minute?"
His father glanced at his Rolex. "As a matter of fact, my next patient won't be here for half an hour."
"There's something I need to talk about."
His father looked at him keenly, then gestured to an overstuffed chair. James eased into it, but found himself pulling forward to sit on the edge.
"What's on your mind?"
James searched for the right words. Everything de pended on whether he could make his father under stand. But what were the right words? At last he settled for bluntness.
"It's Poppy. She's been sick for a while, and now they think she has cancer."
Dr. Rasmussen looked surprised. "I'm sorry to hear that." But there was no sorrow in his voice.
"And it's a bad cancer. It's incredibly painful and just about one hundred percent incurable."
"That's a pity." Again there was nothing but mild surprise in his father's voice. And suddenly James knew where that came from. It wasn't surprise that Poppy was sick; it was surprise that James had made a trip just to tell him this.
"Dad, if she's got this cancer, she's dying. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Dr. Rasmussen steepled his fingers and stared into the ruddy gloss of his mahogany desk. He spoke slowly and steadily. "James, we've been through this before. You know that your mother and I are worried about you getting too dose to Poppy. Too . . . attached ... to her."
James felt a surge of cold rage. "Like I got too attached to Miss Emma?"
His father didn't blink. "Something like that."
James fought the pictures that wanted to form in his mind. He couldn't think about Miss Emma now; he needed to be detached. That was the only way to convince his father.
"Dad, what I'm trying to say is that I've known Poppy just about all my life. She's useful to me."
"How? Not in the obvious way. You've never fed on her, have you?"
James swallowed, feeling nauseated. Feed on Poppy? Use her like that? Even the thought of it made him sick.
"Dad, she's my friend," he said, abandoning any pretense of objectivity. "I can't just watch her suffer. I can't. I have to do something about it."
His father's face cleared. "I see."
James felt dizzy with astonished relief. "You understand?"
"James, at times one can't help a certain feeling of . . . compassion for humans. In general, I wouldn't encourage it-but you have known Poppy a long while. You feel pity for her suffering. If you want to make that suffering shorter, then, yes, I understand."
The relief crashed down around James. He stared at his father for a few seconds, then said softly, "Mercy killing? I thought the Elders had put a ban on deaths in this area."
"Just be reasonably discreet about it. As long as it seems to be natural, we'll all look the other way. There won't be any reason to call in the Elders."
There was a metallic taste in James's mouth. He stood and laughed shortly. "Thanks, Dad. You've really helped a lot."
His father didn't seem to hear the sarcasm. "Glad to do it, James. By the way, how are things at the apartments?"
"Fine," James said emptily.
"And at school?"
"School's over, Dad," James said, and let himself out.
In the courtyard he leaned against an adobe wall and stared at the splashing water of the fountain.
He was out of options. Out of hope. The laws of the Night World said so.
If Poppy had the disease, she would die from it.
CHAPTER 4
Poppy was staring without appetite at a dinner tray of chicken nuggets and french fries when Dr. Franklin came in the room.
The tests were over. The CAT scan had been all right, if claustrophobic, but the ERCP had been awful. Poppy could still feel the ghost of the tube in her throat every time she swallowed.
"You're leaving all this great hospital food," Dr. Franklin said with gentle humor. Poppy managed a smile for him.
He went on talking about innocuous things. He didn't say anything about the test results, and Poppy had no idea when they were supposed to come in. She was suspicious of Dr. Franklin, though. Some thing about him, the
His father glanced at his Rolex. "As a matter of fact, my next patient won't be here for half an hour."
"There's something I need to talk about."
His father looked at him keenly, then gestured to an overstuffed chair. James eased into it, but found himself pulling forward to sit on the edge.
"What's on your mind?"
James searched for the right words. Everything de pended on whether he could make his father under stand. But what were the right words? At last he settled for bluntness.
"It's Poppy. She's been sick for a while, and now they think she has cancer."
Dr. Rasmussen looked surprised. "I'm sorry to hear that." But there was no sorrow in his voice.
"And it's a bad cancer. It's incredibly painful and just about one hundred percent incurable."
"That's a pity." Again there was nothing but mild surprise in his father's voice. And suddenly James knew where that came from. It wasn't surprise that Poppy was sick; it was surprise that James had made a trip just to tell him this.
"Dad, if she's got this cancer, she's dying. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Dr. Rasmussen steepled his fingers and stared into the ruddy gloss of his mahogany desk. He spoke slowly and steadily. "James, we've been through this before. You know that your mother and I are worried about you getting too dose to Poppy. Too . . . attached ... to her."
James felt a surge of cold rage. "Like I got too attached to Miss Emma?"
His father didn't blink. "Something like that."
James fought the pictures that wanted to form in his mind. He couldn't think about Miss Emma now; he needed to be detached. That was the only way to convince his father.
"Dad, what I'm trying to say is that I've known Poppy just about all my life. She's useful to me."
"How? Not in the obvious way. You've never fed on her, have you?"
James swallowed, feeling nauseated. Feed on Poppy? Use her like that? Even the thought of it made him sick.
"Dad, she's my friend," he said, abandoning any pretense of objectivity. "I can't just watch her suffer. I can't. I have to do something about it."
His father's face cleared. "I see."
James felt dizzy with astonished relief. "You understand?"
"James, at times one can't help a certain feeling of . . . compassion for humans. In general, I wouldn't encourage it-but you have known Poppy a long while. You feel pity for her suffering. If you want to make that suffering shorter, then, yes, I understand."
The relief crashed down around James. He stared at his father for a few seconds, then said softly, "Mercy killing? I thought the Elders had put a ban on deaths in this area."
"Just be reasonably discreet about it. As long as it seems to be natural, we'll all look the other way. There won't be any reason to call in the Elders."
There was a metallic taste in James's mouth. He stood and laughed shortly. "Thanks, Dad. You've really helped a lot."
His father didn't seem to hear the sarcasm. "Glad to do it, James. By the way, how are things at the apartments?"
"Fine," James said emptily.
"And at school?"
"School's over, Dad," James said, and let himself out.
In the courtyard he leaned against an adobe wall and stared at the splashing water of the fountain.
He was out of options. Out of hope. The laws of the Night World said so.
If Poppy had the disease, she would die from it.
CHAPTER 4
Poppy was staring without appetite at a dinner tray of chicken nuggets and french fries when Dr. Franklin came in the room.
The tests were over. The CAT scan had been all right, if claustrophobic, but the ERCP had been awful. Poppy could still feel the ghost of the tube in her throat every time she swallowed.
"You're leaving all this great hospital food," Dr. Franklin said with gentle humor. Poppy managed a smile for him.
He went on talking about innocuous things. He didn't say anything about the test results, and Poppy had no idea when they were supposed to come in. She was suspicious of Dr. Franklin, though. Some thing about him, the
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