“Okay, that’s a fair point, but—”
“I’m not just going to—going to chop pieces off myself to try to stay ahead of the fucking thing only to maybe end up with it anyway, duh!”
“Cindy.” Lawrence’s voice was like a whip (judging from her flinch, anyway). “I did not bring you here to be unforgivably rude to my sovereigns. Apologize at once.”
I waved it away before she could open her mouth, to Sinclair’s vague annoyance. “’Sfine. Look, you’re not even a legal adult yet. Even if we were on board with Plan Outwit/Outplay/Outlast Cancer, we couldn’t turn you. There are laws about that stuff.”
Kind of. More like firm guidelines, big number one being no fair turning kids, asshats. In the old days, the vampire who turned the kid and the kid were killed in a variety of nasty, vomit-inducing ways. Having met such a vampire—a century old but forever trapped in the body of a fifth grader; imagine the horror—I never wanted to meet one again.
To our knowledge, since we’d come to power no one had turned a child. When it happened (it was, Sinclair explained, inevitable, because there was nothing new under the sun, and assholes were everywhere) we’d tackle it, and them: the turner and the turnee. Penalties would depend on the circumstances, though our inclination was something along the lines of, Fuck you. You don’t do that to kids. Any last words before we set your lungs on fire?
“I know. That’s why we’re here,” she replied, and she actually stomped her foot in her impatience. Gawd, adults were soooo sloooow. “Because you guys can break that rule. You can break any rule; you’re the ones in charge.”
Her neck would snap like a dead branch. Sinclair’s thought was more wistful than murderous; this was not a vampire king interested in, or used to, dealing with kids. He liked BabyJon, and found Jessica’s weird babies fascinating, but that was about it.
Knock it off. Being sixteen sucks.
In my day . . .
When you do that? It’s not sexy. At all. Besides, give her props just for having the courage to come. And there’s something else going on with her. It’s not just making an end run around cancer . . .
“I’m sorry, Cindy, but the answer is no. You’re too young, you haven’t adequately researched all your options, and you’re too young.” I turned to Lawrence, who looked like the least surprised person ever. “But it was kind of you to bring her here, and I’m always glad to meet a friend of Sinclair’s.” Had I ever? My husband was not a warm, welcoming man to people who weren’t me, Marc, Jessica, Dick, their weird babies, BabyJon, my mom, or Tina. No, I could honestly say I’d never met a friend of his.
“No, come on!” Another foot stomp, this one more frantic. She was wearing the wrong shoes if she wanted to draw attention that way; two-inch heels would have been better and, against the thick carpet, spikes would have been best. “What do you care if one more vamp gets made? Lawrence will bite me and take care of me and teach me everything and you’ll never see me again. Or you’ll see me all the time! Whichever one you want.”
I do not want to see this child all the time.
Simmer down, your inner old fogey is showing. I cleared my throat and said aloud, “What does your dad—”
“Don’t talk about my dad! He doesn’t know anything. Too busy scribbling his stupid local color stories that no one ever reads.”
“The reason I ask—”
“He wrote for the Pioneer Press, but not even online,” she sneered. “The paper part of the newspaper no one ever reads. Until he took a leave of absence to pretend to be sad my mom died.”
“Uh—” Getting a little far afield of the topic here. “Look, the fact that you think it’ll be as easy as just getting chomped and waking up dead and then darting off into the sunset—except sunsets would have to be avoided at all costs—proves you haven’t thought this through. For starters, when you come back, you’ll be crazy.”
Cindy made an impatient noise without opening her mouth: ggnnn! “I already said. Lawrence will take care of me.”
“No, I already said. You’re not listening. You’ll be crazy. Literally a drooling psychopath with an unholy lust for blood. I know that sounds like something out of a bad horror movie, but that’s what you’ll be dealing with. And that particular phase of the festivities tends to last about a decade. The lucky ones, they come back to themselves in maybe seven years.”
“That’s not true, Lawrence told me all about Sinclair, how he was born strong—”