"Irene!" Irene jumped, then put her hand to her throat. "Just the lovely lady I was hoping to see!" Standing behind her was Joseph, pleasantly smiling with hands clasped. Metal groaned as she shut her locker door, her backpack loaded up for the end of the school day.

"I don't know about lovely..." Irene muttered.

"Don't be so down on yourself." Joseph leaned in closer. "That's how they win." Evidently pleased with himself, the awkwardly tall teen straightened up.

Irene snapped the padlock shut and picked up her backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"Well, since you asked, there is! See, my friend is putting together a play and yours truly is in charge of props and set. The friend who was going to help us bailed, and an extra set of hands would be fantastic." Joseph smiled wide, showing all of his bracketed teeth.

Irene slipped her other arm through the remaining strap. "I... am not very artistic."

Joseph waved his hand in the air. "Oh there's no need for that! The artist in the group has already designed everything! I just need people to sit and apply some papier mâché! It's pretty easy - I am sure you learned how to do that in kindergarten."

Irene looked around. Why is he asking me? Her eyes spotted Merle down the hall at her own locker, watching them both. Her friend immediately opened her locker door wider to hide behind. Guilt over how she'd mishandled her existing relationships gummed up Irene's throat. She cleared it noisily and looked back at Joseph. "Sure. Why not?"

Joseph clapped his hands quietly yet energetically. "Marvelous! Follow me."

That was how Irene ended up in the stage craft room, sitting at a workbench with her hands covered in paste. She dipped another strip of newsprint into the off-white goop and slathered it on the balloon in her hand, listening to Joseph and his friend chatter away while he painted. His friend, Hana, worked on construction.

"And then he said to me that calling Reversi 'Othello' was the most racist thing he ever heard. I asked him if he had ever seen Othello. Do you know what he said next?" Hana friend waved her glue gun in the air, delicate filament of partially melted glue flagging.

Joseph paused in his painting, taking the break to rinse out his paint brush. He raised his eyebrows in interest. "That Shakespeare is a racist?"

"If only!" She laughed as she returned to dabbing glue on a piece of cardboard. "That it was boring and he only watched it because his girlfriend was a Laurence Fishburne fan. I told him he should try seeing the play and he was surprised to learn that anyone would make a play, since the movie wasn't that good."

Irene found herself smirking in spite of herself while the other two belted out effervescent laughter. She smoothed out a wrinkle, stroking the slimy surface.

Thinking about Othello turned Irene's thoughts to Cyrus. Having been subject to the vampire's bombardment and deceptions, the play was hitting closer to home than it had before. Fortunately, Cyrus was not quite as masterful at machinations as Iago, but he was trying. He had attempted to sow jealousy between herself, Merle, and Jordan. Irene snorted. She had greater trust in Jordan than Othello had in Desdemona.

Jordan... Their relationship was in a good place, Irene had thought. Jordan indicated otherwise. She thought she was astute, but wondered if she had missed signs that he was growing impatient with her before the accident, or if the incident had just shifted his priorities. Sure, his brush with death has made him impatient to hit as many of life's milestones as possible. But there was lingering doubt that she had been holding them both back, physically and emotionally.

"Irene, that's thick enough. You need to spread the papier mâché around more evenly." Hana's voice drew her out of her thoughts and she stared at the cake of soggy newspaper. Irene nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing as she applied gentle pressure to try and slide the top layer to another location.

"There you go," Joseph encouraged, dabbing his own project with splotches of red paint. Irene glanced up. Is that supposed to be depicting blood? Irene looked down again. She could tell them how to make it look far more realistic, but it was stagecraft. They weren't going for realism; they were going for what would be evocative to an audience who probably had never seen blood splatter before.

"Nothing destroys good fiction more than realism..." Irene muttered to herself, unaware she'd spoken.

"What was that, Irene?" Joseph asked, lowering his paint brush.

"Hm?" Irene used the relatively cleaner back of her sleeve to rub her eye, which was feeling gummy. "Oh, nothing."

"You needn't be shy around me; I'd be happy to hear your thoughts."

"I've already forgotten what I said," Irene lied.

Joseph treated the room to his light-hearted laughter and went back to work.

Troubled thoughts consumed Irene and she fell silent once more. How do I show father Cyrus isn't to be trusted without putting him in danger? Her slippery hands dropped the balloon. The wet spots collected bits of hair and other detritus left by the passing of many students. She sighed and began picking out the worst of it. There was a particularly curly hair among them. Where do things stand between Merle and I? Irene pulled off a long blonde strand. How do I keep myself out of Gabriel's clutches? He killed those girls, surely, he'll kill me next.

Her hands, despite being gummy, were feeling dry and itchy. Irene walked over to the sink, trying to get as much paste off as possible. Absently, she glanced up at the windows. The blinds had been drawn, but there was no light coming in from the edges. Now all too familiar, a prickling sensation dominated her gut as she inspected the clock on the wall. It was later than she'd thought. "Oh...! I need to get going!"

