Night World 1 (8 page)

In the next two days James called eight times.

Poppy actually picked up the phone the first time. It was after midnight when her private line rang, and she responded automatically, still half-asleep.

“Poppy, don't hang up,” James said.

Poppy hung up. A moment later the phone rang again.

“Poppy, if you don't want to die, you've got to listen to me.”

“That's blackmail. You're
sick,
” Poppy said, clutching the handset. Her tongue felt thick and her head ached.

“It's just the truth. Poppy, listen. You didn't take any blood today. I weakened you, and you didn't get anything in exchange. And that could
kill
you.”

Poppy heard the words, but they didn't seem real. She found herself ignoring them, retreating into a foggy state where thought was impossible. “I don't care.”

“You
do
care, and if you could think, you'd know that. It's the change that's doing this. You're completely messed up mentally. You're too paranoid and illogical and crazy to
know
you're paranoid and illogical and crazy.”

It was suspiciously like what Poppy had realized earlier. She was aware, dimly, that she was acting the way Marissa Schaffer had after drinking a six-pack of beer at Jan Nedjar's New Year's party. Making a ranting fool of herself. But she couldn't seem to stop.

“I just want to know one thing,” she said. “Is it true that you said that stuff to Phillip?”

She heard James let his breath out. “It's true that I said it. But what I
said
wasn't true. It was just to get him off my back.”

By now Poppy was too upset to even want to calm down.

“Why should I believe somebody whose whole life is a lie?” she said, and hung up again as the first tears spilled.

All the next day she stayed in her state of foggy denial. Nothing seemed real, not the fight with James, not James's warning, and not her illness. Especially not her illness. Her mind found a way to accept the special treatment she was getting from everyone without dwelling on the reason for the treatment.

She even managed to disregard her mother's whispered comments to Phil about how she was going downhill so fast. How poor Poppy was getting pale, getting weak, getting worse. And only Poppy knew that she could now hear conversations held in the hallway as clearly as if they were in her own room.

All her senses were sharpened, even as her mind was dulled. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she was startled by how white she was, her skin translucent as candle wax. Her eyes so green and fierce that they burned.

The other six times James called, Poppy's mother told him Poppy was resting.

Cliff fixed the broken trim on Poppy's dresser. “Who would have thought the kid was that strong?” he said.

James flipped his cellular phone shut and banged a fist on the Integra's dashboard. It was Thursday afternoon.

I love you.
That's what he should have said to Poppy. And now it was too late—she wouldn't even talk to him.

Why
hadn't
he said it? His reasons seemed stupid now. So he hadn't taken advantage of Poppy's innocence and gratitude…well, bravo. All he'd done was tap her veins and break her heart.

All he'd done was hasten her death.

But there wasn't time to think about it now. Right now he had a masquerade to attend.

He got out of the car and gave his windbreaker a twitch as he walked toward the sprawling ranch-style house.

He unlocked and opened the door without calling to announce his presence. He didn't need to announce it; his mother would sense him.

Inside, it was all cathedral ceilings and fashionably bare walls. The one oddity was that every one of the many skylights was covered with elegant custom-made drapes. This made the interior seem spacious but dim. Almost—cavernous.

“James,” his mother said, coming from the back wing. She had jet-black hair with a sheen like lacquer and a perfect figure that was emphasized rather than disguised by her silver-and-gold embroidered wrap. Her eyes were cool gray and heavily lashed, like James's. She kissed the air beside his cheek.

“I got your message,” James said. “What do you want?”

“I'd really rather wait until your father gets home….”

“Mom, I'm sorry, but I'm in a hurry. I've got things to do—I haven't even fed today.”

“It shows,” his mother said. She regarded him for a moment without blinking. Then she sighed, turning toward the living room. “At least, let's sit down…. You've been a little agitated, haven't you, these last few days?”

James sat on the crimson-dyed suede couch. Now was the test of his acting ability. If he could get through the next minute without his mother sensing the truth, he'd be home free.

“I'm sure Dad told you why,” he said evenly.

“Yes. Little Poppy. It's very sad, isn't it?” The shade of the single treelike floor lamp was deep red, and ruby light fell across half his mother's face.

