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Despite having lived such a well-organized and immaculately planned life back in the “real world”, Stonehouse had thoroughly enjoyed indulging in a spot of escapism, given half a chance. He booked sessions of being spontaneous into his diary, such was his desire to maintain control of his own destiny, but occasionally he liked nothing better than immersing himself in an alternate fantasy world. As a teenager, a visit to the local Laser Quest centre provided Stonehouse with the opportunity to be one of the characters in the numerous sci-fi movies that he loved to watch. A weekend away with the boys, partaking in bouts of paintballing, allowed Stonehouse to become the commando, lost in the woods. He was like Stallone in “First Blood”, Schwarzenegger in “Predator”, hunting prey or trying to survive. Even a drunken session of Karaoke in a cheap holiday bar offered a soupcon of pseudo-stardom, and a taster of the rock musician’s lifestyle. Assuming the role of somebody else was fun. It was a total release, allowing his creativity and imagination to flourish like a blossoming garden. Cut off the dreams and it would be like blocking the water supply to the flowers and plants, leaving them to wither and die through neglect. Stonehouse relished having fantasies.

Stonehouse had role played since whenever he could remember. One day he was an architect, using Lego blocks to create mega structures, the next he was a military general, commanding armies of toy soldiers. There was always a story brewing inside his artistic head. Discovering the game “Dungeons & Dragons” was a revelation to a youthful Stonehouse, as it provided him with a true outlet for his fantasies, a platform for him to perform. A small group of friends would descend on each other’s houses, and hide away in a basement or attic bedroom, unleashing their fanciful tales of beasts and treasures. Other players usually wanted to be either elves, because they were “cool” and had both combat skills and the ability to perform magic, or pure fighters, because they could beat up anything that crossed their paths. Stonehouse was different. He could never quite choose between being a wizard or a thief. He liked the fact that they were intelligent characters who needed to use stealth, finesse and cunning, rather than simply brute force. Those traits sat snugly next to Stonehouse’s own skill set, allowing him to enthusiastically breathe life into his chosen adventurer. But there was one more role that he adored playing: the Dungeon Master. Controlling the fate of the other players gave Stonehouse a warm, fuzzy feeling of superiority.

Sadly, the days of throwing a few dice across a table were long gone, and the far lazier option (often imposed by a heavy workload) of watching fantasy on a huge TV rather than joining in with others, had crept into Stonehouse’s life. Work, despite its many benefits, could be so restrictive at times. His current favourite, his fantasy flavour of the month, was “Game of Thrones”. As he would say to the show’s detractors, what’s not to like about monsters, tits and swords? Thoughts of GoT suddenly flooded into Stonehouse’s mind as he listened to the words of Laura the craftswoman. As she stood, arms folded, looking rather dismissively at him as if he were the new kid in school, he couldn’t help but think of Ygritte, the feisty redheaded Wildling. It wasn’t that the stranger hovering over him particularly resembled the Wildling warrior woman, or had the same gruff northern English accent to which Stonehouse was so accustomed, but her remark struck a chord. As Laura spoke the words “…do you know anything?” she may as well have barked out the phrase “you know nothing, Jon Snow” as it would have been true. The member of the Night’s Watch was a relative genius compared to Stonehouse, who had been stumbling around Harper Rock in a daze for weeks. He didn’t know how he’d arrived in his new “home”, and a “sire” was, until recently, simply a title that you used to address a medieval king or ruler. Stonehouse was really struggling to come to terms that vampires existed, let alone that he was a bloodsucker. To hear someone tell him so bluntly caused his stomach to wrench, just as the bullet had done minutes earlier. The signs had all been there: the lack of a reflection; an aversion to sunlight; the small matter of his craving for blood, but he’d chosen to ignore the obvious truth, convincing himself that it simply wasn’t possible. Recent encounters, both with nightmarish creatures and informative bystanders, had shifted the balance in favour of the implausible being the truth.

Another thought struck Stonehouse, like an additional bullet from the hunter’s rifle, but this time straight through his skull and deep into his mind. Was the woman standing in front of him, the outwardly normal female dressed in regular clothes with very pleasant yet typically human features, also a vampire? If he understood her words correctly, then that was definitely the case. She used words like “we” and “us”, indicating that they were somehow connected, that they were in this mess together. Maybe she wasn’t showing disdain towards him at all? In fact, maybe she was actually feeling sorry for him? In spite of being somewhat self-centred, even Stonestone would show compassion towards someone with bullet holes in their guts.

