by Jeremy Craig
“I need to know, Gretta. Trafficking in weaponized spirits is a serious matter. Who was the last living soul to reserve Room 33?” Gramps indignantly argued by the door, holding a bag of frozen peas over one side of his face.
Jaw set she made an unhappy sound at this and stared at him with unblinkingly dead in the eyes (which showed no small amount of guts as looking a fully grown Darkling in the eyes is something most Fey have a great deal of difficulty doing).
“I’m sorry, Artur, I really am. You know better than most that the Reunion Inn has a strict, unbreakable blood pact policy of privacy with each and every customer for their privacy and protection—It’s not that I don’t want to help you, it’s that I can’t. Trust me on this if on nothing else. This pisses me off almost as much as it does you. To think someone came here and used our facilities to summon a Level Ten spirit that killed several well to do guests to try to take you and your grandson out, and almost bagged me to boot…”
She shook her head and stomped a foot for emphasis as something worrisome lit beneath the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Just trust me, Artur. The Coven deals with this kind of betrayal in its own way. This won’t go unanswered.”
“Bugger the bloody rules. This is serious,” Gramps growled, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side, the knuckles cracking.
“You keep saying that like I’m not fully cognizant of it. Trust me when I assure you that I definitely am. It’s just that my hands are quite effectively tied. You want justice, find out who did it and tell the Coven. Then trust me… You will get some serious justice.” Gretta fixed him with a sinisterly blunt look that made me shudder. “Also, I’m sure that I don’t have to remind you, Artur, that if you do manage to ferret out reliable and concrete intel on who did this before our own investigation is concluded, and happen to send it our way, the Coven is never shy about expressing its gratitude.”
Gramps snorted derisively at that, rolling his one visible eye and barking out a harsh laugh that made it quite plain he wasn’t buying a word of what Gretta was selling.
The obviously frustrated Witch gave him a conflicted but withering look, making a low scoffing sound as she glanced over her shoulder at me and nodded meaningfully to Gramps who turned and offered me a week smile through his bag of frozen sweet peas.
“How are you feeling?” he asked wearily. I grimaced in answer as I pushed myself up in the bed. “That good, huh?” Gramps smirked. “We’ve got lots to talk about, Ben, but you did well. Better than well in fact, but we will talk more when we get home, ok?” I nodded and rubbed at my throbbing head.
“Well,” Gretta interrupted, “hate to break up a touching moment and all, but I’m officially instructed by…upper, upper management.” She winched at this. “That you, Ben Bright, have their personal thanks for your services and that you now have a regular comped reservation privilege at the Reunion Inn whenever you want it. I don’t know what you did, little boy, but it has even my boss’s bosses shook.” She eyed me narrowly over the top of her glasses before pushing them back up her nose.
“So, no more moldering crab apple lollypops?” I asked weakly as I rubbed at my throbbing head and tried to put things together enough to make sense of what she was talking about. It dawned on me right about then that I had felt the same when I awoke after blacking out following the spider demon attack at Craggmore.
She laughed and nodded. “Artur, see you again same time next year?” Gramps grunted his ascent, and after fixing me with another narrow, uneasy stare, she was turning on her high heels and off through the door and hurrying back down the hall as quick as can be.
“You know, I’m really starting to get the impression that Witch doesn’t appreciate our patronage of this fine establishment.” Gramps chuckled, wincing painfully, and clutching at his ribs at the effort of it as he watched her scurry off.
Manx seemed quite happy with the treat Gramps had ordered him from room service, munching happily on the two thick, juicy, raw porterhouse steaks and soup bone Gramps had tossed into the truck bed alongside a shredded copy of the “Reunion Inn pet policy” that had come up with it that outlined that infernal beasts were strictly forbidden on the grounds.
Gramps had torn it up in front of the terrified looking Witch that had delivered the food who had ran off pushing her cart down the hall as fast as her six inch heals could take her after pocketing her tip.
