Night World 1 (7 page)

Poppy cried, too. Real tears, because even if she wasn't going to die truly, she was going to lose so much. Her old life, her family, everything familiar. It felt good to cry over it; it was something she needed to do.

But when it was done, she tried again.

“The
one
thing I don't want is for you to be unhappy or worry,” she said, and looked up at her mother. “So could you just try not to? For my sake?”

Oh, God, I'm coming off like Beth in
Little Women,
she thought. Saint Poppy. And the truth is, if I were really dying, I'd go kicking and screaming all the way.

Still, she'd managed to comfort her mother, who drew back looking tearstained but quietly proud. “You're really something, Poppet,” was all she said, but her lips trembled.

Saint Poppy looked away, horribly embarrassed—until another wave of dizziness saved her. She allowed her mother to help her back into bed.

And it was then that she finally found a way to pose the question she needed to ask.

“Mom,” she said slowly, “what if there was a cure for me somewhere—like in some other country or something—and I could go there and get better, but they wouldn't ever let me come back? I mean, you'd know I was okay, but you wouldn't ever be able to see me again.” She looked at her mother intently. “Would you want me to do it?”

Her mother answered instantly. “Sweetheart, I'd want you cured if you had to go to the moon. As long as you were happy.” She had to pause a moment, then resumed steadily. “But, honey, there isn't such a place. I wish there were.”

“I know.” Poppy patted her arm gently. “I was just asking. I love you, Mom.”

Later that morning Dr. Franklin and Dr. Loftus came by. Facing them wasn't as horrible as Poppy expected, but she felt like a hypocrite when they marveled over her “wonderful attitude.” They talked about quality time, and the fact that no two cases of cancer were the same, and about people they'd known who'd beaten the percentages. Saint Poppy squirmed inside, but she listened and nodded—until they began to talk about more tests.

“We'd like to do an angiogram and a laparotomy,” Dr. Loftus said. “Now an angiogram is—”

“Tubes stuck in my
veins
?” Poppy said before she could help herself.

Everyone looked startled. Then Dr. Loftus gave a rueful smile. “Sounds like you've been reading up on it.”

“No, I just—I guess I remember it from somewhere,” Poppy said. She knew where she was getting the images—from Dr. Loftus's head. And she probably should cover her tracks instead of talking anymore, but she was too distressed. “And a laparotomy's an operation, right?”

Dr. Loftus and Dr. Franklin exchanged glances. “An exploratory operation, yes,” Dr. Franklin said.

“But I don't
need
those tests, do I? I mean, you already know what I've got. And the tests
hurt.
”

“Poppy,” her mother said gently. But Dr. Loftus was answering slowly.

“Well, sometimes we need the tests to confirm a diagnosis. But in your case…no, Poppy. We don't really need them. We're already sure.”

“Then I don't see why I have to have them,” Poppy said simply. “I'd rather go home.”

The doctors looked at each other, then at Poppy's mother. Then, without even trying to be subtle about it, the three adults went out into the corridor to deliberate.

When they came back, Poppy knew she'd won.

“You can go home, Poppy,” Dr. Franklin said quietly. “At least until you develop any further symptoms. The nurse will tell your mother what to look out for.”

The first thing Poppy did was call James. He answered on the first ring and said, “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy. But pretty good,” Poppy said, whispering because her mother was outside talking to a nurse. “I'm coming home.”

“I'll come over this afternoon,” James said. “Call me when you think you'll have an hour or so alone. And, Poppy…don't tell Phil I'm coming.”

“Why not?”

“I'll explain later.”

When she actually got home, it was strange. Cliff and Phil were there. Everybody was unusually nice to her, while still trying to pretend that nothing unusual was going on. (Poppy had heard the nurse tell her mother that it was good to try and maintain a normal routine.)

It's like my birthday, Poppy thought dazedly. Like some terribly important birthday and graduation rolled into one. Every few minutes the doorbell would ring as another flower arrangement arrived. Poppy's bedroom looked like a garden.

She felt badly for Phil. He looked so stricken—and so brave. She wanted to comfort him the way she'd comforted her mother—but
how
?

“Come here,” she ordered, opting for direct action. And when he obeyed, she hugged him tightly.

“You'll beat this thing,” he whispered. “I know you will. Nobody's ever had as much will to live as you do. And nobody's ever,
ever
been as stubborn.”

It was then that Poppy realized just how terribly she was going to miss him.

When she let go, she felt light-headed.

“Maybe you'd better lie down,” Cliff said gently. And Poppy's mother helped her to the bedroom.

“Does Dad know?” she asked as her mother moved around the bedroom, straightening things.

