It all kept sliding through her fingers, figuratively and literally. Irene glared at her bandaged hand and knelt down, picking up cards and papers that littered the floor with her left hand this time. Pause. Hand trembling, the amputee stared at a faded greeting card, a confused mess of feelings flooding her at the vivid memory it evoked.
“The boys have an uneven amount of players. Anyone want to join them?"
A gaggle of middle school girls stared like a deer caught in headlights, while others scoffed as they continued their warm up stretches.
Irene, then fourteen years old, immediately raised her hand. She would do anything to escape the pack of piranhas in her P.E. class.
Some girls snickered, others sneered, but no one else raised their hand. "Go on Baby Baldilocks! You look like a boy, might as well play with them!" Irene tried to ignore the remarks. She was proud of shaving her head in solidarity with her sister. But drawing attention to it just reminded her that Monica was gone.
"That's enough!" The instructor snapped. She then beckoned with her hand. "Alright, come along."
As they entered the gymnasium, the instructor and female student's reception was riddled with groans and grumbles.
"Listen up. Irene will be playing with you, and I expect you to treat her with respect," the boys' gym instructor said gruffly. Irene was led to the team she was playing with, not giving any eye contact to those who glared at her.
"Awe... why do we have to have HER?"
Another boy elbowed his friend and snickered. "Bet she'll be crying before the bell rings."
Irene remained quiet as she grabbed an old wooden hockey stick with a bright orange, plastic blade. It was slightly bent from overuse by enthusiastic and unskilled students. However, that was all that was left. The goalies got geared up and everyone got into their positions, waiting for the teacher to drop the plastic ball into the center of the gym.
With a soft clap and a bounce, the game began. Irene's teammates managed to slap it away from the opposition. She hung back near the net, watching the other players closely. The ball exchanged between the teams a few times before her team got the first goal. Cries of victory and dismay rang out.
During the next play, the ball came pelting towards the poorly guarded net and Irene lunged after it, gracelessly extending her stick. It bumped her warped blade. Just as she was about to shoot her query to the other end of the gym, one of her opponents had reached her. Grinning maliciously, he swung his stick hard at hers, catching the ball between their sticks. Slip! Up the shaft went his blade, slapping her fingers. It stung! She let go with a hiss.
"Why don't you just stay on the sidelines?" the boy taunted.
Irene curled her lips in and resolutely picked up the hockey stick again. She glanced around for the teacher. He stood at the other end of the gym, having a quick chat with the custodian. She knew it wasn't an accident, but had no grounds to prove it. While she recomposed herself, there was a holler. Her goalie moodily grabbed the ball out of their net.
"You're doing good!" called the Phys. Ed. teacher, returning from his brief conversation.
Knuckle slaps, shoves, and hooking were all deployed against the girl who dared cross the line. Each time she held firm to her stick, and did not leave her post as defense. The physical pain was still preferable to the emotional pain she was trying to avoid.
These boys played for glory and hadn't learned strategy. They hounded that ball like a pack of dogs, and left their goalie unprotected. Irene stayed back and observed them, trying to figure out her next move.
Within the last quarter of the block, a blonde boy with the critical slapshot had broken free from the swarm and was nearing the net. He gripped his hockey stick and swung it back. There was a loud snap as the blade of his stick slammed into the plastic ball, sending it through the air. Irene launched into its path. A hot sting and even deeper, robust pain attacked her thigh. A series of groans followed, but among them was not hers. She bit her lip and stared into the astounded eyes of the boy whose shot she blocked. With the room stunned, she took the opportunity to whip the ball back towards the other side of the gym. It rolled and skipped along, until the whole gym burst back into activity.
Irene remained standing, although shifting the brunt of her weight away from her sore leg. She endeavoured to hide the pain for the rest of the game, although she could feel the spot on her thigh swelling.
Finally the whistle sounded, and their instructor told them to put away the equipment and go change. Irene sighed with relief. The team she was on lost by two goals, but that didn't matter; her goal wasn't to win, it was to survive. As she carried her stick over to the large plastic barrel they were kept in, she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat beside her.
