The sun had risen only moments before they made it back safely to the house, and even then, there were slight burn marks on Samantha’s cheeks, Samantha’s shoulders, that had been caused by brief exposure.

Whether she felt any pain or none at all, was something impossible for him to figure out. The vacant look in her eyes told him she simply didn’t feel anything, or just didn’t care. It was that same empty look in her eyes, that told him she had withdrawn completely into herself, the way she had done since the beginning, and was now disconnected from the world around her.

Whatever flickering signs of intelligence, emotion, and consciousness that might have been in use while she deliberately made her way to Michael’s hotel room moments ago, were now irrefutably gone. This infuriated him to no end, for the simple reason that he had no control over anything. He didn’t know what to react, not even what to expect. Would this last a few more days? A couple months? Perhaps a year? He was losing his patience with each passing moment, while Cytherea was no more than the incarnation of serenity and composure.

All the thick velvet curtains in the household were shut, the way they were always shut before sunrise whether Cytherea slept or not. She was in her painting studio, surrounded by unfinished portraits and half-sketched scenes. Her attention was focused on her one of her old, neglected pieces; a tragic scene of death and decay.

It was a ghastly painting. Something in the style of Fusseli’s “The Nightmare”; a beautiful nymph draped over the end of a withering bed of wild flowers and wilting roses in the middle of a dark forest , lying on her back with her head hanging down, exposing her long neck, and bare breasts. One of her hands held a single rose, which lay limp on the water of a flowing stream. The rose had pricked the nymph’s hand, causing the blood to ooze out, and taint the stream’s pure water with the crimson blood.

“She won’t speak, she won’t feed—…She’s no more than a mindless puppet!” Cassian glared at his motionless fledgling, and forced her impatiently, to sit on one of the couches in the room. He let go of her bruised wrist, and in his frustration, knocked over one of the paintings.

“You lack tact and patience. You’re no more a willing teacher, than she a willing pupil.” Cytherea said patiently, too focused in her work to truly mind her fledgling’s temper and frustrations. “Then what do you suggest I do?” He threw his arms, raising his voice. “Strike some sense into her? Leave her as she is, and expect her to regain full consciousness eventually? I don’t recall reacting this way when I was turned.” He began to pace about the room more out of anger, than out of true concern, glancing over at Samantha ever couple of words, noticing no real change in her overall attitude despite his efforts.

“The death and the awakening will always damage the human soul.” Cytherea finally let her paintbrush down, and turned to face him. “She’s emerged mad and unable to cope. Without the proper instruction, she locked herself inside her mind, and won’t come out until she’s ready to come out.” She walked slowly, barefoot, feeling the cold marble tiles against her feet. Taking a seat next to Samantha, she lifted her chin, noticing the burn marks, and brushed a couple loose strands of brown hair behind her ear.

“Your brutality, and lack of sensitivity is only worsening things, never mind the fact that she refuses to listen to you, or me.” She bit the tip of her thumb with her teeth, and rubbed her healing blood against the burnt flesh, as if trying to paint a more lively blush to a tarnished porcelain doll. There had been the slightest hint of affection and endearment in the way she healed the Samantha’s wounded skin. She almost felt sorry for her, vulnerable darling that she was.

But what was this? Had this empty shell of a woman truly stirred some sort of feeling in her? Why, even now she had half a mind to tell Cassian to get rid of those dirty clothes of hers, bathe her, clothe her, and adjust his impatient demeanor, if only to wake his newborn fledgling from the agony of her trance. But she knew Cassian would never do such a thing, the way she knew she would never be able to quicken the remnants of her lost humanity.

“Call the other one.” Cytherea said gently, moving on to her arms and shoulders. She bit the wound again to increase the amount of blood that poured down in thick, tiny droplets of ruby red. The burnt tissue began to regenerate itself in a matter on seconds after her gentle applications of the healing blood. “What the hell are you talking about? What other one?” Cassian stopped his pacing, somewhat puzzled, though refusing to show it. He’d crossed his arms stubbornly, in that defiant, boyish attitude he tended to take on, at the sound of a command.

“The British gentleman. The handsome boy with the— ” Cassian cut her off with a little growl, scowling crossly at the mention of the brown-haired youth, the vampire Jan. What on earth was she coming at? Did she truly believe he would allow that pathetic excuse of an immortal set foot in his territory? Deal with his fledgling? The mere suggestion all but struck him across the face, keenly aiming for his vanity.

It was already bad enough he had had the audacity, of all things, to barge into his home behind his back, never mind make Cytherea speak, and take an interest in him. Did she really expect him to allow that chivalrous buffoon to take a step near Samantha after he made it clear he wanted to take the girl away from him? How could she possibly believe he would allow—

“You will call on him.” She said coldly, regaining that tone of detachment and authority in her voice, though there lingered the lightest trace of tenderness in each glance she gave the motionless puppet of a vampire that sat in agonizing silence on her couch. “You will call on him,” she repeated, “and you will allow him to stay, if you have the slightest concern for your young one.” She stroked Samantha’s brown, flowing waves, caressing her whitish cheeks one last time, before signaling Cassian to clean up the mess he’d made, and take care of everything. The topic was not up for discussion. She was going to bed.

Account statement that shows a balance of at least 42 thousand dollars— show that there is that money in cash available to be accessed at any given moment.