“I was upset at first, but I'm pretty much over it now,” James said. He kept his voice dull and concentrated on sending nothing—
nothing
—through his aura. He could feel his mother lightly probing the edges of his mind. Like an insect gently caressing with an antenna, or a snake tasting the air with its black forked tongue.

“I'm surprised,” his mother said. “I thought you liked her.”

“I did. But, after all, they're not really
people,
are they?” He considered a moment, then said, “It's sort of like losing a pet. I guess I'll just have to find another one.”

It was a bold move, quoting the party line. James willed every muscle to stay relaxed as he felt the thought-tendrils tighten suddenly, coiling around him, looking for a chink in his armor. He thought very hard—about Michaela Vasquez. Trying to project just the right amount of negligent fondness.

It worked. The probing tendrils slipped away from his mind, and his mother settled back gracefully and smiled.

“I'm glad you're taking it so well. But if you ever feel that you'd like to talk to someone…your father knows some very good therapists.”

Vampire therapists, she meant. To screw his head on straight about how humans were just for feeding on.

“I know you want to avoid trouble as much as I do,” she added. “It reflects on the family, you see.”

“Sure,” James said, and shrugged. “I've got to go now. Tell Dad I said hi, okay?”

He kissed the air beside her cheek.

“Oh, by the way,” she said as he turned toward the door. “Your cousin Ash
will
be coming next week. I think he'd like to stay with you at the apartment—and I'm sure you'd like some company there.”

Over my unbreathing body, James thought. He'd forgotten all about Ash's threat to visit. But now wasn't the time to argue. He walked out feeling like a juggler with too many balls in the air.

Back in his car he picked up the cellular phone, hesitated, then snapped it shut without turning it on. Calling wasn't any good. It was time to change his strategy.

All right, then. No more half measures. A serious offensive—aimed where it would do the most good.

He thought for a few minutes, then drove to McDonnell Drive, parking just a few houses away from where Poppy lived.

And then he waited.

He was prepared to sit there all night if necessary, but he didn't have to. Just around sunset the garage door opened and a white Volkswagen Jetta backed out. James saw a blond head in the driver's seat.

Hi, Phil. Nice to see you.

When the Jetta pulled away, he followed it.

W
hen the Jetta turned into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, James smiled. There was a nice isolated area behind the store, and it was getting dark.

He drove his own car around back, then got out to watch the store entrance. When Phil came out with a bag, he sprang on him from behind.

Phil yelled and fought, dropping the bag. It didn't matter. The sun had gone down and James's power was at full strength.

He dragged Phil to the back of the store and put him facing the wall beside a Dumpster. The classic police frisking position.

“I'm going to let go now,” he said. “Don't try to run away. That would be a mistake.”

Phil went tense and motionless at the sound of his voice. “I don't
want
to run away. I want to smash your face in, Rasmussen.”

“Go ahead and try.” James was going to add,
Make my night,
but he reconsidered. He let go of Phil, who turned around and regarded him with utter loathing.

“What's the matter? Run out of girls to jump?” he said, breathing hard.

James gritted his teeth. Trading insults wasn't going to do any good, but he could already tell it was going to be hard to keep his temper. Phil had that effect on him. “I didn't bring you out here to fight. I brought you to ask you something. Do you care about Poppy?”

Phil said, “I'll take stupid questions for five hundred, Alex,” and loosened his shoulder as if getting ready for a punch.

“Because if you do, you'll get her to talk to me. You were the one who convinced her not to see me, and now you've got to convince her that she
has
to see me.”

Phil looked around the parking lot, as if calling for somebody to witness this insanity.

James spoke slowly and clearly, enunciating each word. “There is something I can do to help her.”

“Because you're Don Juan, right? You're gonna heal her with your love.” The words were flippant, but Phil's voice was shaky with sheer hatred. Not just hatred for James, but for a universe that would give Poppy cancer.

“No. You've got it completely wrong. Look, you think I was making out with her, or trifling with her affections or whatever. That's not what was going on at all. I let you think that because I was tired of getting the third degree from you—and because I didn't want you to know what we
were
doing.”

“Sure, sure,” Phil said in a voice filled with equal measures of sarcasm and contempt. “So what
were
you doing? Drugs?”