"Excuse me..." the boy who had been the source of the welt in her thigh stood there, putting his own stick away.
"Yes?"
"I, uh, sorry about your leg. Didn't mean to hit you, most people just move out of the way," he shrugged as he glanced off to the side.
Irene gave a faint nod as she dumped her stick into the bin. "Of course you weren't trying to hit me. I ran in front of it.," Irene said with some irritation seeping into her voice. Her thigh was really hurting, and all she wanted at the moment was some ice.
"It must really hurt... um... oh... by the way, my name's Jordan," he introduced, wiping his hand on his shirt before extending it out to her. Shestared at his hand for a moment, and then took it, giving it one curt shake.
"Irene."
"You know, I'm really impressed how you handled yourself. You're pretty tough for a girl... I mean... not that girls aren't tough, I just..." Jordan shoved his hands into his pockets.
Irene nodded impatiently until his words actually sunk in. "Oh. Uh. Thank you." She offered a brief, somewhat awkward smile. "I need to get changed." Her eyes flicked towards the clock on the wall, then back at him. He nodded and glanced at the doorway. She turned and headed across the gym, and Jordan followed her.
"Well, um, would you like to sit with me at lunch?" he asked. Irene sighed as she briskly walked towards the change rooms.
"I suppose." Irene entered the girl's change room, leaving Jordan standing there dumbly.
Irene sat on the floor, re-reading a card Jordan had sent her. She was wary of him at first, merely humouring him as a form of distraction. She was not her best self in middle school, but getting to know him made her a little more hopeful. Life did not become easier by any account, but it did become more bearable. With a sigh, she placed the card back into her drawer.
"What... what am I going to do?" Irene asked out loud, her stomach flopping as she looked at her bandaged hand again.
Irene padded barefoot to the bathroom. She hesitantly untied the ends of the bandages and slowly unravelled them. A tickling sensation came into her gut as the bandages reached the end. Finally, she tore the rest of it off, and prepared herself for the horrible sight. Instead, she just saw a fleshy knob. No matter which angle she looked at it, the site of the amputation was healed over.
Cyrus must have done this, but when?
Irene caught sight of herself in the mirror. She realized, with a bit of dismay, she looked a few years older. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her entire face was looking much more gaunt. Her hair, greasy and matted, hung limply on her head, sticking to itself in a mess of tangles, and her complexion wasn't as consistent as it used to be. Her face wasn't the only sign of worry; she held up her bony hands for inspection. The veins were beginning to show. Irene raked her teeth over her chapped lips.
I should shower; that might perk me up a bit.
After a soothing hot shower, Irene stood in front of the steamy mirror, combing through her squeaky clean hair. She took a dry cloth and wiped the mirror in a circular motion. From the fog appeared a vignette of her reflection. The warm water brought some colour back into her face, but otherwise, she still looked haggard.
When Irene returned to her room, she heard voices. She froze up outside the door, and slowly leaned closer, putting her ear against the wood. After listening, she flushed with embarrassment. It was just her alarm clock radio going off. She stepped into her room and got changed, listening to the radio finish up with the weather report.
"Thank you, Tom, for that report. Good to know the sun will be shining, especially in such dark times. The ongoing investigation of a missing girl in her late teens continues," the anchor said. Irene paused tucking in her shirt and glanced over at the radio. "...the only trace found of her was a single finger discovered in the basement of an old warehouse in the industrial district. Irene Locklyn has been missing since the report of her and-"
"Merle!" Irene turned up the volume.
"-Merle Crowe were reported kidnapped outside of the local Vice Cream when a man grabbed both of them at gunpoint. Miss Crowe has since been recovered..."
"Thank god!"
"...but no further details about her condition have been released. The suspect has not been apprehended and is presumed still at large. If anyone has any leads at all, please contact the local police department. There is an anonymous hotline that can be called to leave a tip." The radio then began to describe the suspect and the car he was driving.
Irene turned off the radio. Merle's alive! But how did she get away? Did Matthew blunder and she managed to run off? Without me?
