Ciro was blindfolded. He could feel the rough material chafing his skin, still irritated by his exposure to some sunlight. He could smell his own blood and cold air slip through his tattered clothes. His hands were held behind his back by wrought iron handcuffs, and his legs were splayed out in front of him. He leaned against a hard wall. He didn’t know where he was or how he got here, but he was here now. He was pathetic. He had failed. Four hundred years of freedom, only to be gone now. He longed to be anywhere but here. He wished he could be with his father.

His father. What a distant memory. He could hardly remember what his father even looked like it had been so long. He remembered kind, dark eyes and a wide smile. A face that has now been rotting in a casket for over three centuries. Sometimes he envied his father. He shifted slightly against the wall as a new face crossed his mind.

Cybil. The girl who died five hundred years ago. He thought of her, her memory still crystal clear. He thought of her squished and contorted to fit on the high shelf of the closet. Her face rosy with tears and her curly blond hair falling over her face. He promised her he would return, and it was a promise he intended to keep. Regardless of where he now sat, in prison or science lab, he would escape and go back to that old mansion if only to ensure her safety. To tell her of his adventures. The girl who could never travel as she so desired.

Ciro had often exercised self-pity, cursing the vampire who had turned him and wishing for a better life. Though seeing her, alone for hundreds of years… the thought was unbearable.

“You there,” a voice called to him. It was low and gruff. “You’re awake,” Ciro said nothing. Perhaps he could fool him. After all, he was blindfolded. “Speak, scum.” The voice bellowed, opening a creaky gate door. Ciro could hear him walk forward. He remained silent.

He felt a strong blunt pain as the man slugged him across the face. He fell with the blow and his upper body hit the floor. He could taste blood in his mouth as it leaked onto the dusty, cold ground. He spat it out and sat up again. “Where am I?” Ciro asked, still brave. The man let out a hearty cackle. “What do you want with me?”

“Hmph.” The man snorted. “You’ll see.” He grabbed Ciro by the arm and lifted him up, then pulled him through the room. Ciro was by no means small, however, next to this brooding man he seemed like a child. The man towered over him and was capable of pulling him around as though he weightless. “Come with me” he ordered, dragging him away.

Ciro walked without resistance. Perhaps it was the iron taste of blood in his mouth that clued him into the fact that he had lost this battle, and he was in desperate need of planning before doing anything foolish. The walls echoed their footsteps as they walked for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the man opened a door and Ciro stepped inside a room following him. He immediately felt the cold touch of the air in the new room, and he was thrown onto a seat. His blindfold was ripped off quickly and his eyes flashed around his surroundings. He was in a small room- an office, and sitting behind a shiny metal desk there was a man with short, shiny blond hair and sparkling blue eyes behind glasses. He was wearing a lab coat and carrying a pen. The man who had previously been leading Ciro was to the side of the desk, looming over the room. He was towering, having to lower himself slightly to even fit into the room, and massive in width.

The doctor turned to face the man. “You may go.” He said politely. He had an American accent. Just how far did they take Ciro? The man nodded and exited. Then the doctor turned back to face Ciro. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Ciro sneered. His wounds radiated pain from his heavy breathing and he winced while trying to catch his breath.

“No need to be so tense.” The man yawned, tapping his pen on the desk. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Of course,” he grinned then flinched. “You get other people to do that.”

“Nonsense. If it were up to me, there would be much less violence in this establishment. I find it often gets in the way.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “Shall we begin?”

“Begin what, exactly?”

“Oh, my apologies, I suppose I should explain, shouldn’t I?” The doctor smiled. “My name is Doctor Weston. I work on behalf of the Astral Shrine.”

“And just what is the ‘Astral Shrine’?” Hissed Ciro.

“Think of us as a center for rehabilitation,” the doctor smiled almost sadistically. “Though, we do dabble in some research as well.” Ciro’s heart sunk. What he had been dreading has come true. He had avoided places like this for nearly 400 years, and all of that seemed to be for nothing. They could keep him captive here for an eternity. “You see, Ciro, is it?” he continued. “One of our many objectives here at the A.S., as we say, is to discover immortality.”

Ciro bared his fangs. “I can do that easily. Come here.”