The swordsmith was probably the first vampire that he had spoken to, well, presumably except for the one who had transformed him, his “sire”. Could she act as a guide or a mentor? One thing that the skilled forger could most certainly do was to help him acquire better weapons. Stonehouse smiled up at the woman. “I’d love to simply stand up, never mind stand up to the hunters!” joked Stonehouse as he attempted to gingerly climb up from the cold tunnel floor. “Perhaps you could help me with the weapons? I’d gladly offer anything that you needed in exchange.”

Business was business, and Stonehouse was determined to strike up a deal.

Moments earlier, Stonehouse had allowed questions about his so called “sire” to drift over his head, mainly because he was at a loss as to where he should point his finger. He knew that someone was to blame for his predicament, that somebody was responsible for his transformation into… dare he even say it… a vampire. However, the culprit remained a mystery, in fact were it not for an earlier chance encounter with an affable woman - a human - in the sewers, then the whole vampire fiasco would still be a blur. Stonehouse knew that something monumental had occurred, and that his life had been turned upside down, but the young woman had helped him to put a few pieces of the puzzle together. One of the greatest shifts in Stonehouse’s crazy lifestyle was the fact that he was now effectively homeless. A few nights squatting on the floors of abandoned warehouses, followed by an evening or two huddled up in a damp corner of a sewer tunnel, was hardly the lifestyle of a high-flying business executive. Oddly enough, it did at least offer Stonehouse the opportunity to answer the next question from his latest acquaintance.

Reaching out an arm, Stonehouse clasped the hand of the craftswoman and hauled himself up from the cold tunnel floor. Her hand was soft and clean, unlike his own dirty and soiled appendage that had mud and crusty hunter’s blood smeared across it. His own blood seemed to disperse like smoke, another mystery for him to ponder over during the long nights ahead. Stonehouse used people for his own gain. He was by far the most important person in his life. However, right now, the woman helping him to his feet was the most important person, and although he ultimately wanted to use her services for his own prosperity, he felt a wave of genuine gratitude as she assisted him to his feet. “Thank you,” said Stonehouse as he finally stood up straight, “your help is truly appreciated.”

For a split second he wondered if he would simply get a weapon from the sword maker, then ditch her, never needing to see her again after she had served her purpose. His thoughts were quickly erased as he once again contemplated the fact that the woman holding his hand was the first of his kind with whom he had made contact. He needed genuine allies, not just quick fix acquaintances, and right now the woman wearing the dark grey cardigan and black leggings was his best option. He also needed somewhere to get freshened up.

“I’m afraid that I don’t really have anywhere that I can call home,” said Stonehouse rather sheepishly as he finally addressed her question. “I’m sort of… between homes right now.”

Admitting to a stranger, particularly an attractive woman, that he was nothing more than a drifter, a homeless bum whose neighbours were sewer rats, was incredibly painful to the proud executive. He prided himself on his successes, on his possessions, on his networth. Announcing that he essentially had nothing was almost as excruciating as the bullet wound had been only minutes earlier. He didn’t realize that he was still holding onto the woman’s hand as he continued his tale of woe. “No home, no idea about my sire, no instruction manual about how to be a vampire… I guess that I really don’t know anything!”

Stonehouse stopped. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was still clinging onto her hand as if it were a desperate plea for help. He smiled at the Good Samaritan as he released her skilled hand. “It’s not all bad, though,” said Stonehouse with a chirpy tone to his voice. “I do appear to have met Harper Rock’s most gifted sword maker!”

Despite his cheerful tone of voice, Stonehouse felt a sensation of sadness almost getting sucked through his fingers as he released the young woman’s hand. It was as if his fingers were drinking straws, and something inside the girl’s hand was trying to exact his essence. Was she upset, maybe afraid and alone in this strange city? Laughter quickly shifted his point of view, as the craftswoman smiled and giggled at his comments. Perhaps he was being too hasty in forming an opinion on the state of mind of his new acquaintance? After all, he’d just been shot and this very helpful woman was doing her best to assist him. It could be that she simply didn’t like seeing people in distress, and that gave off an aura of sadness. Yes, that was probably the reason. It made sense.