"Already?" Joseph looked up in surprise, but his fair eyebrows drew together in concern. This was brief as he put on a polite smile. "Thanks for the help! You've been fabulous!"

"Uh, you're welcome. Nice meeting you," Irene said in distracted haste as she gathered her things. "Bye."

Irene stood in the school lobby, staring out at the darkening sky. There was a payphone and a bus stop equidistant from each other. After careful consideration, Irene decided to head for the bus stop rather than phone for a ride. She zipped up her warm jacket, pulled up her hood, and headed out into the night.

As Irene scurried down the street, she thought she heard footsteps. No one was within view whenever she looked around. Irene kept increasing her speed every time this happened, until she broke into a run.

Although it wasn't a long distance to the bus stop, she was out of breath when she arrived. A couple people were seated on the bench, waiting for the bus. They paid her no attention, much to her relief. She spent a fair amount of time looking around, and when a third pedestrian joined, Irene stood apart from him.

Irene sat alone on the bus, committing a grievous sin against bus etiquette. She placed her backpack on the seat next to her. No amount of dirty looks from other passengers could prompt her to move it. Once Irene got off, another of the passengers seemed to follow at a distance. He was impossible to make out, in a bulky dark red winter coat, tuque, and baggy jeans. Irene took an indirect route, but the pursuer always seemed just a few lengths behind. Just make a move already! The tension was distracting Irene; she barely noticed when it began to rain.

Confronted with the patch of street where she had been abducted from before, Irene ran as fast as she could. To her relief, she made it home in one piece, albeit soaking wet. She burst into the foyer, nearly tripping over herself to get inside and slam the door shut.

"Irene, is that you?"

"Yes," Irene struggled to catch her breath, her heart still thumping. "I'm... home!" This statement was as much a communication to her father as it was reassurance to herself. She was home. She was safe.

Irene was about to apologise for her tardiness when she heard voices in the kitchen. She held her tongue and listened.

"It means a lot to me."

"Of course, Carl. I'll do my best."

Upon hearing the other member of the conversation, Irene noticed the vampire's shoes were still by the front door. Since when was Cyrus on a first name basis with Dad? Irene hurriedly hung up her wet coat and walked into the kitchen, pulling away strands of damp hair that clung to her cheeks.

Cyrus and Carl Locklyn sat kitty-corner from each other at the dining table. Her father had a mug in his hand, and Cyrus had a hip flask in his.

"Come warm yourself, kiddo," Carl gestured to her. "The kettle is still warm if you want to make yourself a mug."

Irene eyed the two men warily. She puttered about the kitchen in an attempt to listen to their conversation.

"Well that's all the time I have. Thank you for this little chat. It's been... enlightening." Cyrus said as he brought the flask to his lips and eyed Irene. She frowned as she got the instant hot chocolate mix out of the pantry. Cyrus stood up, reaching across the table and put his hand out. Her father shook it, and the smarmy vampire left.

Irene sat down beside her father, stirring her drink vigorously. "What were you two talking about?" She hoped that it was laying to rest this mission her father had about going to the police. She hoped, but didn't expect it to be so.

"First I'd like to know what kept you so late. Dinner's in the oven already." Her father finished off his drink in one large gulp.

"I was helping a friend with a project."

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Oh? Are you and Merle talking again? Glad to hear it," her father responded amiably as he stood up and walked over to the sink.

"No, not Merle," Irene clarified, although she felt a small pang in her stomach, thinking of the precarious position their relationship was in. Her stirring slowed, her spoon tinkling as it hit the edges of the ceramic mug.

"Oh... Then, is this a new friend?" Mr. Locklyn pulled open the oven door and peeked inside. A savoury smell wafted to Irene, reminding her just how cold and hungry she was. Was I really being followed, or am I just getting paranoid?

"Maybe. More a friendly acquaintance, I guess." Irene licked her spoon, trying to push away the lingering anxiety from her rush home. "He helped me with a project, so I returned the favour. He's nice, though. His name's Joseph."

"Just a little longer," her father muttered as he shut the oven door again. He returned to the table and sat down. "It's not like you to use the word 'friend' lightly."

"I'm too tired to be precise." Irene tossed her spoon into the sink and then dropped herself onto one of the dining room chairs.

"Still, good to see you working with others. I sometimes worry you've become a bit of a loner." Her father leaned back in his chair, resting his hands upon his stomach.

"So what were you and Cyrus talking about?" Irene asked again, trying to change the topic.

"Ah. That..." Carl sat up straight. His hands remained together, his thumbs twiddling. Irene looked down, trying to hide her apprehension. "There's an important business meeting down in Washington. It's a last ditch attempt to pull our company out of the rut it's in."

