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About Lost Souls
Product Description Vampires . . . they ache, they love, they thirst for the forbidden. They are your friends and lovers, and your worst fears.“A major new voice in horror fiction . . . an electric style and no shortage of nerve.”—BooklistAt a club in Missing Mile, N.C., the children of the night gather, dressed in black, look for acceptance. Among them are Ghost, who sees what others do not; Ann, longing for love; and Jason, whose real name is Nothing, newly awakened to an ancient, deathless truth about his father, and himself. Others are coming to Missing Mile tonight. Three beautiful, hip vagabonds—Molochai, Twig, and the seductive Zillah, whose eyes are as green as limes—are on their own lost journey, slaking their ancient thirst for blood, looking for supple young flesh. They find it in Nothing and Ann, leading them on a mad, illicit road trip south to New Orleans. Over miles of dark highway, Ghost pursues, his powers guiding him on a journey to reach his destiny, to save Ann from her new companions, to save Nothing from himself. . . . “An important and original work . . . a gritty, highly literate blend of brutality and sentiment, hope and despair.”—Science Fiction Chronicle Review “A major new voice in horror fiction . . . an electric style and no shortage of nerve.” —Booklist “An important and original work . . . a gritty, highly literate blend of brutality and sentiment, hope and despair.” —Science Fiction Chronicle“Big talent gives off thermonuclear vibes. I can feel them. The last time I said it, I was talking about Dan Simmons. Now I'm saying it about Poppy Z. Brite” —Harlan Ellison About the Author Poppy Z. Brite’s first novel, Lost Souls, was nominated for Best First Novel of 1992 by the Horror Writers Association and for a Lambda Literary Award. Her second book, Drawing Blood, was also nominated for a Lambda Literary Award and the Bram Stoker Award. Her short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies. She lives and writes in New Orleans. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The night wind felt wonderful in Steve’s hair. The Thunderbird was huge. It always drove like a fucking monster, but tonight Steve felt as if he were piloting some great steamboat down a magic river, a river of shimmering asphalt banked by pine forest and thick, rioting expanses of kudzu. They were somewhere far outside Missing Mile, somewhere on the highway that led up to the Roxboro electric power plant and, beyond that, the North Carolina-Virginia border. Ghost was asleep beside him, his head hung out the window on the passenger side, his pale hair whipping in the wind, his face washed in moonlight. The bottle of whiskey was propped between Ghost’s legs, three-quarters empty, in danger of tipping despite the limp hand that curled around it. Steve leaned over and grabbed the bottle, took a healthy swig. “The T-bird has been drinking,” he sang into the wind, “yes, the T-bird has been drinking … not me.” “Um,” said Ghost. “What? What?” “Forget it,” Steve told him. “Go back to sleep. Have another drink.” He drove faster. He’d wake Ghost on the drive home, to keep him company. Now he wanted Ghost to stay asleep awhile longer; there was bad business ahead. Dangerous business. Or so Steve liked to think of it. Ghost took the bottle back and stared at the label, trying to focus on it. His pale blue eyes swam, narrowed, sharpened only slightly. “White Horse,” he read. “Look, Steve, it’s White Horse whiskey. Did you know Dylan Thomas was drinking at a pub called the White Horse the night he died?” “You told me. That’s why we bought it.” Steve crossed his fingers and tried to will Ghost back to sleep. “He drank eighteen straight whiskeys,” Ghost said, awed. “You drank eighteen straight whiskeys.” “No wonder my brain is sailing with the moon. Sing to me, Steve. Sing me back to sleep.” Just at that moment they crossed a bridge that seemed to bow under the we
