Sinclair’s eyebrows arched and Lawrence made an apologetic half shrug. “When she was younger, I would tell her stories about my, ah, misspent youth at Snelling, and your granddaddy.”
Understandable. But he left the really nasty stuff out. Also understandable, but only talking up the good and never mentioning the bad was why we were trapped in the Peach Parlor with a pissy cheerleader who kept stomping for attention in soft-soled sneakers that made no noise.
“That’s very rare, dear,” Tina put in smoothly. “It’s one of the reasons the king is the king.”
“How rare?”
She didn’t blink at the demand. “Perhaps one in ten thousand.”
“So there’s a chance.”
“That’s what you got out of one in ten thousand?” I asked, incredulous. “There’s a chance? You’ve got a better chance of dying in an earthquake! Or—or—”
“Being electrocuted,” Marc prompted.
“Yes!” ER doctors really came in handy sometimes. “That!”
“What about you? You look about my age,” Cindy said, gesturing to Tina’s youthful hotness. “How old were you when you got turned?”
Tina hesitated a moment, then apparently decided to let her have that one, likely because of Lawrence. “Seventeen.”
“See! That was allowed, and you turned out—”
“He didn’t ask to turn me.” Tina managed a very sour smile. “He just did it. He was sorry, though. Afterward.”
THAT IS ENTIRELY TINA’S BUSINESS AND HER PERSONAL STRUGGLE IS NOTHING THIS SPOILED CHILD WILL UNDERSTAND HOW DARE SHE HOW DARE SHE HOW—
I swallowed a groan and elbowed Sinclair in the ribs. Then plunged ahead because there are few things I hate more than an awkward silence. “Cindy. Listen: you’ll be insane for a decade, just plan for it; any other assumption isn’t realistic. I mean, someone always wins the lottery, but buying a ticket is no guarantee, so just assume you’ll lose. You’ll be an animal, your only instinct will be to chase down blood from any source all the time. You won’t be picky, Cindy. Babies, puppies, your dad, possibly while he’s writing an article you don’t think anyone will read because it’s not online. You’ll go for Lawrence, too, though you’ll hate how he tastes.”
She looked at the carpet and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch: “Nmmmddtt.” It almost sounded like . . . hmm.
“And like I said, that’s just phase one.”
“I thought phase one was bleeding out and dying,” Marc put in, eyes wide and interested.
“Okay, that’s phase two, then. Either way, you’re not ready. And may never be. Come see us again in ten years,” I said. “We can talk about this then, see if there’s anything to be done.”
“I could be dead in ten years!”
“If we let Lawrence turn you, you’ll be dead by morning,” I warned. “This isn’t Twilight, get it? It’s not even a little bit romantic. Or fun. It’s not a chaste kiss and then off to la-la land followed by a leisurely return from the grave where nothing’s changed and everyone’s happy to see you. It’s not any of that. It’s terrifying and it’ll sweep you up and there won’t be a damned thing you can do. About any of it. I’m sorry, the answer is no.”
“Well, you . . .” Her eyes squinched up as she fought to say something that would change my mind, or at least make me as mad and disappointed as she was. “You’re just a bitch. You don’t care about anyone and . . . and you’re mean. You’re a mean fucking bitch, and what kind of a name is Betsy for a queen?”
“Ouch,” I replied, flicking a calm down glance at Tina, who’d gotten to her feet at bitch and looked ready to rumble. “You realize you’re just making my case stronger with the name-calling, right?”
“This is my fault,” Lawrence muttered.
Yep.
Well. Yes.
“Filling your head with all that nonsense from the cradle.” He sighed. “But your mama and grandmama never seemed to mind those stories . . .”
“Besides, do you really want to be stuck with that look for the next several centuries? I mean, the color’s cute—I love the blue—but you don’t really see Miley Cyrus as an icon of classical beauty, do you?”
“I’m not copying that dumbass,” she snapped back. “I’m copying Rihanna!”
“Again: you’re kind of making my argument for me. Look.” I pointed to myself, showed her my hands. “I was lucky enough to die when my haircut and color were only a couple of weeks old and my manicure was only one day old. How often does that happen? I mean, what are the odds? You don’t want to spend eternity hating your trendy hairstyle, which is doomed to fall out of fashion, right? It’d be like—like always having to do the thong whale-tail thing for centuries: uncomfortable and unnecessary.”