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 safe.

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 was about to head to the living room when something caught her attention. On the table she saw a green envelope with her name written in fancy cursive. She picked it up, flipping it over. For me? She was about to open it when she remembered her father mentioning that Cyrus had left her a card. Angrily, she tossed the envelope into the wastebasket.

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 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. She needed to figure out how to keep him safe. 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."

Neither anger nor dread would be summoned. It was just as well, Irene did not wish her father to see that side of her ever again. Hollow and numb, she relayed what she could, as if it were someone else's tale.

"He was injured. He got agitated when ambulances or hospitals were mentioned. That should have been a red flag." 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. "I thought maybe hospitals made him anxious, like me." This excuse was effective; her father's face softened and he glanced down. "Although he later admitted he wasn't a Canadian citizen."

Her father palmed his face and sighed, then nodded for Irene to continue.

"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..."

"Did you tell the police, or your teachers, or someone?" Her father lifted a pale eyebrow, looking grim.

Irene shook her head. "No. I didn't... I didn't know what to do. There was no evidence he'd done anything wrong," Irene remembered how her neck had healed soon after she was bitten. 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; you'd know what was best."

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 tick returned to her father's cheek.

"And this cartel you mentioned. Who are they? You haven't been involved in any crimes, have you? You can tell me; I won't be angry." Despite his words, her father barely contained 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.

"No! And I don't know. 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. They danced around the topic of, uh, procurement and sourcing. But they were careful not to outright say what they were trafficking, since I was not one of them."

Mr. Locklyn rubbed his jaw and took time to process everything Irene relayed. "This isn't something I ever thought you'd have to deal with," he 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."

"Then go fish it out!"

Irene flinched. Her father muttered something akin to an apology, but urged her to go with the wave of a hand. Once her heart stopped racing, she got up and retrieved the envelope. She returned and sat down, holding it in her hands. "I don't want to open it."

"Pass it here." Her father held out his hand.

Irene's hands shook as she stared at her name. Sighing deeply, she handed her father the envelope. He tore it open and took out the card. Something fell into his lap and he had to 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.

"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 was wise to expose her father to anything Cyrus wrote.

"Okay now I am curious." Irene held out her hand. Her father hesitated, then passed it over.

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 watercolour 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. Flowery poetry was not what she expected. She looked at the flowers in her hand for a moment. Is this a message? 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 highschool students love poems... disgusting." Her father's knuckles cracked. "I don't think you need any further 'educating' from him."

"I certainly do not." Except, perhaps for her survival.

Irene rose to her feet.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to put this somewhere safe, in case I need to hand it over as evidence." Irene was more concerned with puzzling out what it meant than handing it over to the police, but her father needn't know that.

"Ah. Good. We'll go to the police once you're ready." Her father stood up, walking over to the entertainment stand, and turned on the radio to listen to the latest sports broadcast. "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.

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Things were feeling normal again. There was great comfort in sitting on the couch, eating a TV dinner, and watching television. Her father liked to watch sports, and Irene just liked to watch him. Defenses came down, and his endearing inner child came out to play. The way he clapped his hands in delight when his team scored, or the small tantrums he threw when the referee made a call he disagreed with amused Irene. Yet he was never so engrossed that he'd snap at her for striking up conversation during the game. As such, it was valuable bonding time.

However, there was an undercurrent of tension as they sat and watched the latest NHL game. Irene was silent, turning events over in her mind. Her memory hadn't entirely returned to her, but she knew she had been abducted, and that she was held in a basement with other girls. However, she could not bring forth any recollection of getting back home again. The last she remembered was believing she was going to die. It made it hard to keep up a pretense that everything was fine.

During a lull in the game Irene finally voiced a decision. "I think I am ready to talk to the police."

Mr. Locklyn looked up from the game, seeming a bit surprised at first, but then he smiled. "We'll go tomorrow."

Once her meal was done, Irene grabbed a bag she'd left beside the couch, taking out a library book. She glanced up at her father, who was engrossed in his game. Satisfied, she opened the book, and out slipped the card and the flowers.

