Page 95 of By the Pint

“It doesn’t! Isn’t that great? It means were not related in any way.” Killian shot a nervous glance in my direction, and it was about that moment I began to rue ever teaching him to block his thoughts the way I had with Casey.

“Let’s circle back then. To the part where I’m dying,” Casey said, in that practiced, patient, almost parental manner someone who’d spent a lot of time with Killian always adopted.

“Ah, yeah. Um, so about that …” Killian scratched behind his ear, hopped his weight from one foot to the other. “With your familiar family ancestry report, you also get a breakdown of your familiar’s blood. It’s mostly so that you can make sure your familiar is healthy and can manage your workload. Isn’t going to drop down dead at any given second …” He let his voice trail off then cleared his throat. “Any way, they look for things like vitamin deficiencies, blood cell anomalies, yada yada.”

“And what did they find?” Casey asked, his voice inching towards mean-guy-on-the-wingball-court.

Killian faltered, pushed his lank hair off his face. It was like he, a six-hundred-year-old predator, was frightened of Casey. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Casey was right, he wasn’t Killian’s familiar, he was his manager.

“They found, uh, you had, have too many leucocytes, white-blood cells. Can indicate infection, or in some cases, cancer.”

“Cancer,” Casey said on a single exhale. The word nothing more than a breath.

“Anyway, I didn’t want to freak you out if it was nothing because of how liable you are to … uh, emotional outbursts, so I told you they needed the MRI as part of the application process.”

Casey nodded to show he was following along with Killian’s story, but his mouth was unable to respond. His mind raced with a thousand and one thoughts, too quick for me to pin any one down individually. He made no attempt to block them.

“So, yeah, anyway, you’ve got cancer,” Killian said, with a nonchalant shrug of his reedy shoulders.

Casey’s knees gave way, and he slumped back onto the foot of the bed. “What kind?”

Killian pulled a rumpled piece of paper out of yet another pocket in his flasher coat and smoothed it out on the desk. With his hand.

Right, Killian didn’t get the telekinesis gift. I didn’t know why I always forgot that.

“Uh … Lymphoma,” he said, reading from what I recognised as his own looped, slanting shorthand.

Casey said nothing. Inside his mind a series ofNosandShitsvolleyed around. I didn’t realise I had moved until I was beside him, cradling his head to my stomach.

“Did you … on one of your deep dives, do any research? On lymphoma? What’s the prognosis?” Casey said, his voice somewhat muffled against my skin.

“Oh yeah, hold up a second,” Killian said, bending over his scribbled note. His tone was light and casual, as though Casey had asked him what time the movie theatre was showing a particular film.

Have some respect,I told Killian.You just told your familiar he’s dying.

Killian nodded once. He straightened his slender frame, and cleared his throat, adopting what he evidently assumed was a more sombre demeanour. “Most people, once diagnosed, survived between five and eight years.”

Casey’s breath left in a whoosh, and my stomach flipped.

Survived. Not lived.

Killian made to rush forward, for what I wasn’t sure, since he’d closed his mind to me, but I stopped him with telekinesis. Pinned him against the wall behind.

“Dima, come on, bro. Let me go.” When I pushed him higher up the wall, Killian turned his attention to the stunned-silent man in my arms. “So … I scried … the Assembly. Told them … about your condition … and they promised to find you … an emergency appointment for your … turning,” he said between struggling to free himself.

Beneath my arms, Casey flinched.

“Baby, whatever treatment you need, whatever it costs, we’ll get it. Okay? I’ll get you the latest tech, the finest doctors,” I said, realising I was trying to convince myself as well as Casey. But I knew whatever I said would have no impact. On either of us. I could see Casey’s thoughts. Hear every one of them. He’d already made his decision.

Tears, my tears, fell freely. I didn’t try to stop them or wipe them away.

I was losing the man I loved, one way or another.

If he stayed with me, even with the best treatments in the Eight and a Half Kingdoms, he would die. He would suffer, and then he would die. And if he went off with Killian to the turning facility, Killian would drink his blood, Casey would drink Killian’s, and he’d become immortal.

But he would forget me.

Maybe there was a chance that we could be together in the future. After decades, possibly centuries. Once Casey got over the ordeal of being a newly turned vampire.

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