So, he’d done the only thing he could do. He hadn’t offered bland words of comfort or assurances that things would be all right. He’d simply changed the subject.

“We should have dinner tonight,” he’d blurted. When she’d looked up at him, her tear tracks gleaming in the sunlight, he’d continued in the hopes of seeing her expression change. “Make an event of it. I suppose I should celebrate my return to humanity.”

“I suppose,” she’d said hesitantly. “But we should save some food.”

“Don’t worry. I know those…people up there. I did some of them a favor once. I’m sure they’ll get us more.” She’d still looked doubtful, so he’d added, “They won’t let me starve to death. They raised me for a reason.”

After that, she’d acquiesced, and eagerly discussed lives of the saints and stories of the Bible. He’d tolerated it because it had made her feel better.

Now, she stood over the small stove, making God alone knew what for them to eat, but she’d bathed and combed her hair, and she hummed while she worked. He knew she watched him as he changed into fresh clothing from the priest’s dresser. The damn black, polyester, button-down shirt would serve if he left it unbuttoned over one of the pristine white T-shirts. He turned and held his arms out at his sides. “What do you think?”

Mouse didn’t reply. She flushed, embarrassed, and turned back to the stove. He waited at the table while she dished out the food—small, rubbery chicken breasts in some suspicious sauce from a frozen dinner; canned carrots; macaroni and cheese—and they were about to eat when the door at the top of the stairs opened.

“I thought that was locked,” Cyrus whispered to Mouse, not meaning to sound so accusatory.

Her eyes grew wide with fear, and the pulse in her throat leaped visibly. He wanted to reassure her, but there was no time for that. Heavy footfalls came down the stairs.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, folks,” a voice raspy from cigarette smoke announced, before its owner came into view. Her face was contorted into its vampire form. Her shoulders were considerably wider than Cyrus’s. It took him a moment to realize she was a woman.

Mouse screamed and stood too fast, bumping the table and rattling the dishes. She looked as though she’d run, though there was no place to go except past the monstrous woman at the bottom of the stairs.

“Calm down,” he warned Mouse, standing slowly to approach her. “Come to me.”

She launched herself at him, winding her arms around his neck. She clutched him tighter as he tried to disentangle himself, but in the end, she had to let go.