The Demon Boy

Day Two - Morning

     A strange squeaking wakes the boy. He's never heard anything like it. It's coming from above his head.

     He swears loudly and jerks away. It's only after he presses himself against the footboard that he looks back and realizes both the window and its sill are empty. He squints, rubs his bleary eyes, and looks again.

     Still nothing. Not a mouse to be found.

     It dawns on him that the squeaking is coming from outside the window. He sticks his head out, not touching the blasted frame as much as possible. He searches this way and that. Finally, he looks up and spots movement high in tree branches a short distance away.

     What in blazes are those? One of them shoots off from the green and arks into sky blue. It twitters and squeaks in lilting song.

     "Bird... It's a bird." The boy didn't think anything on earth could make sound so wonderful. He has trouble connecting the rough noise the city crows barked with the light melodies he's hearing now. They're both birds, but why are they so different?

     He stays there, mouth agape, until his neck aches. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away. There's other things that need doing. He looks about his room. He was too rattled and the room too dark for proper scrutiny last night. The morning rays are keen enough to see by, though it's filtered through the fringe of the forest, and by it he spies three beds: the one he's sitting on, settled beneath the window in the middle of the room, and the other two pressed against the walls to either side of his bed. He could only see the one bed in last night's shadows.

     He frowns. What else did he miss? He slips off the bed and wanders about the room. He inspects the crumbling walls, opens each chest of drawers at the foot of each bed. He holds up the moth eaten pantyhose within, dropping it like a dead rat once he recognizes what it is. He averts his eyes and nudges the chest closed with his foot.

     With that revelation, the room has been sufficiently explored. Onto the rest of the house. The kitchen seems a good next step.

     He puts on his shoes and makes his way into the corridor. He licks his lips as he closes the door behind him, but he isn't greeted by the sweet smell of breakfast like he imagined. He pokes his head into the kitchen, just to be sure, but what he sees isn't what he hopes. The counters and tables are covered in layers of grey as thick as the stuff in his room. Nobody has cooked breakfast in here for ages.

     His stomach growls. What does it take to get a bite to eat around here? Asking the other residents of the manor is out of the question. He doesn't know his uncle well enough to speak to him; he might get boxed for looking at him wrong. He doesn't trust the foreigner more than he does his uncle. He's the only one up to the task, so in he goes to find some edible crumb.

    It's nostalgic really, rummaging through drawers and cupboards, searching for useful odds and ends. Sometimes it was shining baubles and trinkets to pawn off later. Otherwise, he was searching for crusts of bread and other leftovers, not unlike what he's doing now. He finds plenty of shining things in the form of blackening silverware, but scarcely more than that. Nothing he's yet found could be edible. A homemade breakfast does not appear to be in today's plans.

     He huffs and pockets several small, sparkly spoons from a drawer close at hand. If worse comes to worse, he can barter for enough coins to buy a meal in town. And that is exactly what he plans to do.

     He pokes his head into the hall, on the watch for any who might take offence at the hard forms of silver bulging in his pockets. He sees no one, not a soul in sight. He hears no one. If he strains his ears, he can hear the echoes of rumbling snores, but there's too many echoes in the house to tell where they're coming from. No matter. They come from afar and that's good enough. It's footsteps that worry him, both his own and not his. Especially not his. Those are the ones that herald the most trouble. But there's nothing around, save that faint snoring.

     The coast is clear. Time to disappear. Time to make a profit.

     The boy steps lightly. He sticks close to the walls where the old floor won't dip and squawk at him, where the gloom hides him like an oyster does a pearl. He knows the routine so well it's carved into his young bones for all he knows. Comfort comes from such familiarity. His body is taut, pressed close to the walls as a shadow. His heart, however, is at ease. A calm seeps into him. His thoughts slow and grow quiet. He forgets whose house this is, forgets he lives here. He's back in the city, burgling some fancy mansion on a job.

     He recalls a Chinaman he knows who deals in antiques. His English is broken, but he knows how to bargain like the devil. Better still, he knows quality goods when he sees them and offers better prices than the boy will get from most. The boy plans to visit him shortly.

     He slinks round the other corner and freezes. The exit's right there, but he doesn't relax. He eyes the main hall and peers up the stairs to the balcony above. So many places to be spotted from. This is the most dangerous section of any grand house. Foot traffic is inevitably centered around this area. A servant could walk in and find him at any second and there's no conveniently placed pieces of furniture to hide him. It's a bee line between here and the door, no stops are allowed. Time yourself well.

     The boy breaths. He checks one last time for hidden eyes; he finds none. He pricks his ears for footfalls; he hears none. He tenses. He flows towards the exit as silent and fluid as a fleeting shade. The bolt on the door is fumbled for a second before something slips through the smallest gap levered between door and frame. And then it's gone without sight or sound, treasure and boy shadow both. Nobody was wiser, not until long after the unseen thief was gone.

     The boy mentally traces the twisting route to his Chinaman. He freezes when he turns around and sees green, not the soot stained, stone alleys he was half-expecting. The realization crashes over him, leaving him damp in cold sweat. He's in Glenholm again and he's just stolen quite a pretty penny's worth in silver from his uncle. He'll be dead or worse once the theft is noticed. Hopefully the toff will have gotten him out of here by then.

     He doesn't count on it. He'll feign ignorance when reckoning comes and hope for the best when it does. Today, breakfast awaits.