“I tried to get hold of him yesterday, but the people at the station said he'd moved to somewhere in Vermont. They don't know where.”

Poppy nodded. It sounded like her dad—always on the move. He was a DJ—when he wasn't being an artist or a stage magician. He'd split up with her mom because he wasn't very good at being any of those things—or at least not good enough to get paid much.

Cliff was everything Poppy's father wasn't: responsible, disciplined, hardworking. He fit in perfectly with Poppy's mom and Phil. So perfectly that sometimes Poppy felt like the odd one out in her own family.

“I miss Dad,” Poppy said softly.

“I know. Sometimes I do, too,” her mother said, surprising her. Then she said firmly, “We'll find him, Poppy. As soon as he hears, he'll want to come.”

Poppy hoped so. She didn't suppose she'd get a chance to see him—after.

It wasn't until an hour or so before dinnertime, when Phil and Cliff were out doing errands, and her mother was taking a nap, that Poppy got the chance to call James.

“I'll come right over,” he said. “I'll let myself in.” Ten minutes later he walked into Poppy's bedroom.

Poppy felt strangely shy. Things had changed between her and James. They weren't simply best friends anymore.

They didn't even say “Hi” to each other. As soon as he came in, their eyes caught and met. And then, for an endless moment, they just looked at each other.

This time, when Poppy felt the quick pang in her chest that always came when she saw James, it was a throb of pure sweetness. He cared about her. She could see it in his eyes.

Wait a minute, hang on, her mind whispered. Don't jump the gun here. He
cares
about you, yes, but he didn't say he was
in love
with you. There's a difference.

Shut up, Poppy told her brain soberly. Aloud, she said, “How come you didn't want Phil to know you were here?”

James threw his light windbreaker over a chair and sat down on Poppy's bed. “Well—I just didn't want to be interrupted,” he said with a gesture of dismissal. “How's the pain?”

“It's
gone,
” Poppy said. “Isn't that weird? It didn't wake me up at all last night. And there's something else. I think I'm starting to—well, read people's thoughts.”

James smiled slightly, just one corner of his mouth up. “That's good. I was worried—” He broke off and went to turn Poppy's CD player on. Plaintive Bantu wailings emerged.

“I was worried you didn't get enough blood last night,” James said quietly, resuming his seat. “You'll have to take more this time—and so will I.”

Poppy felt something tremble inside her. Her revulsion was gone. She was still afraid, but that was only because of the consequences of what they were going to do. It wasn't just a way to get closer or to feed James. They were doing it to
change
Poppy.

“The only thing I don't understand is why you never bit me before.” Her tone was light, but as she spoke the words, she realized that there was a serious question behind them.

“I mean,” she said slowly, “you did it with Michaela and Jacklyn, didn't you? And with other girls?”

He looked away but answered steadily. “I didn't exchange blood with them. But I fed on them, yes.”

“But not me.”

“No. How can I explain?” He looked up at her. “Poppy, taking blood can be a lot of different things—and the Elders don't want it to be anything but feeding. They say all you should feel is the joy of the hunt. And that's all I ever
have
felt—before.”

Poppy nodded, trying to feel satisfied with this. She didn't ask who the Elders were.

“Besides, it can be
dangerous,
” James said. “It can be done with hatred, and it can kill. Kill permanently, I mean.”

Poppy was almost amused by this. “
You
wouldn't kill.”

James stared at her. Outside, it was cloudy and the light in Poppy's bedroom was pale. It made James's face look pale, too, and his eyes silver.

“But I have,” James said. His voice was flat and bleak. “I've killed without exchanging enough blood, so the person didn't come back as a vampire.”

“
T
hen you must have had a reason,” Poppy said flatly. When he looked at her, she shrugged. “I know you.” She knew him in a way she'd never known anyone.

James looked away. “I didn't have a reason, but there were some…extenuating circumstances. You could say I was set up. But I still have nightmares.”

He sounded so tired—so sad.
It's a lonely world, full of secrets,
Poppy thought. And he'd had to keep the biggest secret of all from everyone, including her.

“It must have been awful for you,” she said, hardly aware that she was speaking out loud. “I mean, all your life—holding this in. Not telling anybody. Pretending…”

“Poppy.” He gave a shiver of repressed emotion. “Don't.”

“Don't sympathize with you?”

He shook his head. “Nobody's ever understood before.” After a pause he said, “How can you worry about
me
? With what you're facing?”

“I guess because—I care about you.”

“And I guess that's why I didn't treat you like Michaela or Jacklyn,” he said.

Poppy looked at the sculpted planes of his face, at the wave of brown hair falling over his forehead like silk…and held her breath. Say “I love you,” she ordered mentally.
Say it,
you thickheaded male.