As she suspected, the one flower was an iris. It took Irene some time to identify the other flower as Aconite, or Wolfsbane. This made Irene pause. Wolfsbane was poisonous. Irene set the book down and grabbed another, glancing up when her father let out a cheer. He looked over at her, and she quickly tucked the card and flowers back into the book.

"What's that, kiddo? Thinking of taking up gardening?" her father asked.

"No, just reading for my own edification," Irene responded. He gave her a side-glance, somewhat perplexed, but his attention was quickly ensnared by the game. He hollered at the players on the screen. Meanwhile, Irene swapped out her book for another: "The Language of Flowers". She picked it up once she identified the poem's title, and saw a book of the very same name.

Irene now had the missing pieces. She eagerly looked at the information on the iris flower. The entry she found told her that an iris meant to convey a message, which seemed redundant to her. Further in the entry was a discussion on the iris in blazonry, particularly of the French nobility. Gabriel's slight accent came to her mind. The way he pronounced his R's was reminiscent of a French accent, but it was too watered-down to really tell.

Irene sighed and went searching for wolfsbane. There was no entry. She snapped the book shut in frustration. This is probably just another one of his games. Irene snorted and watched the tiny men on the screen exchange the puck a few times. Her curiosity overturned her frustration and she opened the book again, looking up aconite instead. To her satisfaction, there was a listing.

Misanthropy. Beware. An enemy is near.

Irene looked back at the card. Only now she realized the word Angel was capitalized. Angel. One of the most famous angels in Christian lore leapt to her mind. Gabriel.

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Just as she was trying to form thoughts on what this could mean for her, the doorbell rang. Her father leaned forward, but then he shrugged and leaned back. "I'm sure it's nothing important." After a brief pause he sat up straight again. "I wonder if it's Girl Guides? They usually sell those mint cookies this time of year."

Irene had gone back to staring at the card when she heard her father's booming voice. "You have some nerve coming back here!"

Uh oh. Irene sprung to her feet.

"I know you aren't a tutor! If you come near my daughter again, you will have to answer to me!" Irene hurred to her father's side. Sure enough, illuminated by the flickering porch light was Cyrus. He was wearing an olive green polo shirt, a brown coat, and khakis. Her father was right. He looked like he was trying too hard to cultivate a conservative, intellectual look. The worst part were the spectacles with thick, square frames.

Cyrus stood, mouth agape. Then his gaze shifted beyond Mr. Locklyn to Irene. She crossed her arms, glaring at him. He returned her glare for a brief moment, looking accusatory at her. She just arched an eyebrow. Then he took a step back, bringing his hands up in a placating manner.

"Mr. Locklyn, please, I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding here." Cyrus stepped back, one hand raised defensively. His other hand ran through his hair, which was slicked back exposing a pronounced widow's peak. It gave him a more severe countenance, even if better groomed. Oddly, he didn't bother to remove the single gold earring, which contrasted with his egg-head costume.

Mr. Locklyn thrust a thick finger at Cyrus accusingly. "There's no misunderstanding. Who do you think you are, sending a teenage girl love letters?"

"What, my card? That wasn't a love letter, I assure you. You've got it all wrong. That-"

"Oh and that poem you slipped in?"

"Relevant to our studies," Cyrus responded, laughing sheepishly. It was unlike the unfettered chortles or mocking snickers she'd heard from him before.

What is he playing at? Irene had always feared an encounter between him and her father would end in violence. But Cyrus was behaving like any cowed suitor when confronted by a protective father.

"If you'd please let me explain..."

"I don't want to hear anything from you. I'm going to count to ten, and if you don't leave my property, Irene will call the police, and if you still don't leave, she'll be needing to call an ambulance too." Mr. Locklyn cracked his knuckles. While her father was not necessarily imposing, he easily had some considerable height on this particular vampire.

