"Well, this has been a crazy fall," The voice of Irene's father intoned over the car's engine. Irene remained staring out the window, hugging a bag of the clothes she was wearing when she was brought in. When Irene didn't respond, her father shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. "I, uh, met your tutor. He was asking how you were doing."

"That's nice of him," Irene muttered. Then she replayed the sentence in her mind. This caused her to look at her father. "Wait, who?"

"Your tutor. Cedric or maybe it was Silas..."

Irene fixed her father with a stare. "Cyrus?"

"That's the one. Bit of an odd fellow, but he seemed worried when he couldn't get a hold of you. He left you a get well card." Irene swallowed hard and then quickly looked out the window. Her first impulse was to immediately tell her father Cyrus was not to be trusted. But how would she explain why? She also considered, if Cyrus was speaking with her father, then he was no longer feral. Irene closed her eyes, flashes of Cyrus closing in on her flickering through her mind. Cyrus was back to himself. And would he harm her father if he knew what Cyrus was? Until she knew what was going on, perhaps it was best to play along.

"Oh. Yes. Cyrus. Sorry, I'm tired and my mind is on other things," Irene replied. "Well, it's been a rough start to the year, so I decided I needed some extra..." Irene trailed off. No. Learning what happened to her was not worth letting Cyrus back into her life. Irene's knuckles became white as she clenched her fists and stared forward, out the windshield. "No. Father. I'm sorry. He lied to you, and I was just about to lie, too."

Irene could see her father's plump hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. "What do you mean? What's going on, Irene?"

"Father..." Irene began. He glanced at her quickly, a tell-tale tick in his cheek telling her he was trying to remain calm. "Cyrus isn't a tutor. He's..." A vampire? No. Time to start telling the truth without telling the truth. "He's in a gang."

"A gang? Him?" Her father scowled as he pulled to a stop at a red light. "The argyle sweater vest was a bit over-selling the part." Sweater vest? Irene cleared her throat. She had a hard time imagining Cyrus in anything but his usual black clothing. "But what do you have to do with him?"

"I found him in the woods, he was injured, I administered some first aid, and what I first thought was gratitude turned into... stalking." Irene shook her head. This story was somewhat close to the truth. She felt she could work with it. "I didn't know what I was getting into, I was just trying to be a good person."

"Aw, Irene. You are a good person. It's just... there are wolves out there, like I've said before." Her father rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand, keeping the other on the wheel. "But why did go along with, I mean, almost go along with his lie?"

"I was scared you'd overreact and start driving crazy, like you did when Monica told you that Benny pantsed her." At the mention of her late sister, Mr. Locklyn swerved ever so slightly, but quickly corrected and straightened out his wheels.

"Of all the things to remember..." he muttered. "That was a long time ago. But I take your point. We'll discuss more of this when we get home." Irene closed her eyes and leaned against the window.

It wasn't long before Irene heard the familiar grinding noise of tires on gravel. She knew she was home. Her father opened the door and took her things, and Irene tiredly shuffled up the old porch to their front door. Mixed feelings began to stir as she stepped over the threshold. Although her basement had been purged of vampires, she still felt as though her home had been tainted by association, and it would never feel quite the same again. But at least, now, with her father back from his business trip, it felt just a bit more normal.

Irene expected her father to head for his old pleather chair, but instead he grabbed the newspaper. "I might be a bit, then we can talk." Irene nodded, understanding. Irene walked into the kitchen to get herself some water. On the table she saw a green envelope with her name written in fancy cursive. She picked it up, flipping it over. She was about to open it when she remembered her father mentioning that Cyrus had left her a card. Angrily, Irene tossed the card in the waste basket.

Irene waited for her father in their cozy living room, stretched out on the plaid loveseat with her feet up on the arm rest. She stared at a crack in the ceiling as a focus as she ran through her thoughts. Bits and pieces of her abduction were still missing, but she remembered enough to be worried that whatever trouble Cyrus was in, she was still entangled in it. Which meant her father was at risk. But how could she prepare him? How could she protect herself and her family? How strange it was to be the one worrying about protecting her father, when usually it was the other way around.

"Alright, kiddo," came her father's voice as he walked into the room. He grunted and eased himself into his chair, pleather squeaking. "Tell me more about Cyrus."

Iene began with a sigh. "Like I said, I helped him out. I should have been suspicious when he begged me not to call an ambulance." Irene shook her head, brushing the bangs out of her face as she sat up. The snort and way her father shook his head told her he agreed. He peered at her questioningly, but didn't need to vocalize his query. "I guess, because I had been afraid of hospitals for so long, I figured he'd had a bad experience like myself." This was a much better narrative. It was effective, as her father's face softened and he glanced down. "Once he was better, he started hanging around. He wouldn't leave me alone, even after I repeatedly told him to leave. He'd follow me places, or bar me from entering doors, or tell lies to my friends..."