But they weren't connected, and James didn't give the slightest sign of having heard. Instead he turned brisk and businesslike. “We'd better get started.” He got up and drew the window curtains shut. “Sunlight inhibits all vampire powers,” he said in a guest lecturer voice.

Poppy took advantage of the pause to go to the CD player. The music had changed to a Dutch club song, which was fine for doing the Netherlands skippy dance to, but not very romantic. She punched a button and a velvety Portuguese lament began.

Then she twitched the sheer hangings around the bed closed. When she sat down again, she and James were in their own little world, dim and secluded, enclosed in misty eggshell white.

“I'm ready,” she said softly, and James leaned in close to her. Even in the semidarkness Poppy felt mesmerized by his eyes. They were like windows to some other place, someplace distant and magical.

The Night World, she thought, and tilted her chin back as James took her in his arms.

This time the double sting at her neck hurt good.

But best was when James's mind touched hers. The feeling of oneness, of suddenly being whole—it spread through her like starshine.

Once again she had the sense that they were melting together, dissolving and merging everywhere they touched. She could feel her own pulse echoing through him.

Closer, closer…and then she felt a pulling-back.

James? What's wrong?

Nothing,
he told her, but Poppy could sense that it wasn't quite true. He was trying to weaken the growing bond between them…but why?

Poppy, I just don't want to force you into anything. What we're feeling is—artificial.
…

Artificial? It was the realest thing that she'd ever experienced. Realer than real. In the midst of joy, Poppy felt a surge of hurt anger at James.

I don't mean it like that,
he said, and there was desperation in the thought.
It's just that you can't resist the blood-bond. You couldn't resist it if you hated me. It isn't fair.
…

Poppy didn't care about fair.
If you can't resist it, why are you trying?
she asked him triumphantly.

She heard something like mental laughter, and then they were both clinging together as a wave of pure emotion swept them.

The blood-bond, Poppy thought when James raised his head at last. It doesn't matter if he won't say he loves me—we're bonded now. Nothing can change that.

And in a moment or so she would seal that bond by taking his blood. Try and resist
that
she thought, and was startled when James laughed softly.

“Reading my mind again?”

“Not exactly. You're projecting—and you're very good at it. You're going to be a strong telepath.”

Interesting…but right now Poppy didn't feel strong. She suddenly felt kitten-weak. Limp as a wilting flower. She needed…

“I know,” James whispered. Still supporting her, he started to lift one wrist to his mouth.

Poppy stopped him with a restraining hand. “James? How many times do we have to do this before I—change?”

“Once more, I think,” James said quietly. “I took a lot this time, and I want you to do the same. And the next time we do it…”

I'll die, Poppy thought. Well, at least I know how long I have left as a human.

James's lips slid back to reveal long, delicate fangs, and he struck at his own wrist. There was something snakelike in the motion. Blood welled up, the color of syrup in a can of cherry preserves.

Just as Poppy was leaning forward, lips parted, there was a knock at the door.

Poppy and James froze guiltily.

The knock came again. In her muddled and weakened state, Poppy couldn't seem to make herself move. The only thought that resounded in her brain was
Oh, please. Please don't let it be
…

The door opened….
Phil.

Phillip was already speaking as he poked his head in. “Poppy, are you awake? Mom says—”

He broke off abruptly, then lunged for the lightswitch on the wall. Suddenly the room was illuminated.

Oh,
terrific.
Poppy thought in frustration. Phil was peering through the filmy draperies around the bed. Poppy peered back at him.

“What—is going—
on
?” he said in a voice that would have gotten him the lead role in
The Ten Commandments.
And then, before Poppy could gather enough wits to answer, he leaned in and grabbed James by the arm.

“Phil,
don't,
” Poppy said. “Phil, you idiot…”

“We had a deal,” Phil snarled at James. “And you broke it.”

James was gripping Phil's arms now, as ungently as Phil was grasping him. Poppy had the dismayed feeling that they were going to start head-butting each other.

Oh, Lord, if she could only
think
straight. She felt so brainless.

“You've got the wrong idea,” James said to Phil through clenched teeth.

“The wrong
idea
? I come in here and find the two of you in bed, with all the curtains drawn, and you're telling me I've got the wrong
idea
?”

“
On
the bed,” Poppy interjected. Phil ignored her.

James shook Phil. He did it quite easily and with an economy of movement, but Phil's head snapped back and forth. Poppy realized that James was not at his most rational right now. She remembered the meted chair leg and decided it was time to intervene.

