Irene stood on her shoddy, wooden porch in the evening shadows. Cyrus was either in there, or out hunting. Upon entering, her eyes instantly went to the basement stairs. Her laundry needed to get done, but she did not want to go down there.

A long sigh escaped Irene's lips and squared her shoulders. Balancing a basket on her hip, she entered the basement. He could probably hear her, and waited with that horrible smug smile of his. But all she found at the bottom of the stairs was darkness. The rough texture of the stucco wall met her finger tips as she felt around for the light switch.

Click.

The bed was empty. Her eyes darted to all the dark, shadowy corners of the room. None of them offered a shape or form that could possibly be his. She sighed again, this time in relief. Where could he be? Never mind, I don't want to think about it.

Irene set down the basket by the washing machine and began to sort out the whites from the coloured clothes as quickly as she could. Irene tossed a bra into the white pile, her skin crawling at the idea of him coming back and seeing her underwear.

On her second load, Irene heard the door open and shut upstairs. She leaned forward in her seat and put down her book, watching the door intensely. Rattling of the washing machine, thump of her heart, and the creak and hollow knock of footsteps drawing closer all paraded around her ears.

Into the room Cyrus strode, dressed in clean, untattered clothes. His eyes were aflame not with rage, but rather the dying licks of adrenaline. His face had faint hues of colour, and his very presence was lively and vivid. Although she still thought of him as rodent-like, she could not deny that he cleaned up well.

Cyrus's eyes lit up when they connected with her own. “There you are.” His face was plastered with a detestable smirk. “I was beginning to worry that you had run off somewhere.” His eyes shifted to the bras that were hanging to dry. Immediately, Irene strode right up to Cyrus and sharply struck him across the face. Cyrus instantly grabbed her wrist with one hand, putting the other to his cheek.

“You should take more care not to slap me. It doesn't hurt, but it is demeaning,” Cyrus pulled Irene closer, removing his other hand from his cheek to place it on hers.

Irene wanted to pull away, but there was something drawing her in, paralyzing her. She wanted to feel angry and afraid, but something was interfering, stirring up a foreign sense of excitement. It was only a brief moment, before the flames of her anger engulfed it. She still didn't have the strength to try and escape him, but her face finally managed a glare.

“Stop it!” Irene demanded. Although her better senses told her to rein in her anger, Cyrus brought out such primal rage she had no defenses against.

“Ever heard that saying, 'if you can't beat them, join them'? I think it'd apply beautifully here. You could become my companion. My comrade. My partner in crime.” Cyrus stroked her cheek and Irene turned her face away.

“I will NOT be your anything, you filthy beast!” Irene declared.

A rupture of his smooth, masculine voice tumbled out of his mouth in a chuckle. Again, she tried to pull away, but it was no use as her stockinged feet just slipped along the floor. "Am not! I showered quite recently, I'll have you know."

“Let go of me, Cyrus!” Irene demanded.

The amusement in Cyrus’s voice intensified. “Ah, so you finally called me by name. I’m flattered,” he cooed and patted Irene upon her head. Finally, he let go of her wrist. She scrambled away from the vampire, lest he’d try to grab her again.

“You’d be flattered if I spat on you, wouldn’t you?” Irene sputtered, continuing to back away. Bump. Irene gasped, keyed up to run, but then sighed when she felt and heard the rhythmic thumping of the washing machine behind her.

Cyrus placed his hand on his hip. “No, no, not really. Just confused," he responded after a moment's reflection. His smirk lessened, but a whisper of amusement lingered on his lips. “Okay you don't want to be my equal, I guess you'll be a pet. You're more like a puppy anyway. A very up-tight, cranky, independent… second thought, you're more like a pussycat.”

Irene gawked. Before she could find coherent words to object, Cyrus continued. "I'm looking for a, oh what's that fancy term, ah yes, symbiotic relationship. You give me shelter and a little amusement on the side, and I can offer protection and a wide variety of interesting services. Don't suppose you have any stalker ex-boyfriends you want dealt with?"

Irene shook her head.

"Teachers you want leaned on?"

Mortified, she shook her head with greater vehemence.

"Bullies exterminated? Gossips silenced?"

"No." She crossed her arms.

"Rich uncles expired?"

"NO!" she answered with increased exasperation, throwing her arms in the air.

"Oh well. Lastly, to level with you on YOUR terminology, I guess in a way I am a beast. I'm no threat to you unless YOU provoke me first. Or if I'm starving. I don't plan on starving, so you should be fine," Cyrus's words lapped over each other. Irene studied him warily from a distance.

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Irene took a moment to digest his proposal before responding. "I won't accept anything you would offer, especially amusement on the side. You're probably after the same thing most other men are!" Irene accused bitterly. Quickly she chastised herself. She had tried very hard not to make such general statements.

"Most other men? Are you telling me you've met a man whose mind isn't always preoccupied with copulating?" the dramatic vampire asked, feigning an expression of shock and awe.

