When Josse rose to speak, it was standing room only. Every chair, sofa, bench and beanbag on the ground floor of the warehouse was occupied, as were the steps leading up to the loft. More residents were perching on windowsills, leaning against walls or lolling about on the rugs. The first house meeting of the new year was packed.
Sometimes, out of the blue, Josse and Adelphine were hit by the full realisation of just how large their shelter had grown. Initially, it was just that one dark, damp, rat-infested cellar where he had concealed her from their neighbours, all those years ago, and where she had decided to stay until the dust had settled after the Manneken incident.
It didn’t settle for a quite a while, and by that time Josse had found more fey folk in need of time out. He had needed a hand; she’d had lots to make up for, karma-wise. And they’d come to appreciate each other. A bit. Maybe. It’s complicated.
Eventually, they branched out from their cellar through tunnels and underground galleries and into the impasse – up towards the light, though never in plain sight. Their hidden hostel became a comfortable, well-appointed place for those at risk from pitchfork-bearing villagers to rest and regroup. All mod cons; no rats in sight.
These days, the impasse alone housed at least three score residents at any given time – local lutinry not included, as nobody had ever managed to count the impasse’s complement of pointy-bonneted pranksters. And there were plenty more community members – large, small and go-figure – living their best lives in the hostel’s vast underground reaches.
“Good morning,” said Josse, trying to ignore the sound of a latecomer running the espresso machine in the kitchen corner.
As usual, he was speaking from a seat at one of the tables rather than from the stage on the far side of the dance floor, where Adelphine sat cross-legged under the glitter ball, surrounded by Zinneke dogs. She had brought a brush and made a start on the coat of a particularly shaggy puppy. It didn’t seem to appreciate her efforts.
“Thank you for coming. As some of you know, I called our monthly meeting early because there were a few things that wouldn’t keep.”
Josse explained about the water damage next door and the impending visit of the leak detection expert.
“In the loft, just after a full moon?” The werewolves, who had been divvying up the contents of their table’s bowl of pastries according to some lupine algorithm known only to them, froze and bristled. The other weres – a bear and a squirrel – seemed equally alarmed.
“It’s OK, they agreed to postpone. But they will be sending someone, and everything has to look perfectly mainstream when they do. I’ll schedule a drill; we haven’t had one in ages.”
He waited until the laughter had died down. Look-normal drills rarely went to plan, if only because the community had never managed to agree what “looking normal” actually entails. Many remembered heated arguments about a resident demon’s questionable fashion choices.
“I don’t think the water is coming from here,” Josse continued, “but I’ve asked the lutins to have a look just to be on the safe side. Frouch, Zou, do you have any news for us?”
On the lutins’ viewing platform, a small sea of caps was eagerly bobbing up and down. “No leaks yet,” the high-pitched voices shouted, drowning each other out. The full response was unclear, but it seemed they wanted more time. Were having great fun. And there was something about huuuuuge spiders.
There seemed to be more to it, given that Frouch had pulled back another lutin and held a hand over his squirming friend’s mouth. Both had gone invisible a split second later, but Josse had clearly seen them before they blinked out.
“OK, let me know how you get on,” Josse concluded, making a note to look into it later. “There’s something else, though.”
He explained the spy stunt and his suspicion that it might have been instigated by a scoundrel of the schieven architek variety.
A close-up of the culprit appeared on the home cinema screen on the TV side of the room, above the ticker with the running translation into Chlurp that Minuit provided for the benefit of the hostel’s sole extraterrestrial resident. A small window overlaying its top right corner showed the live feed from the cellar of the tavern, where a remote display enabled Ladrache to attend despite being bound to his haunting grounds.
“Something’s coming our way,” Josse pursued. “I don’t know what, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Meanwhile, we need to be extra-careful. Azélie is doubling the rounds, and you all need to remain on full alert. Anything unusual happens; tell her or me straight away.”
He proceeded to explain that his decision to put up drone netting was now final, despite the vampires’ objections. The impasse was vulnerable to attacks from above – and, despite their legendary vigilance, lightning reflexes and flying prowess (it never hurt to flatter a vampire, and most of them were too vain to notice), even they couldn’t guarantee that they would be able to catch a drone before it could transmit footage to some cloud service.
“I know you hate the idea, but we don’t have a choice,” he added. “That said, the netting will just cover the impasse. The roofs will stay clear, and I’ll put in bat vents so that you can still come and go as you please.”
The vampires didn’t look pleased, but it was rarely good news when they did.
“Don’t hassle Mr Obnoxious if you do see him. Just observe and report. For the moment, we’re gathering information. The time for action will come.”