Chapter 21 Molly
Molly
When I get to his apartment building, Elijah buzzes me up without even confirming it’s me through the intercom.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to inform him of building safety when he opens the door, but the sight of him in a dark blue apron and a tight black T-shirt leaves me blinking and speechless.
Holy fucking shoulders.
At the sight of Elijah in something other than a collared shirt, I feel like a Victorian man first spotting a woman’s knee.
His hair is messier than normal and… is that? Flour on his cheek?
‘You’re early,’ he says. I think if he was human he’d be out of breath, but instead he’s just frazzled.
‘Have you been cooking?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ Elijah steps back and gestures for me to enter the apartment.
He closes the door behind me just as a timer starts beeping from the kitchen, which he rushes to get.
While he’s preoccupied, I take my opportunity to visually snoop as much as I can without walking away from the spot I’m standing on.
I step out of my boots and slide them next to Elijah’s by the door.
I curl my toes on the hardwood floor and look around the space.
It’s cosy and a nice size for the city. There’s a bedroom and space for a medium-sized dining table.
Four chairs. The space is lit by a few lamps around the room, and there’s a desk in the corner that I imagine Dylan works at for as many hours at night as Matt used to.
He probably still does. Both Dylan and Matt could benefit from being vampires, if only to have more energy for their jobs. God, a group of finance bro vampires is just what the world needs right now.
There’s a nice-looking green couch, a coffee table and side table, both with stacks of paperbacks I recognise to be Elijah’s.
I see some of the pulpy romance novels and a mix of other genres, too.
I crouch down and run my fingers over the spines, softly gasping when I find a copy of one of my favourite surrealist novels.
‘I love this book,’ I call over my shoulder. I hold it up, and while holding a steaming pot of something, Elijah looks up at it.
‘Put it on the top of the stack, I’ll read it next,’ he says. ‘And, hold on, I want to hear what you like about it.’
‘You have to read it first,’ I say, depositing it on the top of the book stack. ‘I’ll sway your opinion if I tell you why it’s so great. I’ve already said too much.’
‘Fair enough.’
I mosey into the kitchen. ‘What did you make? I didn’t know you knew how to cook.’
‘There was a pub by my home where, every Sunday, they had roast,’ he says. ‘I never partook, but they all loved it enough to have it week after week. Smelled great.’
‘So you made it?’ I ask. ‘For me?’
He looks at the spread, hands propped on his hips, and smiles. ‘Yes.’
It’s enough food to feed four of me, and maybe two small children to boot. I can’t believe he made all this in the hours between work and now. ‘Do you cook often?’ I ask.
‘Never,’ he says. ‘Well, I have cooked, but not for two centuries, give or take. You’ll have to forgive me if it’s horrendous.’
‘I’m sure it’s great, it looks delicious.’
‘Well, come on then.’ Elijah grabs a plate and starts loading it up with food for me, more than I can really eat in one serving, but I don’t say anything.
‘Something to drink?’ he asks. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine and a can of seltzer. It’s rich people wine, probably because Dylan works a rich people job, so I nod and point to that.
‘You sit, I’ll bring it.’
I settle at the table, which has a few tall candles, lit in chic wooden holders.
Elijah is ancient, so he probably doesn’t know that casual hookup friends don’t usually cook candlelit meals for one another.
Or maybe they do these days, what do I know?
My last relationship was with a man who almost exclusively used an air fryer.
I am startled to see a tiny calico cat sitting in the doorway staring at me. Its left ear is damaged, like the tip was lost in a fight.
‘You actually have a cat?’ I ask, remembering his excuse at happy hour.
‘She’s not mine,’ Elijah says as he carts a wine glass and a mug to the table.
His setting is empty save for the mug. Mine has the plate of food, a gravy boat and the glass of wine.
‘Well, I suppose it depends who you ask. The poor thing was sleeping outside in one of the planters and she’s just so small.
I started seeing her when I went out at night and her meow is so broken and she seemed so lonely. ’
‘So, you brought her in?’
‘Dylan wasn’t thrilled about the sudden onset of two new roommates, but I think they tolerate each other well enough now.’
‘What do you call her?’
‘Gemma,’ he says. Gemma rubs against Elijah’s leg, which is when I realise he’s wearing jeans. Elijah in a tight T-shirt and jeans is not unlike a Calvin Klein ad to me–he is good looking in a deeply unfair way. ‘She keeps me company.’
I take the first bite of the meal Elijah set in front of me and it’s not just fine, it’s insanely good. ‘Okay what the fuck?’
‘Bad?’ he asks, braced for the worst.
‘It’s good!’ I say with a mouthful of food. ‘Why the hell does it taste so good if you don’t cook? Do you even know how to use a convection oven?’
Elijah laughs, his relief obvious, and lounges back in his chair, arms crossed over that broad chest as he watches me inhale the meal.
‘How’d you get the potatoes so crispy?’
‘Parboiling. I watched a YouTube about it.’
‘You know how to use YouTube?’ I ask, more shocked than I should be. I don’t correct him that a video isn’t called ‘a YouTube’ much like Google isn’t called ‘the Google’. He can have that one.
