Stonehouse was in the bedroom of a city centre apartment in Harper Rock, not down on the luscious green turf of Twickenham rugby stadium in London. Making a last-ditch tackle, as if he were endeavouring to bring down a flying winger before they raced over the line to score a match-winning try, would certainly look like a crazy move to anyone watching this intricate game unfold. Like a pole vaulter slumping to the crash mat after a failed attempt to break the world record, the athletic vampire aborted his rescue mission at the last second. Fresh, cooling air, and a darkened night sky adorned with the fading sparkle of stars, rather than the dazzling sunlight that he had feared, greeted Stonehouse as he ground to an abrupt halt on the corner of the mattress.
A huge wave of relief splashed over Stonehouse, followed by a second soaking of annoyance and frustration. The successful businessman prided himself on his organizational skills, his punctuality and impeccably managed schedule. Arriving late for a meeting, or failing to complete a presentation or spreadsheet on time was a major no-no in his book. Time was money, and sloppy management of that most finite of resources was, quite simply, not acceptable. Yet here he was, the paragon of professionalism, wallowing in a swamp of uncertainty, not even knowing whether it was day or night.
Whether the cocksure entrepreneur wanted to admit it to himself or not, he had found himself neck-deep in a situation that was utterly alien to his otherwise knowledgeable brain. Stonehouse loved a challenge, a new battle of wits that required meticulous planning and the full use of his abilities, but this task was becoming an arduous trial. It’s difficult to compete in the game if one isn’t really sure of the rules.
Stonehouse needed to raise his game. Normally, the self-assured Englishman would blast through barriers like a charging bull, and leap over hurdles like a graceful salmon. A problem was just an opportunity waiting for a solution to be uncovered, and a dead-end was simply a secret gateway into the land of alternative options. But this scenario was different. The eternal optimist, the generator of bright ideas, had seemingly encountered a totally new obstacle: himself.
In order to persuade Finderella that he was her Prince Charming, and that her brand new pair of vampiric glass slippers was a perfect fit, Stonehouse would first of all need to convince himself that he actually knew what he was talking about, that he was capable of managing the job at hand. Knowledge was power, but the wannabe guru had effectively found himself competing in the final of a quiz show answering questions on a subject that he knew little about. Stonehouse needed to power-up, blag his way through the situation with authority.
“What’s the matter?” replied Stonehouse to Finley’s initial question. “Oh, nothing really. I just know that the window has been playing up lately. I almost trapped my hand the other day. I wouldn’t want you to chop off a finger or two.”
Of course the answer was complete ********, but it probably sounded like a reasonable enough explanation. It certainly sounded more plausible than keeping out of sunlight because it may scold your skin like a pan of boiling water. There was undoubtedly a limit to the amount of fairy tales that someone could be subjected to in a day before they hurled the giant hardback book squarely into your face. For now, at least, the truth could wait.
Stonehouse shuffled to one side, Finley retaking her place back under the duvet like a groggy bear returning to its cave. It was clearly evident that she was both physically and mentally tired, exhausted by the whole insane situation. It was no surprise. How long had it taken the confused salesman to get to grips with his own plight? Days, weeks, months even? There was an argument to say that Stonehouse was still adjusting to life after death, this latest escapade highlighting that fact that he still had much to learn. There may as well have been a glowing neon sign saying “novice” hanging above his head.
Stonehouse had lacked guidance, a mentor or teacher to show him the ropes. He had received no instruction leaflet to life as a vampire; there were no bookstores selling self-help manuals, no DVDs to watch on the subject, or support groups to attend at the local church hall. Vampires Anonymous had not yet been set up in Harper Rock. Perhaps that was a business venture just waiting to be explored?
As a young kid, Stonehouse had tried to teach himself how to play the guitar. His patience, tenacity, and unwavering determination to succeed eventually lead the bedroom rockstar to master the basics, to be able to blast out a few chords and the occasional killer riff. However, with the marvellous gift of hindsight, he should have paid for a few lessons. If nothing else, a tutor would have ironed out the mistakes. It doesn’t matter how often one practises a scale, if the notes are incorrect, it’ll always sound terrible. Even his father, a fan of classic rock from the 1970’s, had encouraged Stonehouse to have a handful of private lessons, but the stubborn son had refused. He didn’t think that he needed help; Stonehouse thought that he could succeed all by himself.
