Hospitality Pays

Fred rests his chin on the back of his hand, elbow digging into his desk in a way that’s slightly painful, and tries to block out the faint-yet-irritating sound of the baby crying in the other room.

It’s not the sound itself that bothers him, but rather, the constant reminder of the child’s existence. The reminder that his spare bedroom is now full of things like diapers and baby formula and terrible aromas. He only needs to think about the mess to feel his tongue curling against the roof of his mouth and his stomach rolling darkly in protest.

He needs to focus. Granted, there isn’t much to do right now, but he has three notebooks filled with unedited scribblings – ideas that he’s yet to develop and stories that he’s already started putting to paper. He should work on the next chapter of Sinking Dread. Perhaps describing a character losing their sanity to curse-induced nightmares will provide him temporary relief.

He’s shifting wearily and reaching for the notebook with the red cover when a particularly loud cry from the baby puts him back on edge, making him briefly contemplate Owel’s competence as a mother. The hateful noise has been going on since noon, and the golden hands of the wall clock have just passed three.

Patience, he thinks, and then soothes himself by adding: At least she has agreed to keep it exclusively in the spare room.

He’s vaguely aware that he should not be referring to the baby as an it, even in the privacy of his aggravated mind, but for some reason it just happens.

‘It’ had come free with the disorientated vampire he had found stumbling along Bracken Street a week ago. He isn't informed about Owel’s background – he hopes that she will tell her story once she settles down – but it seemed as though she had taken the infant and fled. From an abusive partner most likely (his research had suggested), but he's particularly intrigued by the woman’s vampirism. Vampires cannot produce offspring. The child’s youth, coupled with Owel’s evident inexperience as a vampire, suggest that she was Turned very recently, and will probably benefit from some help and direction.

Fred is prepared to have to answer a lot of questions, but it seems that Owel’s focus is on her child – she scarcely talks to Fred at all. She had scuttled away into the spare room as soon as it was offered and, except for a nervous ‘thank you’ when Fred brought her blood and supplies for the infant, she hasn't interacted with him since.

She had introduced herself as Owel Wolfhunter when he first brought her in, but her tone stumbled over the surname as though she wasn’t sure of it. Fred has begun to wonder if she is suffering from some kind of amnesia. Being Turned can cause gaps in memory, but only around the event itself. Maybe she suffered a head injury or illness while she was still human. He disregards the theory but keeps it folded up in the back of his mind.

His first impression of her had been underwhelming, and all impressions after that continued to be so; she is a small, mousy-haired woman with round spectacles, a skittish demeanour and a trace of an accent that he can’t place. He occasionally hears her talking – softly and with uncertain affection – to the baby in the other room. This was when he hears her voice the most.

Presently, he’s hearing it again.

Warden’s crying ebbs away as his mother tries her best to soothe him, telling him that he’s going to grow up big and strong and do lots of great things. Fred hears what sounds like slurping and swallowing noises as she offers him a bottle of milk – he actually has to put his fingers over his ears because it’s so horrible to listen to.

Tense, he skims through the words in his notebook. It’s five minutes before he even dares to listen again, and to his relief, the noises from the other room have stopped. Neither the baby nor its mother can be heard. He retrieves a pen and begins to write.

Another five minutes pass before he picks up a new series of sounds. The faintest squeak of a hinge followed by some gentle shuffling. It’s Owel, walking down the hall towards Fred’s room where he’s currently sitting.

This is the first time she has actually made an effort to approach him, breaking a full week of lurking in the spare room like a cobweb. He’s immediately intrigued and has to resist the urge to get up and meet her at the door. Aware of her nervousness, he makes himself stay put behind the desk instead.

She hesitates outside the closed door for nearly a whole minute before a tentative knock – so quiet that a human might have missed it – sounds on the wood. He tries not to respond too fast.

‘Come in,’ he says.

The door opens with a slight creak and Owel steps over the threshold. She hasn’t brought the baby (Fred thinks he might have asked her to leave if she had, curiosity notwithstanding), but she’s clearly mustering her confidence. An oversized sweater, green and brown, hangs on her frame. Crimson eyes skitter around the room to take everything in before eventually settling on him. She cannot meet his gaze, although Fred tries to hold hers.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Alscher,’ she begins.

‘It’s no trouble. May I help you with something?’

‘Um… I have some questions that I hoped you might answer. Warden is asleep, so it seemed like the best time. If it’s not convenient then I can always--’

‘What are your questions, Owel?’ he cuts in. He really wants to get to the point of the matter, since it’s obviously significant enough to coax her out of hiding. But he’s also trying, trying, to be gentle.

She shifts uneasily, then takes a quiet breath and stills herself.