‘Dylan taught me. Loads of useful information there, along with less useful information.’
‘Did you find the fail compilations?’
He winces. ‘Yes. Nasty work. Though I do enjoy the music videos.’
‘Which is your favourite?’
He drums his fingertips over his chin. ‘I think I enjoy all of them. Dylan loves one called “California Girls”.’
‘Oh my God, with the boob cannons?’
Elijah laughs, a clearly delighted sound. ‘That’s the one.’
He takes a drink from the mug, his throat bobbing as he swallows and I startle.
‘Is that blood?’ I ask.
Elijah pauses with the mug still at his lips, then nods. I lean over the table to peer inside and, sure enough, it’s a viscous liquid that looks almost blackberry purple in the black mug.
‘Gross,’ I say without thinking.
Elijah stands, bringing the mug with him. ‘My apologies.’
I grab his forearm before he can skirt away into the kitchen.
‘It’s okay, really. It’s just weird? I’ve never seen someone drink blood before.’
‘Well, you have,’ he corrects. ‘Many times. Every workday since I started, actually.’
My eyes go wide. ‘The metal bottle is full of blood? Oh,
duh.’ I realise my hand is still on his bare forearm. I squeeze it again before releasing him. ‘It’s okay, really. I promise.’
‘You’ll tell me if it makes you ill?’ he asks.
‘I will.’
Elijah settles back in his chair and puts the mug on a glass coaster.
‘Do you know whose it is?’ I ask.
‘No. Completely anonymous.’
‘Does it all taste the same?’
He squints, runs his tongue over his teeth then shakes his head. ‘No, but it starts tasting similar when it’s in the bag. It’s not the best way to consume it by any means.’
‘Why do you do it then?’
‘Blood bags?’
‘Yeah. I mean isn’t that why you can compel people? Like if there was a biological imperative for vampires to have compelling abilities, I would guess it’s to lure victims into submission,’ I posit.
‘Sounds rather monstrous when you put it that way.’
I take another bite instead of saying what I think: Isn’t it? Monstrous? Like, by nature.
But Elijah doesn’t seem like a monster, despite what I said about him in his first three weeks at Drummond. He seems gentle, sweet, a bit lonesome. Like Gemma in that planter.
‘Would you have to kill them?’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Some vampires are gluttons, but really it’s a small amount of blood from the vein to sustain me.
I just… it’s too intimate, I think. I’m out of practice being so close to someone.
It feels like a violation. There are people who do it willingly; humans who offer themselves to vampires, usually as their human familiars.
Maybe they want to be near the paranormal, or maybe they want to be turned, but they offer their veins, pale scars covering their skin in patches. ’
‘They like it?’ I ask.
Elijah visibly swallows, avoiding my eyes and nods.
Sensing the desire for a subject change, I ask him to tell me about the books he’s read recently while I eat.
He lists them, excitedly reporting about what he learned from each, and I hum, chiming in when I know the book, or asking follow-up questions.
By the time I’ve cleared most of my plate, I’m seriously full and I think it’s the best homemade meal I’ve had in months.
‘I’ll help you clean up,’ I tell him, and he thinks about it, tilting his head back to reveal the long column of his neck. My eyes linger on it.
‘I do think I used every dish in the kitchen,’ he says, and we share a private smile.
I help him put the leftover food in Tupperware boxes and stow it in the fridge, which is when I see the crisper full of blood bags. I blink at it but try not to make it a thing because he’s obviously a little insecure about it already.
We do the dishes, me rinsing and him loading into the dishwasher. I tell him at length how insane it is that he has both a dishwasher and a washing machine in his apartment and that’s how I know that Dylan is rich as hell.
Afterwards, we sit on the couch and I eat chocolate ice cream with chocolate chips, my legs tucked up beneath me while I face Elijah and we have an impromptu book club about Sweet Summer Minotaur, the book he gave me for my birthday.
‘Are they real? Minotaurs?’ I ask.
‘Molly,’ he says, like I can’t be serious. I shout and toss a throw pillow at him.
‘You’re telling me vampires and demons are real but minotaurs are a step too far?’
‘Absolutely!’ He dips his head back in laughter, and I have to laugh too, my giggle squeaking at the absurdity of it.
‘All right fine, fine, there’s no such thing as minotaurs. That you know of.’
My knee is pressed against Elijah’s thigh and Gemma is loafed up next to him, meowing when we move the couch too much with our laughter.
Before we can talk mechanics of minotaur sex, we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. We both pause and, in the quiet, the visitor knocks again, louder this time.
Elijah stands and opens the door to reveal the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen with a huge smile across her face and a large bouquet of flowers tucked in the bend of her arm.
‘Elijah, you fucking twat not telling me you’re moving across the world,’ she says immediately. She gasps when she spots me on the couch behind him. I blink at her, and her at me. ‘Oh–hello there.’
‘Hi,’ I manage.
Elijah stands speechless, looking between the woman and me. Gemma lets out a cracking meow at the visitor.
‘Well, don’t be a boar, Elijah. Are you going to invite me in?’