Griffinwood Close

Emil Jones is losing blood.

It gushes from his neck as he drags himself through the forest, the bottom of his boots gummed up with dead leaves. His breath is ragged and loud in his ears. The smell of his sweat and blood mingles with the dampness of the night. His hand covers his neck, but it does little to stop the blood that flows hot and sticky down his arm.

He thinks about the beast who tore a chunk from his neck, but his brain reminds him it wasn’t a beast but a man.

Just a man with blond hair and tar-black eyes. His teeth may have been predator-sharp, his grip like that of a lion grasping onto his dinner, but even delirious with blood loss, Emil thinks that it is not the weapon itself that is evil but how the soldier decides to use it. The man was made a beast by the dogma—evident by the red band around his arm—that courses through his heart, his beliefs as dark as the night sky in the city.

The sky in the forest is different than the sky in the city. It is brighter for one, no longer a coarse black blanket made solid by a permanent fog. Instead, it is a silky, luminescent blue beset with jewels. The earth smells differently here, too. Older, yet freshly turned, with a sense of some impending performance of green. It is late Winter, he seems to recall, and Spring is knocking on the door.

The trees thin and Emil comes upon a clearing of tall grass turned soft in the moonlight. He is lost, he realizes, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t know how much longer he can drag his body forward through the endless night. The dizziness is already setting in, turning the grass into undulating waves. There is a roaring in his ears, like an ocean breaking against the shore—but there is no ocean, or maybe there is and he is the shore. The noise washes over him as he stumbles forward into the field, fighting against the knowledge that he will succumb to the bite in his neck and the venom coursing through his veins.

But then, suddenly, it is no longer a field but a circular courtyard lined with mismatched houses. The entrance is marked by a wrought-iron gate dripping with a passionflower vine. Together, the iron and waxy green tendrils of the vine reach up and over, meeting in the middle above the entryway to form the words “Griffinwood Close.”

Beyond the gate, a fountain, crowned by a winged creature, sits in the center of the courtyard. Both eagle and lion are represented in bronze, the sculpture tarnished with age. The air smells sweet, like lilacs and freshly baked bread.

Emil stumbles forward again, toward the fountain, intent on remedying the dryness in his mouth.

He kneels, his hands black with dirt, and clutches the edge of the fountain. His blood smears against the white stone, and he feels a pang of embarrassment. What would his mother think of his manners, getting blood on everything…

He leans forward. He can just make out his reflection in the water, his angular features covered in mud and blood, and something else—a thick black substance that oozed from the soldiers he fought on the battlefield. The tip of his nose just touches the water before he releases a shaky breath and succumbs to the pain.

The peal of the bell signifies an emergency town meeting, and Altair is not happy about this. However, as per Section 2B, Paragraph 1 of the Griffinwood Lease Agreement, he is contractually obliged to attend any and all town meetings, regardless of the hour.

So he tosses back his quilt and ties his robe around his waist before stalking, quite angrily, out of Number Two and into the courtyard. His mouth is open, about to spew forth a selection of complaints, when the smell of blood hits him like a wall, and he closes his mouth quickly, clenching his jaw against the tightness in his gums.

His teeth sharpen into fine points when he sees the body crumpled beside the fountain, a hunter’s instinct thrumming deep in his bones. His mouth waters, trying to convince him that he is thirsty, though he shouldn’t be after his dinner an hour earlier. He can smell the earthiness of the person—a heady mix of musk and green grass and something a little floral, like orange blossoms. Underneath, however, is the scent of blood-soaked earth, broken wood, and a hint of decay.

Whoever it is, they are very close to death.

Altair’s neighbor, Mrs. Flint of Number Three, is leaning over the body, still ringing the bell.

“Yes,” he says. “We hear you.”