“Let
go,
” she said, reaching in between the two boys to grab for hands. Anybody's hands. “Come on, you guys!” And then, desperately, “Phil, I know you don't understand, but James is trying to
help
me—”

“Help you? I don't think so.” And then to James: “Look at her. Can't you see that this stupid pretending is making her
sicker
? Every time I find her with you, she's white as a sheet. You're just making things worse.”

“You don't know anything about it,” James snarled in Phil's face. But Poppy was still processing something several sentences back.

“Stupid? Pretending?” she said. Her voice wasn't very loud but everything stopped.

Both boys looked at her.

Everyone made mistakes then. Later, Poppy would realize that if any of them had kept their heads, what happened next could have been avoided. But none of them did.

“I'm sorry,” Phil said to Poppy. “I didn't want to tell you—”

“Shut up,”
James said savagely.

“But I have to. This—
jerk
—is just playing with you. He admitted it to me. He said he felt sorry for you, and he thinks that pretending he likes you makes you feel better. He's got an ego that would fill Dodger Stadium.”

“Pretending?” Poppy said again, sitting back. There was a buzzing in her head and an eruption gathering in her chest.

“Poppy, he's crazy,” James said. “Listen—”

But Poppy wasn't listening. The problem was that she could
feel
how sorry Phil was. It was much more convincing than anger. And Phillip, honest, straightforward, trustworthy Phillip, almost never lied.

He wasn't lying now. Which meant…that James must be.

Eruption time.

“You…” she whispered to James. “You…” She couldn't think of a swear word bad enough. Somehow she felt more hurt, more betrayed than she had ever felt before. She had thought she
knew
James; she had trusted him absolutely. Which made the betrayal all the worse. “So it was all pretending? Is that it?”

Some inner voice was telling her to hold on and
think.
That she was in no state to make crucial decisions. But she was also in no state to listen to inner voices. Her own anger kept her from deciding if she had any good reason to be angry.

“You just felt
sorry
for me?” she whispered, and suddenly all the fury and grief that she'd been suppressing for the last day and a half flooded out. She was blind with pain, and nothing mattered except making James hurt as much as she hurt.

James was breathing hard, speaking rapidly. “Poppy—this is why I didn't want Phil to know—”

“And no
wonder,
” Poppy raged. “And no wonder you wouldn't say you loved me,” she went on, not even caring that Phillip was listening. “And no wonder you would do all that other stuff, but you never even kissed me. Well, I don't want your
pity
—”

“What other stuff? All what other stuff?”
Phil shouted.
“I'm gonna kill you, Rasmussen!”

He tore free of James and swung at him. James ducked so that the fist just grazed his hair. Phil swung again and James twisted sideways and grabbed him from behind in a headlock.

Poppy heard running footsteps in the hall. “What's happening?” her mother gasped in dismay, regarding the scene in Poppy's bedroom.

At almost the same instant Cliff appeared behind Poppy's mother. “What's all the shouting?” he asked, his jaw particularly square.

“
You're
the one who's putting her in danger,” James was snarling in Phillip's ear. “Right now.” He looked feral. Savage.

Inhuman.

“Let go of my
brother
!” Poppy yelled. All at once her eyes were swimming with tears.

“Oh, my God—darling,” her mother said. In two steps she was beside the bed and holding Poppy. “You boys get
out
of here.”

The savagery drained out of James's expression, and he loosened his hold on Phillip. “Look, I'm sorry. I have to stay. Poppy…”

Phillip slammed an elbow into his stomach.

It might not have hurt James as much as it would a human, but Poppy saw the fury sweep over his face as he straightened from doubling up. He lifted Phil off his feet and threw him headfirst in the general direction of Poppy's dresser.

Poppy's mother let out a cry. Cliff jumped in between Phil and James.

“That's enough!” he roared. Then, to Phil: “Are you all right?” And to James: “What's this all about?”

Phil was rubbing his head dazedly. James said nothing. Poppy couldn't speak.

“All right, it doesn't matter,” Cliff said. “I guess everybody's a little jumpy right now. But you'd better go on home, James.”

James looked at Poppy.

Poppy, throbbing all over like an aching tooth, turned her back on him. She burrowed into her mother's embrace.

“I'll be back,” James said quietly. It might have been meant as a promise, but it sounded like a threat.

“Not for a while, you won't,” Cliff said in a military command voice. Gazing over her mother's arm, Poppy could see that there was blood on Phillip's blond hair. “I think everybody needs a cooling-off period. Now, come on, move.”

He led James out. Poppy sniffled and shivered, trying to ignore both the waves of giddiness that swept over her and the agitated murmuring of all the voices in her head. The stereo went on blasting out madcore stomping music from England.