"Cop…copulating?"

"It means to have sex."

"I know what it means!" Irene snapped. "I just didn't expect such a big word from someone as vulgar as you."

"I can't be vulgar and know big words? Tsk," Cyrus responded with a fake hint of hurt in his voice. "Besides, I find your statements very sexist."

"What?" Irene cleared her throat noisily. "I don't think all men are that way. I have a boyfriend and he's very respectful!"

"Ooooh, a respectful boyfriend. How cute. I had a woman who respected me too! The way she used to call me master… ah yes just the sort of respect that lacks in this day and age." Wistful and prolonged, a sigh escaped the him as he slipped into reverie.

“Had a woman? How much did she cost?” Irene was grasping at anything to throw back at her verbal spar partner. She was emboldened by this strange high she was getting from letting her anger loose. The fact that it would take little effort on his part to kill her seemed to have faded from her mind. But regret was already mounting, reminding her of the danger of her situation. She watched him guardedly, bracing herself.

“About eighty guineas, but that isn't the point,” Cyrus responded, brushing his hand in the air with a wave of dismissal. No physical reprisal came. Irene wondered just how far she could push her boundaries. She wanted to discover a button she could press to make him feel threatened or disconcerted, and take back control.

"You don't feel any shame, do you? Or is that just how you cover up the loneliness? It must be hard, living so long among people who live such short lives," she stated, looking for a new angle to work.

“Oh come now! I'm a heartless bastard; who cares if I'm lonely and embittered by the death of every morsel of meat I toy with?”

Irene did not let her intense stare fall. “You are evading."

Cyrus shook his head and wandered on over to the bed. The mattress springs protested as he fell onto it. “What is this, an interview?" He fluffed his pillow. "I'll answer your personal questions only if you answer mine.” He donned a broad grin, complete with waggling eyebrows. "I know I am dying to learn about this supposedly respectful boy-toy."

“Forget it." Irene scratched the back of her neck, trying not to let his smug countenance get to her. “You have already prodded into my life far enough, so it would only be fair that you be prepared to take a little prodding yourself.”

“Quaint. I, of course, decide what is fair and what is not. I'll share whenever I feel like it,” Cyrus said coolly, stretching out on the bed. He let one leg hang over the edge and rested his hands languidly on his stomach. "So. Boyfriend. Broody poet, excitable geek, or strapping jock? Hmm probably not that latter since you mentioned respect."

"Now who is making assumptions?" Irene countered.

"Touché."

"Besides, what interest would a vampire have in my personal life?”

Cyrus shrugged, but for a change, didn't respond. Instead, he stretched out and made himself comfortable. Is he bored already? Whatever. So long as he keeps his hands to himself I don't care. Irene glanced over at her laundry. She either needed to finish it now, or put the rest of it away and do it later. She walked over to the baskets, feeling his dark eyes trace her every movement. Irene self-consciously pulled down her shirt that was starting to ride up. She glared over her shoulder at Cyrus. Look at him, lying there like he belongs. Such a man child... it's hard to believe he's dangerous. She was uncertain how to handle his mercurial and contrary mannerisms, much less how to reconcile the reality of a vampire into her view of the world.

“You know, Irene, being a vampire isn’t so bad…” Cyrus mused out loud in a casual tone as though he were discussing the weather.

“And where exactly do you intend go with this conversation?” Irene asked, her voice going a little higher than she would have liked.

The man-child vampire tilted his head to the side thoughtfully, and then proceeded to shrug his shoulders. “You seem to have so many distorted ideas about vampires despite my efforts to properly educate you."

Irene sighed and turned back to her laundry, transferring what was left in the washer into the dryer, and gathering the rest up to take upstairs. “Right. An education on vampires is really going to rocket my future career."

Cyrus laced his fingers together and rested his chin upon the nest of woven flesh. “Maybe not your future career, but it will definitely help in your chances of living to see the future,” he muttered.

She paused right before the door, the laundry basket held in one hand and balanced on her hip. “NOW what are you implying?”

“Just by knowing we exist, you'll attract the attention of other vampires. Well, most. Some vampires really are just goof-offs.”

“Goof-offs? Such as yourself?”

“Come now, you have only met me. You have no frame of reference, darling." He gesticulated with flamboyant flair. "I am serious, however. It’s just a sense one gets. Most mortals that knowingly encounter a vampire have physiological reactions, and well, being drinkers of blood, we thrive on feeling these sorts of reactions."

“Why are you telling me this?” Irene asked warily.

“For your own safety. It took me great pains not to finish you off, and I would hate it if you ended up as another vampire's meal after I made such a dire sacrifice." Cyrus smirked, but then his tone took on uncharacteristic seriousness. "Most vampires detest mortals seeing through their façade, and they will bring you harm. I just thought you should know.”

Irene drew in a large breath, almost choking on the tense air. Finally she opened the door with her free hand. She had nothing more to say, but a lot to consider.