Mrs. Flint jumps slightly, giving him a confused look. Then, her bright red eyes float down to her arm, which is still ringing the bell as if of its own accord. “Oh, dear,” she says, lowering her arm. She turns the bell upside down and holds it by the clapper, her long nails scratching briefly against the metal. Her lower jaw juts forward, showing her pointy teeth, and she furrows her brow in worry, clutching her nightgown tighter around her chest.

As a redcap, she should be wearing the knitted hat that she would have received at birth and subsequently soaked in the blood of those she would have been expected to kill. However, Mrs. Flint didn’t have the stomach for violence, despite her genetic inheritance, and Altair has only seen her wear her cap once, when she stumbled into Griffinwood looking confused and bleary-eyed. It was a faded pink, so faint that he could tell immediately she only had one death on her hands (a significant amount less than a redcap at her age should have accumulated).

“So sorry, Altair,” she says, “but I wasn’t sure what to do. I heard him cross under the arch.” She gestures vaguely toward the entryway. There is a trail of blood that leads out beyond the fence and into the forest beyond.

The forest is a lie, however. Griffinwood Close does not exist in the middle of a forest, or, indeed, in the middle of anywhere. As an entirely self-sufficient pocket of reality that reveals itself to whomever it feels it can help, it just is.

Altair looks down at their unexpected arrival—a young man clearly in need of refuge. He is on his side, a lock of hair covering his face. He wears a military uniform, though because of the peculiarities of Griffinwood’s existence, the soldier could be from any number of places, eras, or dimensions, and Altair isn’t able to determine what kind of military uniform it is. There is something in the manner of design, however, that makes him think the soldier is from his own world, though certainly from a later time than Altair.

“I pulled him out of the fountain,” says Mrs. Flint, “to check for a pulse. He’s still alive.”

A large wound marks the man’s neck, dark and clotted with blood. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

Altair nods. “I can hear a heartbeat, but it is faint and fading fast.”

By now, the Close is awake, porch lights flickering on as the residents, so rudely called away from potential slumber, file out of their homes, pulling on sweaters and robes and rubbing their eyes. They gather around the fallen soldier, their faces lit by the unearthly glow of the false moon above.

Briar Fernbug and his roommate, Markos (last name unknown), from Number Four, stand on the other side of Mrs. Flint.

“What is it?” asks Briar. His hooves nervously clop against the cobblestone, and he reaches up to touch the tip of one of his horns that curls back from his forehead and around his ear—a nervous habit that is common among fauns, similar to how pixies chew their nails down to the quick or how hobgoblins twist their stolen rings around their spindly fingers. Briar was brutally punished and subsequently cast out of his village for accidentally stepping on the robe of an elvish dignitary, and, since then, he is often in a state of worry that he has either offended someone or accidentally hurt them in some way. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as a book in Altair’s library defined it.

Markos frowns and raises his gloved hands, signing an answer. “A man.”

Although Markos’s voice was stolen before he was born, his touch was stolen by a witch much later in life. Even gifted as he is with his own magic, he has never been able to find a counter-curse to the cruel punishment enacted on him when he was a foolish boy, too ready to kiss and lie. The witch’s curse ensures that everything Markos touches eventually withers, including the gloves he wears. He typically gets two weeks of use out of a pair of gloves before the edges fray and the stitches come loose. A sewing circle (mandatory as per Section 3A, Paragraph 5 of the Griffinwood Lease Agreement) ensures Markos will always have a new pair of gloves. Altair makes a mental note that his right-hand glove is due soon.

“What should we do?” asks Mrs. Flint.

“We’ll need Dawn,” says Briar, looking for the red-haired witch who lives in Number Five.

Dawn Abberton steps forward with her wand raised. “I’m here.” She and her son, Henry, are the newest residents of Griffinwood Close, chased here by hellhounds intent on killing Henry, the heir to the throne of the Underworld. Dawn had no idea that the man she had fallen in love with was a demon, let alone a high-ranking official who was at the forefront of a coup against whoever was in charge of the Underworld at the time. Altair could never keep track, to be frank. “Please step back. I’ll need to cast some diagnostic spells to get an idea of what’s wrong.”

