As night drew closer, Cyrus found himself enjoying Mouse’s company. She’d made them as decent a lunch as they could manage, though that wasn’t saying much. Still, he’d appreciated her effort.

She’d been good company, too. He’d thought it detrimental that she’d stopped fearing him, but now he found her chatter an excellent way to pass the time. She still grew emotional, and that was a bother, but he trusted that would pass eventually. They’d spoken of it over their lunch. She’d told him of her family, or lack thereof. She was an orphan. Her parents had both died; she didn’t give a reason. There was a sister, but she’d moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career, and ended up seduced by the easy money to be found in pornographic films. The last Mouse had heard, her sister had escaped from a court-ordered stay at a rehabilitation facility for some kind of drug addiction.

After that, Mouse’s only family had been the church. Cyrus had made a face at that, and she’d taken deep offense. Her faith had sustained her this long, she’d admonished, and she wouldn’t be mocked for it.

The unfortunate, dead priest had been new to the parish. He’d been set to retire when he’d heard of the struggling church in the small, desert community, and he’d agreed to lead them until a new shepherd could be found. The nun had been with the parish since it had formed twenty-five years earlier. Both of them, Cyrus had reflected, had had awful timing.

Mouse had agreed, looking down at her untouched sandwich. It was only when she sniffled that he realized she’d started to cry.

Cyrus had wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her nerves. She’d seen too much terror at the hands of these monsters. But he’d held back. He hadn’t trusted himself not to do something unthinkably cruel to her. And he wouldn’t allow himself to be that man now.

It wasn’t that he disliked being a vampire. He’d been one for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. He didn’t want to accept his seemingly inevitable change on the sole basis of familiarity. Given the chance, he might grow to like humanity. And what was to say he couldn’t be as happy with a human life as he’d been as a vampire? The horror of his circumstances had lessened somewhat, and he’d come to enjoy the simple, human sensations he’d learned not to miss. He hungered merely for sustenance, not power and control. He laughed during companionable conversation, not at some cruel action he’d inflicted on another. As a human, he could be kind. He found he rather liked being kind.