razor falter as it grated on bone. Wallace was now beyond sound; only a long shudder ran through his body.

"Wait here," Zillah said again. Nothing half-expected him to skitter up the brick wall and climb back through the window.

But Zillah just walked to the mouth of the alley, glanced over his shoulder at Nothing, and turned toward the staircase that led up to the room.

Nothing could not look at Wallace now. He stared at the ground, at the broken glass and the pile of garbage. Something gleamed near his foot. The crucifix. Nothing looked at it for a long moment, then picked it up and thrust it deep into his pocket.

Zillah wouldn't like him keeping it.

Too bad.

In a few minutes Zillah came back down with Molochai and Twig. They had left Christian sleeping, they said. They could tell him about Wallace later. It would be a surprise. Nothing suspected they were just greedy.

Wallace was already bleeding from several places. The wounds in his ankles pumped with his heartbeat. Molochai and Twig latched onto them. Nothing imagined that the big veins of the legs must be like soda straws.

Zillah picked up one of Wallace's limp hands, the one he had stomped. The palm was smeared with blood where it had been crushed against the broken glass and rough brick. Zillah opened his razor again. He slid it smoothly in, and the flesh of the palm parted cleanly. A sheet of thin blood mixed with saliva ran down Zillah's chin as he began to suck at the wound.

Nothing's stomach growled.

He crawled forward and knelt beside Wallace. His grandfather's cheek rested on a broken bottle. His eyes were open, still aware, brimming with rage and pain. At least I can end the pain for you, Nothing thought. He put his mouth against the slow pulse of Wallace's throat. The skin there was dry and soft; it felt very old. He choked back a sob and sank in his new filed teeth.

His grandfather's blood was bitter.

But he and his family drank every drop.

CHAPTER 28

Late that night Ghost opened his eyes and blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling. There were no dead leaves up there, no painted stars. There were only shifting patches of moonlight like a white and silver sea.