I looked down at a sudden stinging sensation and spotted a skinny-legged, skinny-winged insect perched on my shin. I waved it away and scratched, with mild curiosity, at my first-ever mosquito bite.

“Perhaps in time, the memories will wash away on their own,” Reg said. “If we are human long enough, we may forget our immortal lives.”

Another sting, this time on my upper arm, and I managed to slap the spot in time to squash the mosquito. I brushed my hand off in the grass, satisfied by the kill.

“We won’t be human long enough for that to happen,” I said with confidence.

Reg sighed. “You’re probably right. We would die long before our memories fade.”

“Wow, depressing much?” I smacked my neck. Another mosquito attack. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Or we could get Alzheimer’s. Then we might forget.”

“We’re not going to get— Ouch!”

Reg sat up straight. “What is it?”

“Mosquitoes! They are attacking me!” I swatted one away from my face and another off my leg. “Damn little bloodsuckers.”

“So you have that in common, then.” Reg said, and my next swat was toward him.

I scratched the first sting on my shin, which was turning into an ugly red welt. “Bug bites may be the worst thing yet about being human.”

“Not all bugs bite,” Reg said. He nudged my arm and motioned for me to look up.

All around us, hundreds of fireflies were blinking on and off, their bioluminescent bodies lighting up the quickly gathering dark.

“Exactly the kind of critters I like,” I said. “The kind that look best at night.”

I snatched up our three letters from the grass before we lost all light and held out a hand for the calligraphy pen. Reg passed it over, and I signed each one with as much flourish as my unskilled hands could manage.

Eternally Yours,

Charlotte and Reginald Drake

House of Drake, Clan of Bone

Reg helped me fold the letters and stuff them into envelopes. As he pressed a wax seal onto the final message, I felt the sharpest sting yet behind my left ear.

I slapped the mosquito and scratched the fresh wound.

PS: Hurry up!

Nine

Dead Poets & Living Boys

“This fabric itches.” I yanked on the hem of my shirt, trying desperately to force it into some kind of shape. “What is it, cheap wool?”

“It’s cotton,” Reg said. “And it’s perfectly comfortable.”

We were walking the dirt path between the cornfields, on our way to day two of the hideous torture humans called high school. Sal had suggested we try a little harder to fit in, and Reg and I agreed, knowing it would only help our appeal to be on our best behavior. But wardrobe remained a problem.