“This.”

James had learned something from his first encounter with Poppy in the hospital. Show and tell should be done in that order. This time he didn't say anything; he just grabbed Phil by the hair and jerked his head back.

There was only a single light behind the store, but it was enough to give Phil a good view of the bared fangs looming over him. And it was more than enough for James, with his night vision, to see Phillip's green eyes dilate as he stared.

Phillip yelled, then went limp.

Not with fear, James knew. He wasn't a coward. With the shock of disbelief turning to belief.

Phillip swore. “You're a…”

“Right.” James let him go.

Phil almost lost his balance. He grabbed at the Dumpster for support. “I don't believe it.”

“Yes, you do,” James said. He hadn't retracted his fangs, and he knew that his eyes were shining silver. Phil
had
to believe it with James standing right in front of him.

Phil apparently had the same idea. He was staring at James as if he wanted to look away, but couldn't. The color had drained out of his face, and he kept swallowing as if he were going to be sick.

“God,” he said finally. “I knew there was something wrong with you. Weird wrong. I could never figure out why you gave me the creeps. So this is it.”

I disgust him, James realized. It's not just hatred anymore. He thinks I'm less than human.

It didn't augur well for the rest of James's plan.

“Now do you understand how I can help Poppy?”

Phil shook his head slowly. He was leaning against the wall, one hand still on the Dumpster.

James felt impatience rise in his chest. “Poppy has a disease. Vampires don't get diseases. Do you need a road map?”

Phillip's expression said he did.

“If,” James said through his teeth, “I exchange enough blood with Poppy to turn her into a vampire, she won't have cancer anymore. Every cell in her body will change and she'll end up a perfect specimen: flawless, disease-free. She'll have powers that humans don't even dream of. And, incidentally, she'll be immortal.”

There was a long, long silence as James watched this sink in with Phillip. Phil's thoughts were too jumbled and kaleidoscopic for James to make anything of them, but Phil's eyes got wider and his face more ashen.

At last Phil said, “You can't do that to her.”

It was the
way
he said it. Not as if he were protesting an idea because it was too radical, too new. Not the knee-jerk overreaction that Poppy had had.

He said it with absolute conviction and utmost horror. As if James were threatening to steal Poppy's soul.

“It's the only way to save her
life,
” James said.

Phil shook his head slowly again, eyes huge and trancelike. “No. No. She wouldn't want it. Not at that cost.”

“What cost?” James was more than impatient now, he was defensive and exasperated. If he'd realized that this was going to turn into a philosophical debate, he would have picked somewhere less public. As it was, he had to keep all his senses on the alert for possible intruders.

Phil let go of the Dumpster and stood on his own two feet. There was fear mixed with the horror in his eyes, but he faced James squarely.

“It's just—there are some things that humans think are more important than just staying alive,” he said. “You'll find that out.”

I don't believe this, James thought. He sounds like a junior space captain talking to the alien invaders in a B movie.
You won't find Earth people quite the easy mark you imagine.

Aloud, he said, “Are you nuts? Look, Phil, I was born in San Francisco. I'm not some bug-eyed monster from Alpha Centauri. I eat Wheaties for breakfast.”

“And what do you eat for a midnight snack?” Phil asked, his green eyes somber and almost childlike. “Or are the fangs just for decoration?”

Walked right into that one, James's brain told him.

He looked away. “Okay. Touché. There are some differences. I never said I was a human. But I'm not some kind of—”

“If you're not a monster, then I don't know what is.”

Don't kill him, James counseled himself frantically. You have to
convince
him. “Phil, we're not like what you see at the movies. We're not all-powerful. We can't dematerialize through walls or travel through time, and we don't need to kill to feed. We're not evil, at least not all of us. We're not damned.”

“You're unnatural,” Phillip said softly, and James could feel that he meant it from his heart. “You're
wrong.
You shouldn't exist.”

“Because we're higher up on the food chain than you?”

“Because people weren't meant to…feed…on other people.”

James didn't say that his people didn't think of Phillip's people as people. He said, “We only do what we have to do to survive. And Poppy's already agreed.”

Phillip froze. “No. She wouldn't want to become like you.”