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"Did you tell the police, or your teachers, or someone?" her father asked. Irene shook her head.

"No. I didn't... I didn't know what to do. I had no evidence that he was doing anything wrong," Irene remembered how her neck had healed almost completely after the time he bit her. Yet, oddly, the cut on her chest did not. Was it because it was caused by a knife and not a vampire's teeth? "I guess I was waiting for you to get home so I could ask you what to do."

Mr. Lockyln's face grew very grave, and he began thumping his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He glanced away a moment, then looked back at Irene. "Did he hurt you?"

Yes, he did. But just as she struggled to talk about it with Jordan, it was even harder with her father. He'd fly off the handle, and maybe get himself hurt. Irene chewed on her lower lip. "He... said a lot of things that made me uncomfortable. And some of it didn't make sense. I don't think he's quite right in the head." The tapping grew more rapid and the tic returned to her father's cheek.

"And this gang you mentioned. Is this some small local street gang, or something bigger?" Her father asked, barely containing the strong emotions roiling deep within. Irene could sense it was difficult for him to keep calm, but she was unsure if it was fury or fear that he was holding back.

"I don't know the scope of it. He was following me around one night when a big man showed up and they were talking trash at each other. It sounds like Cyrus tried to leave and he got thrashed for it, but now they were trying to get him to return. I know I heard one of them mention a brotherhood. Maybe he's not in a gang, maybe it's a cult. But it's something."

Mr. Locklyn began rubbing his jaw, taking time to process everything Irene was saying. "A cult or a gang. I don't know what's worse. But I don't want you involved with either," her father lamented. "I know you said you didn't have any evidence, but we need to contact the police. If there's any other letters, like the card he sent you, bring that."

"I tossed it," Irene said bitterly.

"Then go fish it out."

Irene sighed and went and retrieved the envelope. She returned and sat down, holding it in her hands. "I don't know what's on it, if it would help me. And I don't want to open it."

"Would you like me to look at it, Irene?" her father asked, holding out his hand. Irene paused. Her hands shook as she stared at her name. Sighing deeply, she handed her father the card. He quickly tore the envelope and took the card out. Something fell into his lap and he had to grope around and shake out the folds of his shirt to find it. It appeared to be dried flowers, pressed into wax paper. He examined them for a moment, then handed them to Irene.

Irene inspected the pressed flowers. One was a purple bloom that may have once been vibrant when it was still fresh. Its petals were broad, and she was unsure just what it was, though she knew for certain it was not a bluebell. The other flower had some purple on it, but was predominantly white. She immediately recognized it as an iris. Irene glanced up, watching her father's brown eyes darting hither and thither as he read the card. He shook his head and shrugged.

"Well I'm definitely going to have words with him if he shows up again," Mr Locklyn growled. A prickling sensation arose on the back of Irene's neck, and she wondered if it wasn't wise to expose her father to anything Cyrus wrote.

"Ah... now I'm worried. Let me see," Irene said, holding out her hand. Her father hesitated, then passed it over. The fact he was handing it to her meant it wasn't anything overly gross. The outside was a typical greeting card one could pick up at any store. Gold print on a pale green background said "Get Well" with some water-painted floral designs. Inside the card was a neat and tidy handwritten message.

Best wishes for a speedy recovery, Irene. An Angel has his eye on you. I hope we can meet and discuss your further education when you get home. Stay safe.

In Eastern lands they talk in flow'rs

And they tell in a garland their loves and cares;

Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowr's,

On its leaves a mystic language bears.

- James Gates Percival

Regards,

-Cyrus

Irene squinted at the card a moment or two. There were a lot of things she expected. But poetry about flowers was not one of them. She looked at the flowers in her hand for a moment. Was he sending her a message? Did she really want to know? If it was, she had no idea what an iris meant, or even what the other flower was. Irene looked up at her father.

"Grown men sending high school students love poems... disgusting." Irene heard the grind and crack of her father's knuckles. "I don't think you need any further 'educating' from him."

"No. I certainly do not." Except, perhaps for her survival, she did. Irene rose to her feet.

"Where are you going, sweetie?"

"I'm going to put this somewhere safe, in case I need to hand it over as evidence," Irene explained. Yes. Evidence. But not before she could puzzle out what it meant.

"Ah. Good. We'll go to the police once you feel up to it. For now, though, you best get some rest." Her father stood up, walking over to the entertainment stand, turning on the radio to tune in to sports. "Oh, I'll probably pick up some Chinese later, if you feel up for that."

"That'd be nice," Irene responded, a yawn sneaking up on her. A nap in her own bed was sounding very appealing.