For a moment Irene was feeling betrayed. But then she reminded herself, despite the tight feeling in her chest, that she also abandoned Merle. Neither girl would have been able to save the other. What matters is that she got away. But what if she blabs about vampires? I need to tell her not to!
The receiver was in her hand, her fingers hitting each key rapidly. Irene paced on a short leash, looping the phone cord over and under to allow her some movement. Pick up, pick up! She drew in a breath when she heard a click, a warning hot on her lips.
"Hello!"
"Is Merle th-."
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
"You've reached the Crowe residence. No one's available, so please leave a message including your name and phone number, and I'll try to get back to you."
Slam.
Disappointment rampaged through Irene's tight chest, and she felt as if she might choke. She took in some deep breaths and after a few seconds, picked up the phone again, finger hovering over redial. Her grip on the receiver faltered and it tumbled out of her hand. She stared at where her finger used to be.
How do I explain my finger? Damn it, Cyrus! Even when you save me you make things difficult.
The moment she contacted anyone, chances are, the authorities would be alerted. And they would examine her. They'd have questions.
Irene considered her options. She could immediately contact the police and show that she was fine, and tell them what happened without mention of vampires and let them draw their own conclusions. Would they force me to do a bunch of tests to figure out how I healed so fast? Or would they think the finger is somehow fake?
The radio broadcast replayed in her mind. She was certain they mentioned the finger. Maybe if I hide out until it could have healed, then go to the authorities I can avoid that fiasco. But how will I do that, and how will I protect myself? Cyrus saved me both times, but I don't want to rely on him. She sighed and sat down at her kitchen table, rubbing her temples.
I should just leave and never look back. Cyrus can't follow me everywhere. Nor can Gabriel. But what would that do to my father, to lose both of his daughters? And me unable to give him a good enough explanation? Irene stood up abruptly, nearly knocking her chair back. She stormed over to the living room and flopped down on her father's easy chair. Sweat, aftershave, and pleather combined into a familiar and comforting aroma that she normally found offensive. She reclined, putting her feet out on the footrest, wiggling them in agitation.
I guess I should just go to the police, admit there are vampires. So what if they send me to be evaluated? I don't care anymore. A psych ward is probably safer than anywhere else. But... what if Gabriel has people working for him on the inside? If I were a vampire trying to stay under the radar, I'd definitely make sure I had politicians and officers in my pocket. And I doubt I'm craftier than Gabriel. Irene slid further down in the chair, her arms hanging over the armrests. So that brings me back to just running away. Guess I'll need to dip into Dad's emergency fund.
With a slow creak and a bang, Irene forced open her father's stubborn sock drawer. Like most of their possessions, his dresser was old and in disrepair, but he hadn't the skills to fix it nor the money to replace it, so he made due. It didn't take long to find the envelope filled with green and purple bills. Quickly counting it, her face fell. There was no more than $100 there. People have started a new life with less, but Irene had no idea how they did it.
Irene continued to pace in her father's room like a restless tiger in a cage. Her thoughts were running over scenarios, calculations, and budgets. No matter how she tried to look at it, though, she wasn't confident she could manage. If only she had just a little more money to start.
Cyrus always has cash on him.
Irene slowly turned towards the door, staring out into the hallway. Unease spread its tendrils through her gut. She hated Cyrus, and hated his help. But he might be able to provide her with what she needed to get away, although she imagined it would require some trickery on her part.
Wait. Cyrus has been living without papers. He must know how to get around without ID and a credit card.
Irene drew in a large breath. Perhaps, as much as she hated the idea, she really should ask Cyrus for his advice. She wouldn't have to explain the situation to him since he was the situation. His attitudes and perspective appalled her, but he had a few lifetimes of experience.
Irene stood hesitantly at the door that led into the basement. Every time she had a conversation with Cyrus, she usually left it feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted. She took a deep breath and braced herself.
Cyrus lay sprawled across the basement bed, sleeping. His pale complexion was even more jarring seeing the white skin flow along his entire torso. There were bruises and lacerations from the vicious fight, curiously unhealed. Even marred by battle, his sculpted body brought to mind an image of Grecian statues. He certainly was as still as a statue.