Such steadfast self-belief in his own ability to learn, in his own talents, was one of the key driving forces in Stonehouse’s story of success. But this trait was a double-edged sword. This extreme self-confidence, Stonehouse’s chutzpah, was also his Achilles’ heel. His only saving grace was that he was wise enough to note his own flaw, not that he would ever admit it aloud.
Stonehouse needed to learn from his own experiences. He had to guide Finley, be her mentor; assume the role the parent insisting that she took lessons rather than struggling alone. Somehow, Stonehouse already sensed that telling Finley to do anything that she didn’t want to do was going to be… challenging. He’d have to sweeten her up a little more first, ensure that she was onside.
“Sleep sounds like the perfect idea,” said Stonehouse. “More rest and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Time, yes. Stonehouse glanced down to the silver and gold timepiece that was strapped to his left wrist. If only he’d bothered to check his watch moments earlier, he may have spared his blushes and not acted like a bumbling circus clown, tripping over his own feet trying to grab the ankles of his newly sired childe. The delicate hands of the watch announced that dawn was approaching, so any plan that Stonehouse was about to formulate would need to be put into action pretty quickly.
“I think you’re right, too,” he continued in a softly spoken voice, buttering up Finley by agreeing with her thoughts. “Leaving the window open is a great suggestion. It’ll allow some fresh air to circulate around the room. It is a bit stuffy in here.”
There was also a bitter scent of vomit soiling the atmosphere, so a steady stream of clean air wouldn’t go amiss, but Stonehouse was hardly about to remind his guest that she’d thrown up again. Fairy tale princesses were agitated by tiny peas under their mattresses, not by watery stains of blood-tainted sick.
“But I will draw the curtains,” added Stonehouse, wandering around to the window. “The darkness will help you rest more easily.”
In fairness, a darkened room probably would assist Finley in her quest for peace and quiet, but the closed curtains would also prevent any potentially harmful sunlight from penetrating the defences of the bedroom like an ultra-violet ninja. Stonehouse pulled the curtains back together, reuniting the two pieces of material like long lost lovers. He turned to face Finley, her body wrapped up in the soft duvet, cocooning herself once more, and offered her a sympathetic smile.
“Now rest those tired eyes,” said Stonehouse gently, “and I’ll go and sort out some food for you so you have something to eat later when you feel up to it.”
Extending his smile for a few extra seconds, Stonehouse made his way to the bedroom door, exiting the room with a final glance over his shoulder, and closing the door behind him. This was his window of opportunity to prepare properly. He could siphon off a pint of his own blood, and store it in the fridge; breakfast in bed for his houseguest. But what if she needed human blood? What if she preferred a continental breakfast of croissants, muesli, and fruit juice, rather than the full English, with sausage and a mug of tea?
A weary sigh escaped from Stonehouse’s lips. An ex-girlfriend had once told him that the self-centred egotist would make a terrible parent. Maybe she wasn’t far off the mark? Fortunately for Stonehouse, he knew of a few shops, dodgy establishments serviced by shady owners that stocked bags of human blood. These emergency snacks had never appealed to Stonehouse’s senses. They were the equivalent of a microwave meal for one. Why dine from a bag when there was an entire city full of sumptuous treats? However, needs must, so concessions had to be made on today’s menu.
One such takeaway store was located inside the Corvidae Flats, a hive of peculiarity within the Quarantine Zone. Stonehouse owned an apartment in the building, although he seldom saw a need to pay it a visit. But, he was also in possession of a tome that would transport him there in a flash, so perhaps today was the day to go on a little excursion?
Collecting his magical teleportation device, Stonehouse cast a final gaze towards his closed bedroom door before vanishing into thin air. Was leaving Finley alone in his apartment a sensible move? He’d find out soon enough.
