Once, in warm townhouse, on a Bristol street framed with trees, lived a
young boy named William. He was an imaginative child, spending hours
playing in sun-dappled rooms he envisioned as the stage for his great
adventures.
William's mother was a nervous woman, a trait made worse by her husband's late hours of research. And the stories he would bring home, stories of his work, of the Slayer, stories he would recount to his delighted son, who he cradled close in his generous lap. The fretful woman already feared her son would wish to follow in his father's danger laden footsteps. And they said it was in his blood, indeed that it was his destiny. But, she reasoned, he was just a child of three. There was no reason to burden so bright and happy a child with the knowledge of such evil in the world.
One night, William's father didn't come home. This had happened before, but tonight was different. It was scarier. Mother watched out the window, becoming more and more frantic as the hours passed. When Mary came to put William to bed, he begged the nanny to let him with wait with his mother, but a wave of his mother's hand exiled him to the cold of his bedroom. He awoke to his aunt packing his clothes. Quickly and up, William, we're off to the country. He spent the next months at Aunt Vera's country estate. His queries about his father were ignored. His mother visited over a weekend, but she too brushed off his questions. In time, he stopped asking, and eventually, he forgot what to ask.
After an eternity, he returned to his home in Bristol. And his mother was there with a strange man. His mother reminded William that this was his father. But William wasn't so sure. Shortly after, the family moved away from the warm house to a fancy one. William was given a big room with many toys, and in time he forgot all that had passed before. Never one to dwell in the past, he only remembered living in this house, in London. And the man they now told him was his father, became the only father he could remember.
More time passed and the family grew. He now had a brother and several sisters. His father doted on the younger ones, but not William, whom he treated with cold indifference. His mother coddled him, and William grew to be the apple of his mother's eye. And she protected him, she thought, from the dangers that walked the world. On his eighteenth birthday, his mother knew that by right the Council of Watchers could come and take him away, to train him to follow in his father's footsteps. But she had hidden him well, and they never came. William went to Eton, studied literature, took his Grand Tour, lived his normal life. His mother breathed a sigh of relief. Her son was safe.
But she had been a fool. She had not understood that although she could hide from William who he was, she could not protect him from it. For it was in his blood, and it was that blood that drew a raven-haired demoness to him as he wept alone in an alley. When they found his seemingly lifeless body, it was decided that the remains were too gruesome to be shown to his family. But his mother knew what had befallen her child; she knew all too well her failure.
William's mother was a nervous woman, a trait made worse by her husband's late hours of research. And the stories he would bring home, stories of his work, of the Slayer, stories he would recount to his delighted son, who he cradled close in his generous lap. The fretful woman already feared her son would wish to follow in his father's danger laden footsteps. And they said it was in his blood, indeed that it was his destiny. But, she reasoned, he was just a child of three. There was no reason to burden so bright and happy a child with the knowledge of such evil in the world.
One night, William's father didn't come home. This had happened before, but tonight was different. It was scarier. Mother watched out the window, becoming more and more frantic as the hours passed. When Mary came to put William to bed, he begged the nanny to let him with wait with his mother, but a wave of his mother's hand exiled him to the cold of his bedroom. He awoke to his aunt packing his clothes. Quickly and up, William, we're off to the country. He spent the next months at Aunt Vera's country estate. His queries about his father were ignored. His mother visited over a weekend, but she too brushed off his questions. In time, he stopped asking, and eventually, he forgot what to ask.
After an eternity, he returned to his home in Bristol. And his mother was there with a strange man. His mother reminded William that this was his father. But William wasn't so sure. Shortly after, the family moved away from the warm house to a fancy one. William was given a big room with many toys, and in time he forgot all that had passed before. Never one to dwell in the past, he only remembered living in this house, in London. And the man they now told him was his father, became the only father he could remember.
More time passed and the family grew. He now had a brother and several sisters. His father doted on the younger ones, but not William, whom he treated with cold indifference. His mother coddled him, and William grew to be the apple of his mother's eye. And she protected him, she thought, from the dangers that walked the world. On his eighteenth birthday, his mother knew that by right the Council of Watchers could come and take him away, to train him to follow in his father's footsteps. But she had hidden him well, and they never came. William went to Eton, studied literature, took his Grand Tour, lived his normal life. His mother breathed a sigh of relief. Her son was safe.
But she had been a fool. She had not understood that although she could hide from William who he was, she could not protect him from it. For it was in his blood, and it was that blood that drew a raven-haired demoness to him as he wept alone in an alley. When they found his seemingly lifeless body, it was decided that the remains were too gruesome to be shown to his family. But his mother knew what had befallen her child; she knew all too well her failure.