Page 118 of By the Pint

But I didn’t feel particularly blessed or special. I felt sick, and worried, and exhausted, and jealous that Nina knew Casey’s sleeping patterns and I didn’t. Mostly, I felt an overwhelming sense of … bereavement.

He didn’t remember me.

Human for twenty-two years, undead for six hundred. The amount of time I’d known Casey didn’t even account for one percent of my time in the Eight and a Half Kingdoms, yet he was now my everything.

Killian was wrong. Casey was the sunshine, not me. I was merely an insignificant, desolate, lifeless planet orbiting around him.

And I really thought he would remember me. Had convinced myself that it would come rushing back. He didn’t even know to close his mind to the hackers. I should have realised this would be the case, but how do you prepare someone for that?

I couldn’t rid myself of the desperate sense I’d failed him. And myself.

I left the facility and got back seven hours later, feeling only moderately refreshed. Casey was asleep. Nina gave me a swipe card with direct access to his room, though she told me not to get too close because he was still snapping and growling at the feeders. I let myself into his suite, sat on his couch, and tried desperately not to delve into his mind and listen to his feverish, abstract dreams.

I failed.

There was nothing in his dreams to show he remembered our time together, or anything from his human life. Only shapeless monsters. Things hiding behind the glass mirror. The hacker pulling his mask down to reveal a thousand fangs. A sandstorm in a desert made of blood.

I stood beside him, watching his arms and legs twitch. His face pulled into a grimace. I hadn’t even realised I gotten off the couch.

And then I was there in his dream. And he stopped twitching.

He woke. In slow motion. His red eyes landed on mine.

“Dima.”

The familiar overwhelm came rushing back, flooding my face with tears.

He regarded me for a moment, his mind blank.

“Can I sit here?” I asked, pointing to the end of his bed.

He nodded and a strand of black hair fell down over his forehead. I perched my ass on the gurney besides his knees. After a while he said, “How old am I?”

“Thirty-nine.” I didn’t realise until after I’d done so, but I leant forward and brushed the hair back. “You’ll forever be thirty-nine.”

He didn’t flinch at my touch. “Am I dead?” he said in the softest, most child-like voice. “Is that why you cry?”

Which of course brought on a fresh wave of tears, and then laughter. It felt so alien. “You’re undead. And I cry because I’m happy you’re okay, and I’m sad about a lot of other things, and it’s all very complicated.” I said, as though explaining it to a toddler.

“Dima!” said Nina, appearing from nowhere and making us both startle. “I must insist you don’t get too close. For your own safety.”

Stay,Casey said into my mind, which instantly overrode anything Nina wanted.

“I trust him,” I said.

Casey didn’t smile, not with his mouth, but somehow his eyes pulled back into a smile.

I wanted to climb up the gurney and snuggle down into the hollow between his chest and arm.

I would absolutely advise against that,said Nina into my mind, but she was smiling.

Over the next few weeks, our interactions — Casey’s and mine — followed a similar path. He would ask me questions. Sometimes about himself, sometimes about me, sometimes about the world at large. He became lucid enough, and trustworthy enough, i.e. he stopped trying to tear the hands off the feeders, to warrant gradually being unshackled. The arms were first, then the legs, then his chest, though he still kept to the bed, not having tested walking yet.

One evening, I arrived from my hotel to find him clothed and sitting on the couch in the den. Plain navy t-shirt, tan coloured chinos, and the same pink plaid socks from that night at Dreadmourne. Nina sat in the armchair opposite, a logic puzzle book open in her hands.

“Dima!” he cried when I let myself in through the suite door. He sounded genuinely happy.

“Wow, look at you all up and dressed and walking,” I said, trying not to let my voice break for the millionth time. I sat on the other end of the couch, mindful that Nina was nearby and observing everything.

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