“Thank you once again for your help, “ said Stonehouse as he shuffled tentatively along the sewer tunnel, “you are being most generous. I’m sure that your place is great”

Stonehouse genuinely believed that this “friend” was actually trying to help him out of a sticky situation with no ulterior motive. That would be incredibly convenient, as he had nothing that he could really offer in return, other than polite conversation and the odd terrible joke. He liked her attitude; the fact that she thought it didn’t matter if you got lost because you would eventually find your way. The words struck a chord deep within Stonehouse’s soul. “We can always find our way if we believe in our strengths,” announced Stonehouse rather proudly, “and getting lost is no big deal because often you bump into people that you would not necessarily have otherwise met.”

Stonehouse’s allies were few and far between in his new habitat, so a chance encounter with a weapon-maker was clearly a positive outcome of what had earlier seemed like a dire predicament. The cloud of a gunshot wound to the guts could well have a silver lining, or should that be a steel lining, the cold steel of a sword?

Stonehouse had so many questions to ask, in fact so many that he knew that Laura would feel like she was the one getting shot, this time by his verbal machine-gun that fired question bullet after question bullet. He settled for a simple one. “So do you live down here,” asked Stonehouse, “down here in the sewers?”

During the final couple of years at Stonehouse’s old high school, all the teenagers were allowed to make a choice involving their physical education lessons. During the winter months, it was routine for the boys to play football and rugby, with cricket and athletics getting thrown into the pot over the summer, but there was also an opportunity to do something a little different once a week at the sports centre. Testosterone-fuelled young men could spend time in the gym, fighting against the weights in a battle of strength. They could learn to dive from the high boards into the pool, play basketball, badminton or squash on the appropriate courts, or do something novel like trampolining. Stonehouse chose to turn his hand to fencing. Perhaps it was because he had watched too many swashbuckling movies about pirates or musketeers, or that he wanted to be a sword-wielding warrior like the characters in his Dungeons & Dragons games that he so loved to play as a child. It may have been because Bruce Dickinson, the lead singer of Iron Maiden, was a renowned fencer, or it could simply have been a case of Stonehouse wanting to test his skill and dexterity in a whole new arena. Whatever the reasons, a youthful Stonehouse enjoyed the challenge of one-on-one combat; the skilful lunges to strike a blow on one’s opponent, and the defensive parries to deflect an attack. The moves were often graceful, almost balletic in nature, as agility mixed with guile and wit to determine the outcome of the contest.

One thing that definitely wasn’t taught at school was a person’s survival instinct. That ability to keep going, to dig deeper than ever before when the odds were stacked against you, was something that seemed to come naturally, not learned from a textbook. Sure, it could be increased through training and discipline, but it always seemed to Stonehouse to be something that was in-built. As Stonehouse followed his rescuer through the network of damp sewer tunnels, listening to her words about everyone having inherent instincts for survival, he wondered whether or not his fencing talents would be of any use against the hunters who lurked in the murky labyrinth. Glancing down at the bullet wound in his stomach, he hoped that the craftswoman’s weapons would provide adequate protection. Stonehouse had tried to master the foil; a weapon more suited to a duel at dawn against a French marquis over the hand of a beautiful lady-in-waiting, than hacking and slashing at trained killers. With hindsight, maybe the sabre would have been a better option? In fairness, anything would be better than the rusty old hacksaw and battered hammer with which he had previously been armed. Stonehouse would have to put his faith in the attributes of his newly found companion, and the fruits of her metalworking labour.

Rounding another corner, almost indistinguishable from the last dozen or so twists and turns, Stonehouse once again tried to study the woman who lead the way, the woman who dwelled in the dark recesses of the sewers. He dissected every word that she spoke, focussing on the fact that she mentioned that people want to “kill you”. The gash in his guts was evidence enough to Stonehouse that this was most certainly the case, but it surely indicated that she too had been hunted, maybe shot. She’d dropped enough hints to corroborate his assumption, and her sorrowful persona was possibly due to previous traumatic experiences. Only minutes earlier, Stonehouse had been the victim, the wounded loner. Could it be that the pretty woman who came to his aid was also a victim, another lost soul in this strange city?

“I suppose that we are all looking for that certain something,” said Stonehouse rather belatedly as he began to look for the entrance to the swordsmith’s home, “and we definitely all need a sanctuary from time to time, a place that we can call home.”

A sanctuary… yes, that was the perfect word.

For a split second it seemed as though Stonehouse's hostess was about to encourage him to make himself comfortable, to make himself at home, before she slightly stuttered on her words and changed the angle. Home had become an alien concept to Stonehouse since his somewhat enforced repatriation in Harper Rock. The floors of disused warehouses and factories, or the dark recesses of a sewer tunnel hardly encapsulated the spirit of what was normally classed as a home. For now, though, they had been all that was on offer. Hopefully more stealing and pillaging would raise enough cash for an apartment, as Stonehouse's shady business dealings were slowly beginning to reap some rewards.

