“That wasn’t your fault,” she said in a tone of mild reproach. “I think it’s time you stopped punishing yourself for it.”
“As always, I am at a lady’s command. So lovely to see a Southern girl up here in the wild wastes of the frontier.”
Okay, really really old.
“Please sit.” Tina gestured to the love seat, couch, and chairs. “You said it was a matter of some urgency and that only the king and queen could help.”
“Urgency, yes.” But Lawrence grimaced and flicked a glance at Cindy. “But only according to some, like my little girl here.”
“’Mnot a little girl.”
He took in the sullen mumble with a fond look. “When she was younger, she called me Uncle, and so did her mama, years back.”
“Lawrence,” she whined.
He laid it out straight: sorry to disturb, Cindy wanted to become a vampire, like right now, like now now because cancer and, again, sorry to bother you with this pesky vampire stuff.
“Wait, what?”
Cindy looked at me, which was an improvement over her glaring at the yucky peach carpet. “My mom and both my aunts died of breast cancer in their forties. Both my grandmas, too. I’m gonna have to be like Angelina Jolie and get my boobs cut off and my uterus out and everything. And maybe I’ll just die anyway.”
Well, we all died anyway, but I was beginning to see her point. But perhaps it wasn’t as bleak a picture as she was painting. I had no problem admitting this stuff wasn’t my area.
Can we get Marc in on this?
Agreed.
Sinclair glanced at Tina, who simply raised her voice. “Dr. Spangler, would you join us?”
“Hmm?” Looking entirely too innocent, Marc stuck his head around the door frame. Busted! “Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were conducting business in here.”
“On your way out for a jog?” I needled. “With scrubs and a stethoscope around your neck?”
He stood on his dignity and ignored me, and I had to make a real effort not to snicker. “Did you need something, Tina?”
She just quirked an eyebrow at him, and his expression—polite boredom—didn’t match how he hustled into the room, almost knocking over one of the overstuffed chairs on his way to her side. “This is Dr. Spangler,” she explained to Cindy, who managed a smile (and why not? Marc was a cutie anytime, but looked cute and competent as shit when in doctor mode), and Lawrence, who just stared. And stared. And wouldn’t shake hands. And stared.
I started to bristle, when Sinclair’s voice slid into my brain like a cool drink. He knows Marc isn’t a vampire but is dead. It’s throwing him off. Have patience, my own; most of our kind have never seen a zombie. Lawrence is a good man and will remember his manners at any moment.
Right, right. Sorry.
Trust me. Of all men, Lawrence will be the first to give a zombie the benefit of the doubt.
Okay. Good enough for me, let’s give him a minute.
Lawrence seemed to come back to himself and reached out, lightning fast—too fast, Marc flinched—to shake his hand. “Pardon, your pardon, Dr. Spangler. It seems I’ve left my manners out on the street, for which there is no excuse. I— It’s been a difficult week. My apologies again.”
“Yeah, tell us how hard it’s been for you,” Cindy said acidly, reminding me why teenagers were terrible, and how glad I was I would never be one again. Trapped in an ever-changing adult body and the accompanying hormone tsunami, and constantly urged to act like an adult while being refused all adult privileges. Nightmare.
“Cindy has a family history of cancer,” Tina explained, and brought him up to speed.
Marc thought about it, absently rubbing the stethoscope bell with his thumb. “I’m not an oncologist,” he said after a minute, eyes vague while he ruminated, “but preemptive mastectomies would certainly be an option.” Then he looked right at her. “You lost someone recently. Right?”
“My last aunt,” came the short reply. “November.”
That explains the urgency. How to explain to a teenager nothing has to be decided, much less acted on, right this minute? Answer: you can’t.
What the hell, I went for it. “Cindy, I’m so sorry for your loss. But it’s a little soon to decide that a lethal allergy to sunshine, a liquid diet, and permanent blackout curtains are the way to go. You’ve got years to—”
“No! I have to get turned now. If I wait too long I could be a vampire with cancer.” Which was technically true. I had my appendix out when I was thirteen, and it didn’t grow back when I came back as a vampire. If you had gray hairs or wrinkles or arthritis in life, you’d have them in (un)death. One of the most powerful vampires I ever met/killed was turned in her sixties. She could overpower just about anybody, but still had permanent crow’s-feet and shitty close vision. She was the vampire nation’s librarian and archivist, which made the whole thing even more ironic and unsettling.