Irene felt anxious, but also hopeful. Cyrus was giving ground. This reinforced the idea that Cyrus was a coward and a bully, quick to drop his pretense of ferocity the moment he wasn't up against someone weaker.

Cyrus took a few steps back, palms still out. Defiance flashed in his face. Irene's father took a step farther, warning him to continue his retreat.

"Ten..."

"I am only here to help..."

"Nine..."

"I don't know what she's told you, but..."

"Eight..."

Cyrus's frown deepened, and she saw just the briefest twitch of a snarl on his lips, before he turned it into a smile. He took off his prop glasses and slipped them into his breast pocket. "Your daughter is in danger." Mr. Locklyn took another lunging step forward.

"Not anymore! I'll protect my daughter at any cost!" Her father said ferociously. "Seven!"

"Oh yes, you've done a bang-up job of protecting her thus far. Where were you when she needed- urk!"

To Irene's horror, her father grabbed Cyrus by the collar of his shirt, lifting him off the ground. Irene could never move him, and here her father was, in the process of throwing him down. Cyrus landed on the gravel with a crunch. He looked up, legs splayed and hands in the mud. He glanced at Irene a moment from his prone position, and she shook her head. The greasy vampire ceased all efforts to hide the snarl on his lips. "You leave me no choice."

"Cyrus, don't!"

Cyrus jumped up and lunged at her father. In seconds he had Mr. Locklyn's shirt in his fist, forcing her father to bend down to his eye level.

Irene was terrified he was going to bite him. She rushed out. "Please!"

Cyrus's other hand easily caught Irene, keeping her at an arm's length as he continued to stare at her father with an eerie intensity. Her father's gaze was locked on him, no more words passing his lips. She looked at her father for signs of pain, but instead his eyes appeared glazed and compliant. "As I said, it's all a misunderstanding." Her father continued not to react. "It's understandable, my actions could easily have been misinterpreted."

Irene shook her head, glaring at Cyrus. No, his actions were quite clear to her. "Don't listen to him!"

"Irene saved me, I'm trying to return the favour. Your daughter was recently unwell, so I made sure she got home safely. In her feverish state, she became very paranoid and refused my further help." Cyrus wove this alternate story, and she could see her father becoming more and more calm. The vampire eased his grip on Mr. Locklyn.

"I... I see." For the first time since the exchange, her father blinked and his brow furrowed. "But she wasn't mistaken about you being in some sort of gang or cartel?" Again, his hackles raised. Cyrus briefly narrowed his eyes, but kept his gaze intact.

"No. And yes, I lied about the tutor thing." Cyrus smiled and gave a small shrug. "Mia culpa. But I didn't want to alarm you. Nonetheless, Irene is in danger. And I have been trying to protect her, and I can only do that if I can remain close by."

Irene scowled, the palpitations in her chest rising in intensity. Certainly her father would not buy this bowl of tripe. And yet, when she looked to him, seeking out a sign that her father was ready to toss Cyrus onto the street, all she saw was heavy-lidded compliance. Irene's heart skipped a beat.

"That makes... sense..." Mr. Locklyn sounded uncertain. Again he blinked and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. "If you really wanted to protect her, you would go to the authorities, turn yourself in, and hand over evidence about whoever is threatening my daughter!" Her father swung out his hand, gesturing vaguely off into the distance.

Cyrus hissed, but then quickly smoothed out the wrinkles forming on his brow, trying to maintain calm. Her father had broken eye contact, and this clearly vexed Cyrus. He thrust up a hand, grabbing Mr. Locklyn's chin, forcing him to stare the vampire in the eyes.

"Stop it!" Irene demanded. She wasn't sure exactly what Cyrus was doing, but he was doing something. "Resist, Dad!" Irene reflected back to the times when she had felt paralyzed during eye contact with Cyrus.

"The authorities can not help. My... gang, sure, let's call it a gang. Why not? That gang has contacts in the RCMP. Contacting them would put everyone in danger." Cyrus released his grip on her father, but not his hold on his mind. Irene began clawing at his wrist to no avail. "You need me. From now on, I will be a boarder at your house. That is the new narrative. You will trust me."

