The Demon Boy

Day One - Afternoon

    The kids from before aren't here anymore. The boy has no clue where they went. He'd like to know. He'd like to find out. Sadly, the toff's not going to let him go anywhere until this uncle thing is sorted out. The boy considers ditching him... but it's more trouble than it's worth. Plus, looking for this uncle he's never known is rather exciting.

     The toff yells at the boy over his shoulder. He tells him to hurry up. Again. Don't dawdle and all that. The toff's the only person in a hurry in all of Glenholm. The boy harrumphs and jogs to catch up. What's the rush anyhow? If his uncle lives in the village or anywhere nearby, then chances are he won't be leaving anytime soon. They're more likely to find him dead than out of town. Then he'll have not just a family but an inheritance as well and maybe he'll be as rich as any toff. Maybe richer still.

     The boy smirks and daydreams on. Maybe he's the long-lost nephew of a lord. He could be nobility. Heck, he could have estates for leagues around. He could own Glenholm. Maybe that bit's less likely than the rest of his hopes. Maybe. But he can dream, can't he? That's what boyhood is for: dreaming impossible dreams and hoping impossible hopes.

     A new beginning. He believes those words now, except they're no longer just words. It's reality. It's what he's always hoped for without knowing it.

     It's home.

     The toff storms through streets. The boy skips, not far behind. He spins like a top, looking round and around, taking in everything there is to find. He knows he will, in time, come to know and love these streets well (as if he didn't like them already). That doesn't mean he can't get a head start.

     The second stop on the toff's inquisition is the local ale house. It's a squat building, built of sagging beams and plastered brick walls sunk low to the ground. It's old too. Must be a hundred years at least. Likely older than that. That said, it's in damn good shape for its age. The door fits well in its frame despite how the building's settled over the years. It opens with a creak you can hear clear to the other side of town, but readily moves at a touch.

     The savoury aroma of tonight's supper floats through the doorway and hits the boy like a heavyweight's right hook. He reels. It takes him a full minute to come back to his senses. Wouldn't you know it, he's drooling on the doorstep and the barmaid behind the counter is telling him to get out. They don't let minors in here. Not since the shenanigans two summers ago. Not unless he has a father to drag home.

     "Not a father, an uncle," he says.

     The barmaid cocks her head. "And who might that be? I don't think I've seen you around."

     The toff pushes the boy aside and steps forward. "Good day miss! I am Henry M. Peddleson of the Charitable Organization for Destitute Youths (or CODY, if you prefer). Might I add that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's making doe eyes at the barmaid. The toff is making doe eyes.

     The boy mimes a gag. The toff doesn't see, thank goodness. The barmaid, on the other hand, notices all too well. She tries to swallow back that grin as best she can (she does a terrible job of it) and refocuses on the toff. Sadly, she does it too late. The toff remembers why he's there; he remembers the boy.

    He turns to him, scowling at first, then smiles like a weasel, sticky with fake kindness and sickeningly sweet. "How about you wait outside John while the adults talk."

     Behind him, the barmaid pulls a face.

     The boy, reluctant to part from the heavenly smell of the cook's pot, drags his feet. When the hard look the toff's shooting his way doesn't spur him on fast enough, he shows him to the door himself and slams it on his heels for good measure.