Weston gave a hearty laugh, “I suppose I should clarify. We seek immortality without the drawbacks. None of us want vampirism. We don’t desire the sickly pale skin, lack of pictures, aversion to garlic and sunlight. No, none of that. We want the root. The undying…”

“Nothing comes for free.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Weston lifted his pen and examined it absentmindedly. “However, rather than paying in eternal discomforts, like you, we pay in time. Generations have passed in order to give everlasting life to those later. I will likely sacrifice myself to the study.”

“What are you going to do to me?” Ciro asked finally.

“Nothing too bad,” Weston said calmly, finally interested in the conversation. He took several wide steps over to Ciro and carefully stroked his arm. “Perhaps some tests on your mutated DNA, among other experiments.”

“When you are done…” Ciro asked slowly. “Then, can I leave?”

“Hmph.” Weston chuckled. “I suppose. Though, I should warn you; in the Astral Shrine, there is always more to be done.”

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Cybil cried and shook restlessly on the top shelf of her closet. She trusted in her hiding spot and she trusted in Ciro. She could hear screams and fighting below her, but she chose to ignore it. She wanted to say that she listened to Ciro because she trusted him, but deep down she knew it was because of fear. She was scared of these intruders and perched inside of her closer was the only place that she felt safe. Not that it should matter. Especially because she is already dead. What is really the worst that they could do to a dead girl? She decided that she didn’t want to find out.

After the sounds of chaos left, she could hear people coming up the stairs. It seemed like forever that she hid as they explored her house. One walked into her bedroom. They looked under the bed. She watched them from the tiniest crack in the closet door. Then she saw one walk towards her. They were in uniform, of what she didn’t know. The man who stepped closer was meaty with pink skin and no hair. He squinted at the tiny closet opening. He muttered something to another man and opened the closet door.

Cybil froze. She was found. There was nothing she could do. She panicked. She contemplated crying, running, fighting, anything. She was desperate as the man stared at her. However, he did nothing. In fact, as he stared at her, he seemed to ignore her existence entirely. She tilted her head slightly, and waved at him, a small experiment. He didn’t see her. She was invisible to him. She giggled in relief. His ears twitched with the sound and his eyes sharpened, trying to find its source. She covered her mouth. So she could still be heard. Good to know. Eventually, the man shook off the noise and left. And she was left alone.

That was a week ago. Now, Cybil paced along the dusty floor, looking at her destroyed furnishings. Whoever had come and taken Ciro, they had done so brutally. She didn’t know why he saved her, though she was grateful, and at the same time resentful. She didn’t know where they had taken him and it only seemed fair that she would have to endure alongside him. After all, she had just learned that she’d been sitting in this house in a trance for five centuries. She could use a little outdoor time.

Of course, trying to go outside did bring up a new problem. She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was a mental block or some other restraint, but regardless of how hard she tried, she could not take the fateful step. So she stopped trying. She just paced. Paced and paced and paced. She wondered about Ciro. How long had he been gone now? About a week she knows. But then again, for all she knows it could have been another five centuries.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She squealed slightly and hid behind one of her dusty couches. Could it be another raid, this time coming for her? A second investigation after hearing her laugh? She tiptoed to the window and peered out of the blinds. Standing on the porch was a girl. She was maybe twenty, with long, curly, dark brown hair and sad eyes. She was dressed well, wearing designer brands and carrying a purse. She was pretty.

Cybil contemplated the woman outside. It could be a Trojan horse… The girl looked at where Cybil squatted, peering out the window and they made eye contact. Cybil flushed. At this point, it would be rude not to let her in. Still hesitant, she walked to the door and opened it slowly. The girl stepped inside. “Ciao?” she asked in a romantic tongue. Another Italian, thought Cybil, rolling her eyes.

The girl turned to Cybil and jumped slightly, putting a manicured hand on her heart. She said something in Italian. Cybil cocked her head. “What? I speak English,” Cybil said, almost apologetically.

The girl muttered to herself in Italian before switching to an accented English. “Sorry. My friend. Ah… I’m looking for my friend.”

Cybil assumed she knew which friend the girl was referring to, but a twinge of unconscious jealousy kept her from revealing that so soon. “Who are you?” she asked accusatorily.

“Oh.” The girl said and extended her right hand. She smiled politely. “I’m Cecilia.”