She approached warily, halting about two paces from him, and knelt at his side. The sunlight touched her, but she did not burn. Human. His relief was palpable. He did not want to be food for the creatures he’d once ruled over.

“I’m here to help you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Cyrus looked her over in disdain. He couldn’t stand soft-spoken women. They held no interest for him, and he considered anything that didn’t amuse him extraneous. He reached a shaking hand to push her hair from her face, and touched the dark bruise marring her eye. “I see you don’t listen well.”

Her hands clenched to angry fists, earning his respect for a moment. Then she flinched and destroyed the illusion of courage. This wasn’t the first black eye she’d received, he knew.

“Hang on to me,” she whispered, helping him to his feet. “They said you wouldn’t be able to walk.”

How humiliating. He’d been deadly and powerful. Now, he was human. The vampires lurking in the shadows knew it. Though they kept their distance, their eagerness was palpable. He knew what he would feel in their place. Desire, curiosity. Not many vampires returned from the dead that he was aware of. That fact alone made him a delicacy.

One of the vampires snarled. Cyrus heard the jingle of chains as the creature approached, and he tensed. At his side, the girl quivered and shrieked. If he could have stood on his own, he would have thrown her to them.

“He’s not to be harmed!” another vampire commanded, and the one advancing backed down.

“Where am I?” Cyrus asked, hating himself for relying on this girl.

“St. Anne’s,” she whispered. “A church.”

“I gathered that. There are so few St. Anne’s car washes these days.” The door scraped open, and he gagged at the stench of death he used to revel in. He looked past the line of gleaming chrome motorcycles parked in the church vestibule, his eyes struggling to focus amid so much detail.

“They said they were going to bury them after the sun went down,” the girl said quietly. “They never did.”

Cyrus squinted at the tangled forms of two bodies on the carpet. One was dressed in black with a cleric’s collar. The other was a woman with white hair, her button-down blouse and matronly cardigan slashed open to reveal the wrinkled skin of her chest. Her skirt tangled around her thighs, showing the tops of her knee-high stockings.

“Father Bart and Sister Helen,” the girl whispered tearfully. “They—”

“I know what they did to her.” He turned his head and reached for the wall for support. “Cover her up.”

Hello, conscience. We meet again.