The Demon Boy

Day One - Night

     The smell that rolls out hits the pair, boy and toff both, with a force that surpasses the scent of the pub's stew in all the wrong ways. It's reek of stale sweat, mildew, and old booze. The boy tries not to breathe, tries not to retch. He's gonna be sick. He bites the feeling back and bites his tongue for good measure.

     If a whiff is enough to make him retch, he doesn't dare look at what's hunched in the doorway. Just a peep will kill him dead of fright, so he bores holes in the shreds of what was once a doormat that are lying at his feet, pretending there is nothing more fascinating than this in the whole, wide world.

     Who's he kidding? He's so jumpy he almost leaps over the manor and onto the roof when the thing at the door speaks.

     He didn't think it could speak.

     "What... What the 'ell do you want?" The voice slurs on a breath that's been marinating for days in sour ale.

     It's not a pleasant experience for the ears, or the nose, but it's no different from listening to your average drunkard. This fact surprises the boy enough to make him forget he wasn't supposed to look at the awful thing in the doorway. More shocking still is that 'the awful thing' isn't so awful after all. No more so than any other mean drunk he's seen, and he's seen plenty.

     As the toff goes off on his tangent about 'CODY this', 'suitable lodgings that', and 'nurturing environment whatevers', the boy remains quite fixated on this man. Yes, this man, whom he's never met and has been terribly mistaken about in all assumptions made so far. The boy is not sure what to think of him.

     This man is a drunk, yes. He smells bad, however most drunks do. Yet, most importantly, he is a man.

     The boy blinks at the thought, not understanding it. He was not expecting this... his uncle to be a man. Or such a common sort of man. He blinks again. The gears in his addled head finish spinning, the recent fact finally registering with a resounding, internal 'PING' as the world resumes turning.

     His uncle is a man. Moreover, he is not a particularly remarkable man. The thought is as disappointing and underwhelming as it is mildly disturbing. More disturbing still is that said man is currently giving him, actually both of them on the doorstep, a glassy stink eye.

     The boy flinches a beat before his uncle slurs "Piss off!" at them and slams the door on their toes, literally in the toff's case. Who else would be stupid enough to stick their foot in a doorway with a heavy oak door rapidly bearing down on them?

     "Did I mention the generous monthly stipend?" The toff hisses loudly through his teeth, hoping the mention of it would entreat some mercy on his poor foot.

     "I dun care wha'ever stipen' yer sellin'."

     "Money! Free money! Every month!"

     The press of the door eases immediately. The toff snatches his battered shoe from peril. He hisses again at the movement, but hides his grimace. Seeing the uncle eyeing him warily, with more interest, from around the crack in the doorway, the toff rapidly presses on. "You'll get money, lots of money, free in what's called a 'stipend' at the end of every month. It's a charity thing. No strings attached. All you need to do is take care of the boy." He nudges said boy forward, however dead set the boy may be against being nudged, forward or otherwise. Especially not forward. Not while his uncle is eyeing him like a... a... a peddy-phil.

     The boy does not actually know what a 'peddy-phil' is, thanks to the sisters' talent at diverting attention away from taboo topics. He only knows it's some very awful thing he should keep very clear of. He decides is uncle is very much like a peddy-phil. He should stay far, far away. Too bad the toff thinks differently. Even his uncle is warming up to having him around, going so far as to invite them (the toff really, the boy's just an extension) inside to further discuss that 'stipen''.