“She wants to stay alive—or at least, she did, before she got mad at me. Now she's just irrational because she hasn't got enough of my blood in her to finish changing her. Thanks to you.” He paused, then said deliberately, “Have you ever seen a three-week-old corpse, Phil? Because
that's
what she's going to become if I don't get to her.”

Phil's face twisted. He whirled around and slammed a fist into the metal side of the Dumpster. “
Don't you think I know that?
I've been living with that since Monday night.”

James stood still, heart pounding. Feeling the anguish Phil was giving off and the pain of Phil's injured hand. It was several seconds before he was able to say calmly, “And you think that's better than what I can give her?”

“It's lousy. It stinks. But, yes, it's better than turning into something that hunts people. That
uses
people. That's why all the girlfriends, isn't it?”

Once again, James couldn't answer right away. Phil's problem, he was realizing, was that Phil was far too smart for his own good. He thought too much. “Yeah. That's why all the girlfriends,” he said at last, tiredly. Trying not to see this from Phil's point of view.

“Just tell me one thing, Rasmussen.” Phillip straightened and looked him dead in the eye. “Did you”—he stopped and swallowed—“feed on Poppy—before she got sick?”

“No.”

Phil let out his breath. “That's good. Because if you
had,
I'd have killed you.”

James believed him. He was much stronger than Phil, much faster, and he'd never been afraid of a human before. But just at that moment he had no doubt that Phil would somehow have found a way to do it.

“Look, there's something you don't understand,” he said. “Poppy
did
want this, and it's something we've already started. She's only just beginning to change; if she dies now, she won't become a vampire. But she might not die all the way, either. She could end up a walking corpse. A zombie, you know? Mindless. Body rotting, but immortal.”

Phil's mouth quivered with revulsion. “You're just saying that to scare me.”

James looked away. “I've seen it happen.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I've seen it
firsthand
!” Dimly James realized he was yelling and that he'd grabbed Phil by the shirt-front. He was out of control—and he didn't care. “I've seen it happen to somebody I
cared
about, all right?”

And then, because Phil was still shaking his head: “I was only four years old and I had a nanny. All the rich kids in San Francisco have nannies. She was human.”

“Let go,” Phil muttered, pulling at James's wrist. He was breathing hard—he didn't want to hear this.

“I was crazy about her. She gave me everything my mom didn't. Love, attention—she was never too busy. I called her Miss Emma.”

“Let go.”

“But my parents thought I was too attached to her. So they took me on a little vacation—and they didn't let me feed. Not for three days. By the time they brought me back, I was starving. Then they sent Miss Emma up to put me to bed.”

Phil had stopped fighting now. He stood with his head bowed and turned to one side so he wouldn't have to look at James. James threw his words at the averted face.

“I was only four. I couldn't stop myself. And the thing is, I wanted to. If you'd asked me who I'd rather have die, me or Miss Emma, I'd've said me. But when you're starving, you lose control. So I fed on her, and all the time I was crying and trying to stop. And when I finally could stop, I knew it was too late.”

There was a pause. James suddenly realized that his fingers were locked in an agonizing cramp. He let go of Phil's shirt slowly. Phil said nothing.

“She was just lying there on the floor. I thought, wait, if I give her my own blood she'll be a vampire, and everything will be okay.” He wasn't yelling anymore. He wasn't even really speaking to Phillip, but staring out into the dark parking lot. “So I cut myself and let the blood run into her mouth. She swallowed some of it before my parents came up and stopped me. But not enough.”

A longer pause—and James remembered why he was telling the story. He looked at Phillip.

“She died that night—but not all the way. The two different kinds of blood were fighting inside her. So by morning she was walking around again—but she wasn't Miss Emma anymore. She drooled and her skin was gray and her eyes were flat like a corpse's. And when she started to—rot—my dad took her out to Inverness and buried her. He killed her first.” Bile rose in James's throat and he added almost in a whisper, “I hope he killed her first.”

Phil slowly turned around to look at him. For the first time that evening, there was something other than horror and fear in his face. Something like pity, James thought.

James took a deep breath. After thirteen years of silence he'd finally told the story—to Phillip North, of all people. But it was no good wondering about the absurdity. He had a point to drive home.