Irene turned away, changing her mind. Just as she took the first step back up, she heard the springs in the old mattress creak.
“How are you feeling…?”
Irene turned and stared dumbly at him. There was no sly remark, no teasing, and no facetiousness to his tone. The inquiry actually sounded sincere. “I…” She had trained herself to always tell people she was fine, but she knew there was no point in lying to him. She glanced down at where her finger had been. She was not fine. She coughed. “I know it will take some getting used to."
Cyrus’s eyes swept over to her hand, and then glided up to her face again. “You’re resilient. I’m sure it will soon feel normal.” The shirtless vampire sat up, swinging his legs over the bed, and rested his bare elbows on his knees. “Good to see you up and about. I was worried you’d go into another long sulking period.”
“Don’t start."
Cyrus raised his fine black eyebrows at her and gave a short chuckle. “So what can I do for you today?” He tilted his head to the side, a smirk climbing lazily up his right cheek.
“First, I’d like to thank you for getting me home,” Irene said through gritted teeth. Once it was out, she felt a bit of relief sooth her burning chest.
Cyrus seemed to enjoy her forced gratitude, and his smile broadened while his eyes narrowed. “You’re welcome. Surely now you'll acknowledge that I'm the only one who can save you from the other vampires, right?” Words tumbled over her, and that small bit of gratitude she felt began to drown amidst it all.
Spite thoughts rose sharply in Irene's mind, begging her to storm off. However, she feared that her pride in this was misplaced. Taking in another deep breath, she let it out slowly, trying to calm her nerves. She could feel her discontent heart thumping against her ribs.
"We'll see about that." Irene crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at Cyrus. "Moving along. Second, I want to know just how you get along without ID or a job or any of that."
Cyrus cleared his throat as what Irene assumed was a form of expression rather than an actual obstruction in his airway. "Odd question to be asking after all this time." He shrugged his shoulders and twiddled his thumbs. "I have plenty of identification. It's all fake, of course."
"But when we first met you said..."
"Ho ho ho!" The diminutive vampire slapped his thigh, staring up at Irene with that irritating twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You keep calling me a liar, and that is the one thing I said that you believed?"
Irene ran a hand through her hair, which was still a bit damp. The conversation had just begun, and she was already feeling the internal abrasion of vexation. But she was not only annoyed with him at the moment, but with herself for her own blind spot. "Well this was a waste of time." She pivoted on her heel to leave.
"Now hang on! If you need papers, I can arrange that."
With her hand on the doorframe, Irene hesitated. She really didn't want to owe him any favours, and it sounded like this would be a prelude to a deal with the devil. She looked over her shoulder at him and his attentive face. Were he a cat, she could imagine his ears perked forward. His keen interest in the topic removed any doubt of seeking forged identification for herself, complete with adding a few years to her age. "No, thank you. I'd rather stay on the right side of the law." It was tempting, though.
"Your loss," he said with a shrug. He leaned back, slightly slouched.
But now she was down there, other questions popped into her mind. She played with the door handle, then stepped back into the room.
"How far does Gabriel's influence extend?"
"Mostly just this city, though he has some contacts in Vancouver and throughout the Fraser Valley. Informants more than lackeys." Cyrus tilted his head. "Why?"
Irene walked over to the washing machine and leaned against it. "What if I just left? Would he really bother to chase me?" She closely watched Cyrus's reaction. There was a twitch by his eyebrows, almost a flinch and a brief thinning of his lips, but he quickly shielded it all with a bland smile.
"Ah. So that's what you want fake identification for?"
"I said I didn't," she crisply reminded him.
He ignored her and continued. "Even with the ID you'd need some capital. Otherwise you'll be floating around hostels and working the streets. That'd destroy your father." Cyrus touched his earring again. "I wouldn't be so quick to burn those bridges just yet, Peaches."