I knew it! He's leaving again! After his apologies for not being there for me, he's leaving again. Irene sighed, but nodded. "When do you go?"

"In three days," her father relayed. He sprang to his feet just as Irene leaned forward, slamming her hands down.

"Three days?!"

"I think our dinner is ready!" Carl turned away from Irene and opened the oven door.

"Three days?" Irene repeated. "So soon?" She was still frowning when her father returned with a hot chicken pot pie.

"There didn't seem to be a good time to tell you," Mr. Locklyn justified as he slipped off the floral oven gloves, using them to fan some of the steam. The warm, moist air wafted towards Irene, briefly warming her cheeks. "Mmmm would you smell that! Not burnt this time!"

Irene eyed the pie; she wasn't sure what to do with the heavy feelings clamping down on her heart. So she focused on the material matters, such as observing that the pie was awfully large for just two people. "You invited Cyrus for dinner and he turned you down, didn't he?"

"Even the smell of a pie in the oven didn't entice him. Apparently he's also avoiding caffeine, so I couldn't even tempt him with coffee." Carl shrugged as he poked some holes into the pie, channeling streams of rising steam.

"So... what were you discussing?"

"Although he's paying rent, a little help with the chores would go a long way." Irene raised an eyebrow. "And, well, I asked him to look out for you." Mr. Locklyn cut into the pie, carving out a generous portion for himself. "Pity he didn't stick around. But more for us, right?"

"Right..." Irene took the offered knife and cut herself a modest piece, scooping what she could onto her plate as neatly as possible. Which wasn't very neat at all. A mess of crumbled pastry, vegetables and chicken chunks in a brownish gray mound was the result. But it all tasted the same; savoury and warm, although a bit heavy on the sage. Irene continued to focus on the food, trying to push away her dismay. She reached for the pepper to add just a little more bite.

"The trip won't be more than six days, and return tickets are already handled this time," her father added. With the hard part over, Carl tucked into his meal.

Irene poked at her food for a while in dismal silence. "Have you ever thought of just... finding a new job? One that doesn't require so much travel?"

Her father stared at her, gravy dripping from his fork as it hesitated in front of his open mouth. He set the laden utensil down, frowning deeply. "The company is struggling right now; they can't spare me," Mr. Locklyn responded in a measured tone that did not fully conceal his vexation.

"If that were true, then shouldn't they pay you better?" Irene challenged.

"Hey, I want to go back to how we lived before, too. But you still got a roof over your head and plenty to eat!" Carl gestured to the pie to illustrate his point. "You know we can't afford nicer things until I pay off my debts!" Carl grabbed a paper napkin to wipe some gravy from his chin, although he seemed to just smear it around worse as he lacked accuracy and delicacy in his present state of agitation.

"It's not about the money, it's about how well they treat you," Irene grumbled, offended that her father thought her concerns were purely material.

"Now, now, kiddo. They came through for us when Monica got sick, giving me the time I needed to take care of her. Most companies would have let me go." Carl threw down the soiled napkin. "Looking back, I can't believe that I fell for that trial treatment scam..."

"And what about me? What about giving you the time to take care of me?" Tears welled up in Irene's eyes. She frantically tore a paper towel off of the roll.

"Irene, honey. Things are different now. The company's too small and specialized to thrive against book giants like Barnes & Noble or Amazon. If they could spare me this trip, they would. As it is... we're likely going to be bought out, and as much as I hate the idea of a US company bailing us, we're against a rock and a hard place." Carl stabbed a chunk of chicken very decisively as he spoke. He then looked up again at Irene who was sullenly taking a small mouthful of her meal, trying very hard not to continue showing any emotion. "Aw... I know... it's been hard."

"It is hard." Irene's shoulders raised then drooped with a large sigh. "I feel like everyone is abandoning me. And I know that isn't rational. But it's how I feel."

"Abandoning you? I do this for you! I feel so bad I spent your college fund trying to make Monica better... I'm trying to make up for it."

"I can get a scholarship." Irene glared down at her plate. There was no sense in going round for round with her father. "You know what? Nevermind. It's only six days, then you'll be back."

"I noticed you haven't quite been yourself, kiddo. Want to tell me what's up?" her father asked, not taking the hint.

Irene shrugged. "Jordan and I had a fight. We nearly broke up."

"Aw, Irene. So that's what's been eating at you. It's not easy being in love, whether you're young or old," her father reflected out loud. He used the pretense of chewing another mouthful to give himself time to think. Irene deployed a similar tactic, and both ate in thoughtful silence.

"Thanks for supper Dad. I'm full." Irene pushed her messy plate away from herself.

"You're welcome," her father muttered. Irene stood up, cleared away her own dishes, and went to her room.