"I... yes. You're my... boarder. I trust you." Mr Locklyn finally relented to whatever power Cyrus was exerting over him. Irene's eyes swelled up with tears. Her father was supposed to protect her, not side with her enemy. "Thank you for looking after her."

Cyrus grinned one of his horrible grins. Rage peaked. Ferociously, Irene sank her teeth into his hand. For this first time, she got a reaction from him, feeling him jump and pull away. He looked at her, appearing as surprised as she felt herself. After a moment, he laughed. "Well I guess what goes around comes around." Cyrus shook his hand, then looked at the little dimples her teeth had created, seeming almost endeared by them.

Irene tugged at her father's arm. "Father, snap out of it! Cyrus is NOT to be trusted!"

Mr. Locklyn turned to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Irene, I know you think I'm making a mistake. When you get older and have a family yourself, you'll understand. We have to trust him, for both our sakes." If he had just blankly told her that he trusted Cyrus in a monotone voice, it would have given her more will to fight. But the fact he now looked lucid, and the way he spoke was entirely like him, it broke her heart. Whatever Cyrus had done, it had moved past whatever barrier he'd been putting up, and nestled itself into his core.

Irene pulled away from her father, and ran inside. Just before she closed the door, she heard Cyrus ask how much rent her father wanted, as if everything were perfectly normal. Irene slammed the door and ran to her room.

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Irene wasn't in her room long when she heard a tapping at the door. Hesitantly, she called out, "Come in." To her relief, it was her father's head that poked in. She sat up, hugging Silver who had been laying beside her, purring.

"Hey, kiddo. I'm just checking on you before heading to bed. I've got a headache." He rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Are you really letting Cyrus stay here?"

Mr. Locklyn sighed. "Yes, Irene. It's for the best. The company is a stone's throw from bankruptcy and I could use the extra income."

Irene looked down, just focusing on the vibrations from her beloved pet. "You never told me it was that bad."

"I didn't want you to worry." He shook his head, his lower lip tucked in and chin thrust out. "I know I haven't been here for you. But I'm trying to be a good provider." Her father massaged his temples with his ring and pinky fingers.

"I understand. Get some rest, Dad."

Meekly, he nodded and her door shut with a nearly inaudible click. Irene continued petting Silver, who began to knead her thigh with her tiny paws.

"You're still on my side, aren't you?" In response, the gray tabby lifted her tail, crooking it at the very tip and headbutted Irene in the stomach. "Gee, thanks."

Abruptly, that crooked tail straightened out and puffed up. A sharp sting on Irene's thigh resulted in Silver's sharp claws digging in as she turned around on Irene's lap. The little cat hissed at the door. With this sudden change in demeanour, it didn't surprise Irene when the door swung open, and Cyrus stepped in.

"Get out of my room!" Irene hardly looked at him as she worked on smoothing Silver's tail. Silver's ears swiveled back and she crouched on Irene's lap, letting out a throaty growl.

Cyrus made no response, and she heard a few heavy steps as he lumbered further into her room. She looked up again, and he plopped down beside her on her bed. The cat hissed and scratched Cyrus' hand.

"Silver!"

In the pale moonlight that streamed in through her window, she only briefly got a glimpse of Cyrus's face before she realized the danger. The dark circles, the gauntness. Before Irene could react, he had grabbed her cat by the scuff of the neck and held her inches from his face. Silver continued to hiss and squirm, trying to get free. He bared his fangs.

"Cyrus stop! Don't you DARE eat my cat!"

"I need blood..." Cyrus said between clenched teeth. Irene grabbed for Silver, but he moved her out of Irene's reach. The cat yowled and swore at this indignation. "Choose. Cat... father, or..." he trailed off, shaking his head, struggling to speak. "I'm too weak... hunt."

Irene stood up. "Leave my father out of this!" This was a plea as much as it was a demand.

