Page 19 of Fangs with Benefits

‘Right.’ I don’t push it, even though I’d really, really like to.

We’re both quiet for the rest of the train ride, Dylan scrolling endlessly, as he does, me watching the patrons around us. As two paranormal beings, we attract unconscious attention. It’s not as if unknowing humans can look at us and pinpoint exactly what’s odd about us, but there’s no denying the vaguely inhuman nature of a werewolf and vampire on public transportation.

The Indian spot Dylan likes is near his apartment, so after we both change into non-suit attire and I pour a fresh bag of microwaved blood into my thermos bottle, we make our way there. I don’t wait for his food to arrive to tell him my news.

‘Molly is immune to compulsion,’ I tell him.

Dylan recoils, then leans in closer. ‘What?’

I lower my voice to match his. ‘Have you ever heard of something like this in a human?’

‘Could she be a witch?’ he asks.

I think hard about this, then shake my head. ‘I would smell it on her,’ I say. ‘Her blood doesn’t smell of magic.’

Witch magic has a distinct scent, something like burning wood, smouldering embers; it’s heavy and invades your senses. All paranormal beings have magic in their blood, and while Molly’s blood smells absurdly sweet and lovely to me, it doesn’t smell at all like magic.

‘Start from the beginning,’ Dylan commands.

I do, telling him about my blunders at work and how some have been so egregious, the only way out of them has been compelling people to forget and begging Molly to fix them for me. When I get to the part where Molly laughed at my compulsion, Dylan laughs himself. He looks gobsmacked, which is coincidentally how I feel about the whole affair.

‘She didn’t look even a little convinced?’

‘No, she looked like she thought I was an odd man attempting to boss her around.’

Dylan whistles. ‘I think I’d like Molly.’

‘Impossible not to,’ I agree. Food plates are deposited on the table in front of us, and the waiter gives me the same wary stare he always does when I smile congenially and don’t eat any of the food ordered. It’s not that I can’t eat, only that my digestion isn’t suited for it any more. It does me better to enjoy it in an olfactory way.

‘There’s one person who would know,’ Dylan says around a bite of chicken korma. I narrow my eyes and tilt my head.

‘Do tell,’ I say, but I know who he means. I’m just surprised he’d dare bring her up when I’ve made it very clear how I feel about reaching out to anyone in my family.

‘Your sister.’

‘No,’ I say without considering it.

‘Come on, E, you can’t ignore her forever.’

‘Not forever, but at least for another few years.’

Evangeline–Jellie as she’s more commonly known–has dedicated a great deal of her many years on this Earth to understanding the living things on it. The mortal, the undead, the supernatural; she’s a scholar on sentient beings big and small, and my favourite vampire. Her interest in mortals and other non-vampiric creatures would make her another black sheep in the family, if not for her tenure on the Council of Supernatural and Paranormal Beings, an organisation my mother holds in great acclaim.

Unlike the rest of my family, she’s kept in touch, forcing her visits on me every few years and begging me to come home with her each time. It always leaves me feeling supremely guilty and even lonelier than I’d felt before she arrived. If I reach out to her now, she’ll probably try to offer me another job on her research team.

Dylan met her on one such visit, and the pair became fast friends. They’ve kept in touch, and Dylan has participated in multiple werewolf studies she’s conducted.

He’s right that if there’s anyone who would know why Molly doesn’t fall victim to my abilities, it’s Jellie.

‘It’d probably make her year if you texted her,’ Dylan tells me. ‘She misses you.’

I miss her, too, but sometimes it’s easier to ignore her than to face her knowing, pitying stares.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I tell him. As confounding as Molly is to me, I’m reluctant to draw attention to myself unneedfully. Not to mention the council case study she would become.

‘And, hey, if she figures out your secret, I guess you could go live with your family. They’re richer than God or whatever.’

That’s one way to put it. They have four centuries of accumulated wealth, and I would too, if not for my self-inflicted isolation before the Second World War. I have barely spoken to any of them, save for my sister, since. Mother attempted to keep in touch at first, always soft at heart, but gave up after a decade of unanswered letters. They could have come to the estate any time–they knew I was holed up there–but I think after a while they didn’t come to me on principle. I get it. Gregory and I have been at odds for so long that any visit leads immediately to a fight, plus I haven’t been the best of company for the better part of the last century.