"I won't be burning any bridges. When I feel it's safe to return, I'm sure my father will just be relieved that I'm okay." Irene crossed her arms, tapping her upper arm. Like he really cares about my father.
Cyrus laughed darkly, his smile becoming grim. "Naive again. Proud as you are, I'm not sure you'd want your father to see you again after the streets have their way with you."
"As opposed to after Gabriel has his way with me?" Irene challenged. "Or you, for that matter?"
"Touché." Cyrus carefully scratched around an abrasion on his shoulder. "Well, what are you waiting for? Prove me wrong. Leave. Hide yourself, and break the hearts of your loved ones, then see how quickly they forgive you. It's no skin off my back."
Irene narrowed her eyes. She expected Cyrus to continue saying how she needed him. The change in his tune left her off balance. "Well what would you do if you were in my shoes?"
Cyrus looked up and laughed. "I wouldn't fit in your shoes, Peaches." Irene huffed. "Look. I'm an immortal who has been alive for several hundred years. I live off of human blood. And, on top of all that, I'm a man. I honestly cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be a young twenty-first century mortal female caught in a feud between vampires. So what I would do in your place isn't going to help."
"Humour me."
Cyrus laid on his back and placed his hands on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling. "Alright. Why not? So, I must imagine that I have family and friends and an overbearing sense of responsibility and self-righteousness."
Irene bit her lip, doing her best not to butt in with an objection of his description of her. Instead she just slid down to the ground, sitting with her hands folded in her lap and her back against the washing machine.
"One vampire keeps making unwanted advances and has bitten me on occasion, and for some unfathomable reason won't leave me alone. Another has kidnapped and mutilated me, murdered my peers, and has hurt my friend. I want to get somewhere safe away from vampires, although chances are there will be some anywhere I go. Do I have this part accurately assessed?"
"More or less."
"I'm not world savvy, have no work experience, and I am guessing limited funds. No credit card. No photo ID. Do you even have a bank account?"
"I at least have that." She'd be damned before she'd tell him how much was in it, though.
"Okay. Probably have some cash from Daddy dearest, who I will be cruelly leaving behind." Cyrus twiddled his thumb and brought up one knee.
Irene reached up as high as she could, keeping her back straight against the washer, then let her hands fall to her sides. It just wasn't giving her the relief it normally did. Her heart was still feeling irregular and liable to burst into more palpitations. It was tiring being anxious all of the time; tiring and unfamiliar. She was never like this before. "Yeah, some."
"Welp. Knowing that I can't beat either vampire, and that fleeing is pointless since I'd be haunted by vampires everywhere I went, I'd try and decide who to ingratiate myself to. Probably the one that didn't cut off my finger. You know, the dark handsome one."
Irene scoffed and shook her head. "I'm asking a serious question here."
"You asked what I would do, Peaches, and sucking up is definitely it. Only for as long until I felt I could gain the upper hand, or until I get sick of it." Cyrus examined his fingernails, idly picking some dried blood out from under them. "But I suppose you start there - too disgusted."
"You're right. I can't do that. It goes against everything that I am." Cold metal braced her back. The chill reminded her of the cold, hard realities she was trying to navigate.
"Well, you're the one who wanted me to humour you. Like I said, I'm not you, so my advice is useless. The only other thing I would do is find a way to murder everyone who has hurt me so they could never do it again." Cyrus straightened up. "Which is precisely why I'm not going to tell you how to do that."
"All I need to do is lock you out and let the sun burn you to a crisp," Irene grumbled.
"Ah, yes, well, there is that one thing you could try to do. But you'd need to immobilise me." Cyrus rolled back his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Well, if that's all, I would like to get some more sleep."
Irene narrowed her eyes. Usually he was trying to keep her close and barring her exit. The shift in focus made her suspicious. She remembered Gabriel mentioning that Cyrus would tire of his 'seduction games' and become violent. There was no violence here, just apathy. Still, it was an anomaly, which sufficiently worried her. "Ah... sorry for disturbing you." Her tone was not at all polite or apologetic.
The mercurial vampire laid down and rolled to face the wall. "Flick the light off before you go, if you please."