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3.1: THE EVENING AFTER (part 1)

In which the eccentricities of the Morbid-Hilt family become apparent.

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It was dawn by the time Rupert reached the Morbid-Hilt family castle. The sun was just beginning to drag itself over the horizon, ready to begin its daily struggle with the province of Night, a dark vortex that repelled its rays, forcing them back to spill over the forested landscape of the Middling. On any normal night, Rupert would have been back behind the iron-studded doors of the castle long before, perhaps enjoying the spectacle of the sun's defeat from a tower window. Tonight, however, he barely managed to reach the edge of Night before the morning began to glow beyond the Middling's hilltops. The reason was: he had to walk.

He had to walk.

He couldn't fly.

Rupert felt utterly wretched. No more blood, no more flying... He would even tolerate turning into a bat, no matter how silly that was, because at least then he'd know he still retained some vampiric abilities, but it seemed Winkton had stripped him of that power too. He'd tried it earlier and he'd not felt even the vaguest sensation of furry ears or leathery wings. Even his eyesight seemed worse—his toes throbbed where he'd stubbed them repeatedly on his way back through the forest. What good was a vampire who couldn't drink blood, fly, see in the dark, or even turn into a bat? No good, no good at all. He could hardly even call himself a vampire any more.

And his head hurt.

Rupert trudged up the winding path to the castle, more exhausted than he'd ever been. He tried to concentrate on his legs, which wasn't something he was used to doing. Walking felt treacherous, like he was riding two unpredictable creatures that wouldn't hesitate to buck him off at any moment. It didn't help that the path wove to and fro and up and down and over rocks and under arches and round a whole array of other annoying sidetracks, all to make it atmospheric for any Middlers who dared climb it. Atmospheric, Rupert thought bitterly as he clambered up a particularly steep slope, scree shifting under his boots. Tradition. Bah.

Finally he reached the forbidding door of his home. Day was now truly breaking in the nearby Middling, weak sunlight trickling over the horizon. Rupert yanked on the tasselled bell pull and let out a groan as he heard the sonorous, drawn-out chords of 'The Funeral March' echo inside. Oh, how his head ached. He clutched at it and leant against the doorframe while he waited.

Honestly, even when it was dawn his family still held to tradition. When the bell rang, they'd all freeze in whatever they were doing, just to create the eerie silence they felt was becoming to a vampire's abode. Then they'd signal furiously and mouth things to each other, trying to decide who looked the most ominous at that moment: 'You go—you've got your cravat on.' 'No, you go. I haven't had time to sharpen my fangs!' 'For Night's sake, at least somebody go who has their hair done. Mine's all over the place!' and so on. The chosen one would then begin their slow, deliberate walk across the entrance hall toward the door.

Yep, Rupert could hear them now: the tap... tap... tap... of footsteps echoing in the cold stone hallway. The whole thing was absurd. It wasn't as though they weren't expecting him back. He gave another groan as his head throbbed. He couldn't stand to wait any longer. He could barely stand to stand any longer. His legs were the consistency of custard. Lifting his fists, Rupert attempted to hammer on the door. The result was more like a weak pawing.

"Let me in! It's Rupert! It's Rupert..." Exhausted, he leant against the door again, only to stumble and almost fall, arms pinwheeling, as it flew open.