‘I don’t... fully understand what happened to me. You mentioned that I’m a vampire now, and I know that I need to drink blood instead of eating food, but… I want to know more, about what this means for me in the long term.’

He nods, absentmindedly rolling the pen between his fingers and thumb. ‘It is only natural that you would have questions. I assume you came from a place where vampires are not commonplace?’

‘No – Mr Alscher – I’ve never even seen a vampire before. I knew they existed in other lands, but there wasn’t really any information about them.’

‘Would you mind telling me where you came from?’

‘Lurcher Island, sir.’

It’s immensely satisfying to have an answer to one of his own questions, and those two words open up a range of new theories about Owel. The name has come up a few times in his research. Lurcher Island lies in the Lazurite Sea to the east of Vallis and its society can hardly be called progressive. Families commonly arrange marriages for their children, and women get the short end of the stick, rarely having any say in their future prospects. They are pawned off to any suitor rich enough to benefit the parents. Luck of the draw determines whether they end up with a husband who treats them kindly or one who sees them as nothing more than an object.

‘You arrived in this city alone, except for your son. You don’t know anyone here. You had few supplies and no plans. Would you consider telling me why you left Lurcher Island in such a desperate manner?’

She is clearly uncomfortable, and her eyes are doing an even poorer job of trying to meet his. It takes a few tries for her to form an answer: ‘I – is it – is it necessary for me to tell you, sir?’

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that he could probably intimidate her into answering his question by pushing a little – but perhaps her nervous, subservient behaviour is enough of an answer in itself. He decides rather quickly that the idea of forcing her leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he replies. ‘I would like to know your story someday, but for now, please do not feel pressured to explain anything.’

She nods silently.

‘You said that you want to understand your vampirism better. I think it would be best if I give you a rundown of exactly what vampires are, and how they are made, since I assume you don’t remember being Turned.’

‘I remember…’ Owel begins, before frustratingly cutting herself off. ‘No, never mind.’

Fred launches into an explanation, keeping things as concise as possible and trying to steer away from terms and analogies that Owel might not understand – Lurcher Island isn’t very technologically advanced. He tells her what she can do and what she needs to avoid. He promises to teach her how to use her new abilities once she’s ready.

Veiled interests lurks in the backs of her eyes when he talks about these abilities, but the questions he expects do not come, and he realises that it might be a while before he can start actually mentoring her. She has other things on her mind besides vampirism – in fact, that might be the least of her worries.

‘I must... ask…’ she ventures. ‘How long will you allow me to stay here? And what should I do for you in return?’

Assumption of a debt being owed is something Fred is used to whenever he goes out of his way to help someone. He does not demand it, but he’s always a little pleased when somebody chooses to repay him. This time, however, he is decidedly against the idea of asking Owel to repay him for his aid.

‘You may stay as long as you need to,’ he says, slightly pained, ‘but once you are more settled, I will encourage you to find your own place. I will help you throughout the entire process. As for repayment, you do not need to do anything.’

Her eyebrows twitch upwards. ‘I don’t need to do anything to repay you?’ she repeats.

‘No. All I ask is that you do your best to keep the spare bedroom as clean as possible.’

‘Yes, Mr Alscher. I’ll do that.’

‘Very good. Do you have any more questions?’

She shifts her weight minutely from foot to foot as she contemplates something, before finally blurting out: ‘If anyone from Lurcher comes looking for me, will you tell them that I’m here?’

‘...It’s unlikely that anyone will find you here,’ Fred replies, thinking again of Lurcher’s limited technology.

‘But if they do? What if they come looking?’ The words spill out frantically. He’s suddenly aware of how much anxiety is bleeding out of her. He thinks back to her desperate, rattled state when he first encountered her, walking hunched over as she tried to shield Warden from the cold drizzle, bereft of supplies and alone. Had she willingly put herself in that situation?

‘I will not tell them of your whereabouts. Is that what you want?’

‘Yes, Mr Alscher. I would very much appreciate that.’

‘Good. If that’s all for now--’

Fred abruptly cuts himself off, head cocking in the direction of the spare bedroom as he picks up the faint beginnings of a whining cry… accompanied by a horrible odour that’s become more familiar this past week. Judging by Owel’s suddenly stiff posture and faint look of embarrassment, she notices it too.

‘...Go and tend to your child, please.’

Owel scuttles away to change the baby’s soiled diaper and Fred just leans on his desk, staring at nothing, wondering exactly how long this will go on for. He’s already regretting telling her that she can stay as long as she wants.

On a positive note, maybe she’ll eventually decide to tell him about her past. The idea of getting more information is almost tantalising enough to outweigh his disgust.