Irene laid in bed, Silver loyally curled up on her chest, purring. At least she had her cat. I'd waited so long for Dad to come home... but he didn't fix anything. And now he's leaving. She stroked the silky soft fur of her petite cat, enjoying the rumbling from one chest to another. Maybe it's better this way. If he's gone, then he's not in trouble. But where does that leave me?

Irene gently lifted Silver so she could roll over onto her side, placing her ally on the pillow beside her. And from there she drifted to sleep, to the sound of purring and rain pounding.

Slumber, however, did not last long. Irene's restless dreams were disturbed by a shrill cacophony. She jolted awake, her heart racing and thoughts disorganized. It took a while for her to identify the horrific shrieking noise, and then for her eyes to go to the source.

Silver stood at the foot of her bed, back arched. She let out another ferocious scream that ended in a growl. Irene looked to her bedroom door first, expecting Cyrus to have somehow got past her wards. Her door was ajar but he was nowhere to be found.

Silver's arched back retained its hump as she crouched low, ears pinned against her skull. Her tail swatted side to side as she let out a sound between a growl and a whimper. Irene looked at the window, but it offered no immediate clues. The drawn curtains blocked her view. The distant sound of a car could be heard, its powerful high beams briefly illuminating the spot outside her window as it passed by. It was then she saw a vague silhouette, and just as the light faded, it darted away.

Irene picked up Silver, who squirmed and shoved her head into her master's armpit. The addled teenager held her pet close and stroked the ruffled fur.

"Good girl... good girl," Irene cooed softly. She strained to listen for sounds of a break in. No rattling doorknobs, no clamouring footsteps, no rapping at the windows. All was still and silent.

Silver only screams like that at Cyrus, or at tom cats. And that was not a cat.

Bracing herself, Irene stepped out of her room. Her heart pounded in her ears as she looked into the dark hallway. No one there. Two more steps and movement caught her eye. She gasped and hugged Silver even tighter, causing the cat to squeak in protest. This in turn caused an equally startled response. At the other end of the hall stood Mr. Locklyn, his hand to his chest.

"You startled me. What are you doing up, Dad?"

"What do you expect with your cat making that racket? She could wake the dead," her father grumbled. Irene pet her cat defiantly, bringing the dainty tabby's head close to her lips.

"Something outside must have scared her."

"Well hopefully it's gone and her highness will let us all get back to sleep. If you'll excuse me," Carl said tiredly, gesturing to the bathroom door. She stepped to the side of the hallway and let her father pass. Silver grew impatient and wriggled in Irene's grasp until she was released. Once free, she nonchalantly sauntered away.

Irene got herself a drink of water. Her heart had mostly calmed down, but she was still feeling some lingering anxiety. She remained in the kitchen, listening for the sound of her father's bedroom door. Once he was back in his room, Irene checked the front door and all the windows to make sure they were closed and locked. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, she returned to her room and tried to get back to sleep.

Slumber, however, continued to be elusive and intermittent. Often she awoke, looked at the clock, then rolled over and tried again to get some sleep. This continue until the resounding thud of the front door roused her. She stumbled out of bed and tiptoed to her bedroom door. Footsteps and the jingling metal, likely of keys, reached her strained ears. Probably just Cyrus.

Irene shuffled out, intent on catching him before he went down to the basement.

"You're up early, even for you," Cyrus remarked when she stepped into the kitchen. It was dark, and she could barely see him. Due to his dark clothes he just seemed to be a floating face and pair of hands.

"Cyrus. I think another vampire has been here," Irene whispered. She could not see his expression in the darkness, which was probably for the best.

There was a pause before Cyrus asked, "what makes you think that?"

"Silver was fussing and woke me up. Then I saw a silhouette briefly outside my bedroom window."

"A vampire outside your bedroom window? Oh my! Well, I guess I'd better go take a look-see," Cyrus responded, sounding like a parent humouring a fanciful child. Irene frowned as she felt around for the back of a chair. Cyrus left, and she waited. Was it just my imagination?

The front door sounded again, followed by the clunk of the deadbolt. Irene looked up attentively when Cyrus returned.

"Well, I did see some footprints in the mud out there. Could have been a vampire... or a peeping tom. Silver hates toms, right?"

"Wrong kind of tom."

Cyrus snickered quietly.

"This is serious!" Vindication at being right was no analgesic to the danger this news presented.

"It sure is. But as you know, I rarely am," Cyrus responded coolly as he walked over and placed his hands on the back of her chair. "I'll stick close the next few nights. And you - no more staying out late."

"Fine."

"Good. I've kept you alive this long. I'd hate to lose my investment now." There was a creaking noise as Cyrus released her chair and stepped away. "Get some rest, Peaches."

Irene muttered some sort of sound of acknowledgement, but she wasn't quite sure it counted as a word in any known language. Cyrus went to the basement, and she went to her sanctuary to salvage the rest of the morning.