Page 103 of Fangs with Benefits

‘Oh, Elijah,’ Evangeline says, and pulls me down to her for a bone-crushing hug. I embrace her back just as fiercely. ‘It would kill us to lose you.’

‘And still, you would live on,’ I murmur.

It’s the way with any loss. Grief is a heavy, lasting beast–at times I still miss my father, still miss Ada, still miss every person I’ve loved and lost. And yet.

If Gregory were here, he wouldn’t humour the conversation; he’d rage and break things at the thought, not because he hates humanity, but because he fears mortality. He fears losing me, too.

‘What if your Molly doesn’t take you back? If it doesn’t work out?’ Evangeline asks through her tears, face pressed against my chest.

‘What if it does?’

‘What if you die?’

‘What if I get to live?’ I smile at the thought.

Evangeline pulls back and looks at my eyes, her lips pulled down into a wobbling frown. She looks like our father did, and I remember a hazy approximation of his face in hers. He taught us how to ride horses, how to skip stones over water, challenged us to races he never let us win until we were old enough to beat him for real. We were such a happy family, even Gregory, who I think felt Father’s loss more intensely than even Mother.

It’s no wonder that Mother did what she did to keep us, her wily three, for as long as she could.

‘Please,’ I mouth, no sound coming out this time.

And then, miraculously, Evangeline nods.

When the sun sets on winter solstice, my growing hunger reminds me that Samara, Jellie and I have been in the basement of the greenhouse since it set last night.

Samara dozes beneath a blanket on the leather loveseat in a corner, taking a much deserved break from her work. Jellie insisted that, if I was to test their potion, she and Samara needed to ensure that it was as thoroughly checked as possible before then. So that’s what we’ve done, combing again through research, calculating and recalculating, Samara mixing the same potion tens of times to ensure it’s the same each time.

This isn’t a regular science experiment, one that is repeatable and testable. Jellie gets one go at this, and that go is her own brother.

I stand from where I’ve been writing letter after letter in case things don’t work as she hopes. I have been helping Jellie and Samara in any way they’ve seen fit; cross-referencing ingredients in different books, getting them blood and food. Whatever they’ve asked, I’ve done. Gregory and Mother travelled with the council for a winter solstice event in Romania, and are set to return in two days. Fortuitous for us to be left unbothered.

Stretching my limbs, I walk to my sister’s side, rubbing her shoulders until she stops and shuts her eyes.

‘Rest with Samara while I get us some blood,’ I tell her, and though I know she doesn’t want to stop, she pats my hands and does what I say.

The air is bitingly cold on the walk back to my mother’s house, and when I get to the kitchen, I find a couple of blood bags which I heat in warm water over the stove. I also heat a bowl of Samara’s stew for her to eat. The witch is a lovely woman, beautiful and brilliant just like Jellie said.

I’ve enjoyed these past days working with her, despite the heavy tension around the task. You could die, my sister has said so many times. Do you want that?

Death is not the purpose of this, though I suppose, in a roundabout way, it is. It’s not that I want to die, and in fact, the thought of mortality fills me with terror, but there is excitement there, too; the mere possibility of having a natural death one day. The possibility of living is what compels me onwards.

I haven’t told Dylan, nor Molly, Gregory, my mother–each of them would try to stop me, I’m sure of it. Jellie has tried her best to dissuade me, and I know I could do none of this without her, but she understands me better than anyone. She wants what I want for myself, even if it pains her to imagine it.

When the food is heated, I return to the greenhouse, pausing at one of Jellie’s long tables full of books.

I run my fingers over the soft paper of one of the leather journals she’s left open. Her looping script makes messy notes about one of her latest projects, the same scrawl she’s had for centuries. Evangeline has a bottomless hunger for knowledge, and she uses that curiosity to help people. If anyone in this world could have immortality, I’m glad she was one.

‘I looked into why your Molly is resistant to compulsion,’ my sister says from behind me. ‘Couldn’t find anything conclusive, but I have a theory that some souls are just too stubborn to be swayed by magic. Like the humans that spirits can’t hide from.’

I don’t look over my shoulder at her, but I’m sure that the sad, knowing expression she saves just for me is there still.

‘Sounds like her.’ I put the book down, graceless, and hand a warmed bag of blood to Jellie. She punctures it with the metal straw I brought, and I do the same to mine. We sip quietly, backs against the counter-height table. ‘I’ve never felt this way,’ I admit quietly. ‘Like not having her will be the tragedy that haunts me for centuries.’

Evangeline rests her head against my shoulder and squeezes my arm. I put my hand over hers, grateful for the comfort.

‘If I stay as I am, she will forget me. She’ll get the life she wants, and I will miss her for eternity.’

‘You’re so dramatic,’ Evangeline says on a sigh, and it makes me smile, a relief in my grief.