Being stood in an actual home, a proper dwelling place with furniture and a selection of ornaments was a strangely joyous experience. The house may not have been particularly huge, and the decor may not have been aligned with that of the Dorchester, but it felt... homely. There was that unmistakable scent of "home", that lived-in feel that brought comfort to the weary traveller. As Laura lit more candles and illuminated the room with a soft glow, a warm feeling spread across Stonehouse that he hadn't felt in a long while. He was radiating far more that the flames at the head of the waxy sticks.

Inquisitive eyes scanned the bookshelf in the hope of recognizing a title or two in order to strike up another conversation. For too long, the effervescent Stonehouse had been bottling up the sparkling discussions upon which he so enthusiastically thrived. He was a chatty man and enjoyed the limelight, but the darkness of the shadows had been stifling him, choking his flamboyance and charisma like a thick fog. Perhaps the gentle light of the candles would rekindle some of his passion?

Stonehouse turned to his newly found friend and smiled, both out of politeness, but also a genuine happiness. "You have a lovely home," he said, moving his neck from left to right to let Laura know that he was taking in the ambience of the place. "It's very cosy. Thank you again for inviting me, it really is greatly appreciated."

Stonehouse rarely displayed gratitude, as he firmly believed that he deserved everything that he received because he had worked hard for it. This was an exception. He had barely earned the trust of the young woman, yet she had offered him shelter. For once he was prepared to show some humility. She had the upper hand, something Stonehouse would normally hate, but he was going to have to play the role of the understudy, at least for now. He'd be on top at some stage, but for now he both knew and accepted his place. The attractive craftswoman had much to offer: shelter, skills in forging weaponry, and above all companionship. She was a kind and generous woman, a sweet woman, yet still there was an unnerving sourness surrounding her.

Stonehouse finally addressed her offer with a hearty smile embossed across his face. "A shower would be amazing!" he said as he rolled his eyes while looking down at his bloodied clothes. "I should probably get in like this and soak myself clean!"

He'd noticed the archway that led to the bathroom on the way into the house, and turned towards it, slipping off his jacket in the same swivelling motion. Thankfully the coat had barely a splash of blood on it, and no bullet hole. Stonehouse placed it down on the edge of the sofa before turning his attention to his shirt. The shirt formerly known as "Crisp White" had clearly been to the local town hall and had its name changed by deed poll to "Shredded Crimson". There was a gapping gash in the cotton where the bullet had pierced the material, and Stonehouse's fingers had frantically clawed at the wound. A couple of buttons had been lost in the struggle with the hunter, and the bloodstained pattern resembled something that a 3-year old child may paint at nursery. Stonehouse peered though the holes, one made by a bullet and a larger gap created by missing buttons. The wound was continuing to heal which fascinated Stonehouse. At this rate it would be gone in a day or two. Perhaps he should visit a tattoo artist and have a bullet-wound design inked onto his skin as a permanent reminder? He'd already wondered if Laura's crafting abilities would stretch to making some kind of pendent with the bullet he'd salvaged from his guts. He must remember to ask her about it later.

There was something else about his body, other than its fantastic healing properties, that was intriguing Stonehouse. As he gazed down at his stomach, popping open another pearlescent button to get a better view, he was convinced that he looked fitter, trimmer, more athletic than usual. Stonehouse had always been fairly sporty and had kept himself in decent shape, but the endless business lunches and corporate dinners had slowly begun to stretch his 32-inch waistband. However, as his eyes roamed over the abdominal muscles of his stomach, he was certain that he had never been the proud owner of such a defined six-pack. If he were a boxer, he would definitely be at his perfect fighting weight. Interesting, he thought to himself as he undid the last two remaining buttons of his battered shirt, very interesting.

Stonehouse suddenly became acutely aware that he was standing in the living room of a relative stranger's house about to strip off in front of her without even thinking about it, such was his preoccupation with his incredible new "powers". He turned to face the blonde haired swordsmith and gave her a slightly embarrassed grin. "I'm so sorry, Laura," said Stonehouse apologetically. "I'm still coming to terms with being shot. I think my mind was drifting."

Stonehouse purposefully stood straight-backed and held the two sides of his frayed shirt together, regaining his composure. "Yes, I'd love to use your bathroom," he continued. "Is it through this archway?"

He already knew the answer, but asking was the polite thing to do.