Altair snorts. “We can tell what’s wrong. It’s the man’s neck. He’s been bitten.”

“Bitten by what?” asks Dawn’s son, pushing through to stand next to his mother. When they first moved to Griffinwood Close, Henry was barely up to his mother’s hip. Now the boy is almost as tall as his mother, who is a head shorter than Altair. Two horns have just broken through the skin on his forehead, and his leathery wings are tucked close behind him. His fourteenth birthday is next Autumn, and Altair has had the misfortune of being selected for the Party Planning Committee.

“A vampire,” says a soft voice behind the group.

Altair turns, though he knows what he will see before he does: a fae leaning on a cane of twisted, knotted oak. Her wings are large and paper-thin, resembling wrinkled leaves falling to the earth between seasons. They stand so tall off her back that he can see the pale globe of the moon through them. Her arms are lined with thorns, and her head is covered with rose petals, curling around her pointed ears and resting against the collar of her nightgown. Her waxy green tendrils of hair fall around her shoulders and cascade down her back. Her body is slim and youthful, but her shoulders droop with age, weighed down by the necklace of walnut shells around her throat that stores her memories.

Arabella Twigs lives in Number One, and, although she is not the founder of Griffinwood Close, she has called the Close home far longer than any of her neighbors. She looks up at Altair. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

He nods, his eyes closed. “I can smell it.”

“Indeed,” she says, her eyes crinkling in approval. “It’s not just the smell of a vampire you detect, though, is it?” Arabella looks up at him beneath dew-lined eyelashes.

“No,” he admits. “It’s a particular vampire.” He is aware of his neighbors’ gaze as he looks down at the wounded soldier and sighs. “It’s him. It’s Valentine.”

The name falls from his lips, and he imagines it landing on the ground in front of him to seep in between the cobblestones, putrefying the earth below. A befitting image to represent Valentine, leader of a sect of vampires whose sole endeavor is shedding human blood while causing the most amount of pain and chaos possible. Valentine was a ruthless ruler, though, admittedly, not as ruthless as Altair had once been. The smell of rot and copper comes to him unbidden, and his throat bobs in unfelt emotion, recalling the particular sound of mortal screams, throaty with despair.

Arabella is still looking at him curiously—they all are, he realizes with some alarm—as if waiting for the answer to a question she hasn’t asked yet.

When Altair arrived at Griffinwood Close, he was half-mad with sorrow. He still remembers the feeling—like a hole torn in his chest. That Valentine could reach him here—in the safe refuge absconded from both time and space existing in some sliver between universes—is almost unfathomable. And yet, the thought is equally inevitable, as resolute as a bogie’s ability to fall for the simplest of lies.

Altair feels no better than a bogie at the moment. He had, indeed, been trying to trick himself into thinking that Valentine had long since forgiven his transgressions, or perhaps even forgotten him altogether. With the arrival of this unexpected neighbor and his rapidly healing vampire bite that smells of copper and tree bark decaying in the damp, Altair wonders if this is a message for him. At the very least, he doubts this is a coincidence, having, quite some time ago, decided that coincidences are always lies.

Yet the sinking fear in his stomach is not for himself but for his neighbors, who welcomed him to Griffinwood Close with open arms and have worked diligently without complaint to accommodate his dietary requirements and make him feel welcome and appreciated.

“He can’t track him here,” he says, much more confidently than he feels, “unless there is something of his—something with which he carries a bond—to help him detect the border. Bonds are intentional. This bite is savage, the likely result of battle. He might not have even meant to turn him. Otherwise, Griffinwood Close will remain hidden, only revealed to those in need. And I highly doubt Valentine is in need.”

It is speculation at best, but his neighbors accept his reasoning with curt nods, including Arabella, who purses her lips in agreement at this answer.

Arabella looks at the young soldier and then up at the griffin sculpture crowning the fountain. “Our esteemed guardian has selected a new resident for us, it would seem.”