"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 an y pre tense 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. Something about him, the gentle way he patted her foot under the blanket or the shadows around his eyes ...
When he casually suggested that Poppy's mother might want to
"come for a little walk down the hall," Poppy's suspicion crystallized.
He's going to tell her. He's got the results, but he doesn't want me to know.
Her plan was made in the same instant. She yawned and said,
"Go on, Mom; I'm a little bit sleepy." Then she lay back and shut her eyes.
As soon as they were gone, she got off the bed. She watched their retreating backs as they went down the hall into another doorway. Then, in her stocking feet, she quietly followed them.
She was delayed for several minutes at the nursing station.
"Just stretching my legs," she said to a nurse who looked inquiringly at her, and she pretended to be walking at random.
When the nurse picked up a clipboard and went into one of the patient's rooms, Poppy hurried on down the corridor.
The room at the end was the waiting room--she'd seen it earlier. It had a TV and a complete kitchen setup so relatives could hang out in comfort. The door was ajar and Poppy approached it stealthily. She could hear the low rumble of Dr.
Franklin's voice, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
Very cautiously Poppy edged loser. She chanced one look around the door.
She saw at once that there was no need for caution. Everyone in that room was completely occupied.
Dr. Franklin was sitting on one of the couches. Beside him was an African-American woman with glasses on a chain around her neck. She was wearing the white coat of a doctor.
On the other couch was Poppy's stepfather, Cliff. His normally perfect dark hair was slightly mussed, his rock-steady jaw was working. He had his arm around her mother. Dr. Franklin was talking to both of them, his hand on her mother's shoulder.
And Poppy's mother was sobbing.
Poppy pulled back from the doorway.
Oh, my God. I've got it.
She'd never seen her mothe r cr y before. Not when Poppy's grandmother had died, not during the divorce from Poppy's father. Her mother's specialty was coping with things; she was the best coper Poppy had ever known.
But now ...
I've got it. I've definitely got it.
Still, maybe it wasn't s o bad. Her mom was shocked, oka y, that was natural. But it didn't mean that Poppy was going to die or anything . Poppy ha d all of modem medicine on her side.
She kept telling herself this as she edged away from the waiting room.
She didn't edge fast enough, though. Before she got out of earshot, she heard her mother's voice, raised in something like anguish.
"My baby. Oh, my little girl."
Poppy froze.
And then Cliff, loud and angry: "You're trying to tell me there's nothing?"
Poppy couldn't feel her own breathing. Against her will, she moved back to the door.
"Dr. Loftus is an oncologist; an expert on this sort of cancer.
She can explain better than I can," Dr. Franklin was saying.
Then a new voice came-the other doctor. At first Poppy could only catch scattered phrases that didn't seem to mean anything: adenocarcinoma, splenic venous occlusion, Stage Three.
Medical jargon. Then Dr. Loftus said, "To put it simply, the problem is that the tumor has spread. It's spread to the liver and the lymph nodes around the pancreas. That means it's unr esectabl e-we can't operate."