"Choose!" Cyrus growled. Silver managed to finally slip out of Cyrus grasp and she hit the ground running. Cyrus just fell onto his side, laying his head on her pillow. Irene did not understand what was happening, just that she needed to do something. "Need..."

"Go to hell!"

Cyrus propped his head up briefly, fixing her with an intense stare. "If you don't... hell... will come... here." He then let his head drop again into the pillow, closing his eyes.

Irene drew in a breath, shaking. She could not subject her father to this. Irene trembled, hating what she was about to do. She knelt down beside Cyrus, pulling her hair to one side and exposing her neck. "Then bite me."

Cyrus opened one eye and peered at her. "You'll die. Too soon... since... last..." Cyrus closed his eyes again, turning away from her. "GO!"

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Irene shivered, rubbing her hands together. Her heart was racing, and she felt sick to her stomach with what she was about to do. She paced outside of a nearby motel and wondered what happened to Ashley. She was sure this was the motel she worked part time at. The ground didn't feel very firm beneath her feet and Irene's knees knocked together. It took all of her concentration to stay upright.

Irene turned, about to walk away. What she was about to do was wrong; Irene wondered if perhaps she ought to kill Cyrus while he was weak. The trouble was, she still didn't know how to kill a vampire. A vague recollection of Cyrus fighting another starved vampire hung in the back of her mind. In his state, he might be even more dangerous, not less.

A warbling, uncertain voice soared to high pitches of song, and then sputtered into sobs. Irene sighed and watched as a familiar disheveled, pot-bellied man ambled into the parking lot, his sandy beard and curly hair giving him a wild appearance. For once, Irene wasn't going to walk away. Again her stomach lurched.

"Robin?" Irene called. He lifted his head, mid-verse and looked around. It took a while for his puffy eyes to find her. Not recognizing her, he looked around as if expecting there to be someone else named Robin. He then looked back at Irene, one bushy eyebrow lifting as he gestured to himself, mouthing 'me?'. Irene nodded, beckoning him.

"Whah... wha'can I, urf, d'you for, young lady?" The drunk swayed on his feet, trying to give her polite attention.

"Would you like a warm meal?" Irene asked, her voice trembling. The man looked at her, giving her a measured assessment, albeit several times having to blink, squint and wipe at his eyes.

"Well. Tha's kindness, li'l chickadee, buh... ah... I got all'er warmth I need, right here," Robin dribbled, holding up his bottle of vodka. He then took a swig to demonstrate his point. When he pulled the bottle away, he sighed, forlorn. "Is th'only warmth I feel now, sin' she left."

Irene wasn't sure what to do. She thought for sure the promise of a hot meal would have been irresistible. How was she going to lure him away now? He took another swig, about to turn away, but then pulled the bottle away, staring at it. He gave it a one eye squint, then turned it upside down. Nothing but a sorry dribble dripped out. Irene looked up. "Are you sure?"

"Well I..." He stumbled over his own feet, barely catching himself. He let out a belch, and it was all Irene could do to not wrinkle her nose in disgust as his smell reached her. "Well, it woo'n be 'propriate, young lady. Hey. Hey. What're you doin' out this late?"

"I can't sleep." Irene answered grimly.

The man nodded, lifting up a single finger as he continued to bob his head. "Ah, yeah... yeah... I know that. I know that well." He brought the bottle to his lips again, only to remember it had no succor for him. He let out a nasally whimper and dropped the bottle.

Irene jumped at the sound of the glass shattering, looking around alertly lest someone come out and see what the noise was. Her guilty conscience would not let her forget that she did not belong there.

No one came. The man began sobbing. Irene's lip curled in contempt. Not at the man's uninsulated display of emotion, but at her own scheme. She walked over to the man, holding her breath so as not to gag, and wrapped an arm about him. He continued sobbing, muttering half sentences about the family that had left him. She rubbed his back soothingly, and in his despair, he was easy to herd. Slowly, she guided him towards her home.

There was no going back after this.