“I can,” I say. “And I have.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. “It’s wrong.”
I huff. “Why? Because only you and your brothers—or God—get to decide who lives and who dies?” I gesture toward the cages. “No. These creatures are innocent.”
He studies me in silence for a long moment, something troubled passing through his expression. Then his gaze drifts back to them. Slowly, carefully, he rests his hand against one. Most of the frogs inside remain as they are, except one that drops from the glass and hops away.
His chest deflates. “So you’ve perfected the serum. Or whatever it is you’re using.”
“Yes. I thought so.” I shift my weight, crossing my arms tighter over my stomach. “But as you pointed out, something is wrong with it. It loses its strength with time. I’m trying to fix that. Make it last. Or at least last longer. And without it…” I gesture vaguely. “They need it now, like I do, to survive. And some don’t always act in predictable ways.”
His gaze sharpens. “What do you mean?”
“The reaction you saw. The change that comes over me.” My fingers curl into my sleeves. “When I look human again.”
“Yes.”
“It’s when it runs its course,” I say quietly. “When I turn back. There are…symptoms that come with it.”
He turns fully toward me now. “Such as.”
I hesitate, then force the words out. “Withdrawal. Dry mouth. Sordid dreams. Body aches. Cravings. Fatigue.” My jaw tightens. “My bones feel like they’re rattling under my skin. I get this uncontrollable, unquenchable itch. I read up on it, and the serum seems to be working like a drug.” I swallow. “And like any drug taken steadily, there’s a cost.”
His expression hardens. “You’re addicted.” Not a question but a statement.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I need a constant feed of it to stay as I am. Without it, I become even less than human. Mindless for it at times. I age and grow ill.”
He moves from the wall of cages to the workbench, his attention shifting to my equipment and my research. His gaze tracks over the books, the tattoo gun, the jars, the careful layout of tools.
“How long have you been working on this?”
“Nearly all my adult life.”
“And how long is that, exactly?”
“Seventy-eight years.”
His eyes lift to mine, something like surprise flickering through them. “So it’s prolonged your life? Given you strength? Power?”
I step closer and tip my chin toward the tattoo gun. “The additional power I carry, I gave to myself.”
I reach up to the shelf above the bench and pull down one of the books. Setting it on the workbench, I open it to a random page. “Like your runes, I learned that symbols hold their own magic. My work was elementary at first. Crude. But over time, I figured out how to harness additional gifts using the elixir—by embedding them into the markings I place on my skin.”
“May I?” he asks quietly, lifting his bound wrists.
I nod and hand it to him.
He flips through the pages, reading in silence. His eyes move quickly over the printed text, then slow as he studies my handwritten notes in the margins, the underlined passages, the sections I’ve marked as essential. He turns page after page, methodical, focused. Then he closes the book and reads the spine. His gaze travels up the shelf, scanning all the titles. He selects another volume and flips through it with the same quiet focus.
He pauses at a page crossed out in thick black ink, then studies it for a beat. Turns more pages. He stops again at another marked with a red X.
He looks up at me. “What are the X’s for?”
I swallow hard and step forward, snapping the book shut and sliding it back into place on the shelf. I don’t meet his eyes as I answer. “Either it didn’t work, or it worked, but not in the way it was supposed to.”