Chapter Eight
Arson, a promise, and the Elf King…
The ride home was again silent—me sitting staring out the window while Gramps drove and puffed on his pipe. Gramps kept glancing at me though, a thoughtful look on his puffy, black and blue face whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice as I slurped at my mint chocolate chip milkshake I’d gotten as my part of our room service order, peering despondently out the window.
We smelled the smoke before we saw it, acrid, and evil smelling. Nothing like the rich cloying sweetness of a campfire or a pipe of tobacco. It was at this point Gramps put his foot down hard on the gas pedal and with a spurt of tiny stones and dust we sped down the road.
The closer we got the more an unnatural cold settled over me, raising goose flesh in my arms and making me shiver. I glanced from my milkshake to Gramps who all but floored it at in his panicked hurry to get home.
It was horrible.
Right outside our gates sat several saddled, rather stunning brilliant, iridescent white unicorns pawing at the road testily. White Owl, grimmer than usual, stood outside the gate leaning on the stone pillar, arms folded, cowboy hat brim low over his face, smoking a fat cigar. All about Fey milled uncertainly, parting for the truck as Gramps pulled in, his battered face paling as he caught sight of the mess.
The guesthouse and workshop were reduced to almost nothing. A couple of blackened boards hung from warped timbers, some twisted metal and charred ruin that still billowed out black smoke high into the air. The main cabin had thankfully fared much better, although it to had gained an ugly blackened patch about the porch.
White Owl met us as Gramps put the truck in park and, a bit shakily fumbled out, leaning heavily on the door.
“Clampetts through us a little Molotov cocktail party. I couldn’t save the outbuildings, but I sent them off when they got to your house,” White Owl explained as he helped Gramps out of the truck, dark eyes taking in his state and widening but said nothing as he and Gramps walked to the Lodge.
Manx who had nimbly leapt down from the truck bed was sniffing the air and growling, staying right at my side as I closed the door shut and gazed about wearily, the by now all too familiar chill dancing unpleasantly through my veins.
White Owl brought Gramps to a stop with a gentle hand on his chest and shook his head. “You saw the Elf mounts?” he asked softly, to which Gramps only nodded as I wandered up to his side. It was a terrible reminder of my parents’ home.
“Why are they here?” Gramps asked uneasily.
“Why do you think?” White Owl chuckled darkly.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Gramps peered from the unicorn mounts to the door of his home and shook his head. “After all these years…”
“I cannot go in,” White Owl advised sadly, as he nodded his understanding and gave the lodge door a deeply dirty look as if the Elf’s touching it had somehow left it befouled. “Will you be civil?” he finally asked and Gramps took a deep breath as he peered at the grass at his feet and slowly exhaled.
“We’ll be fine,” Gramps assured. “Manx, stay,” he commanded, the Witchound giving him a troubled sounding whine of understanding, staring up at his companion with obvious misgivings as he plopped down obediently at White Owl’s feet.
Releasing a long unhappy breath, Gramps took my arm in a vice grip and together, we headed for the porch. Smashed glass had been carefully swept up, ruined outdoor furniture piled up in the yard, smoking and blackened.
The closer we got I realized that it actually didn’t look too bad, but the smell that lingered anywhere that had been burned w
as more than foul. Obviously, whatever the Clampetts had packed into their arsonist cocktails had an awful throat inchingly rank odor to it.
The house door was opened for us by what was unmistakably a full-blooded Elf, wearing the hooded and silver tree crested supple leather armor of a Royal Hunter, the famous guardians of the Elvish High Kings. An almost cultish regiment of noble born veteran trackers and killers only outstripped in celebrity and infamy by the secretive sect of midnight cloaked elven warriors of the Black Watch, who were said to protect the hidden gates to the Elvish homeland.
As to Elves, there is a great deal of Human lore on these mythical beings. So, let’s dissuade any invasion of human literature in this. Yes, they are forest dwelling. Yes, they have immensely powerful magic. Yes, they are ancient and deeply protective of nature. Other than that, Humanity is spotty at best on them. No, they don’t make toys for Santa Clause and definitely don’t make cookies in a tree kitchen or any other such nonsense.
In reality, Elves tend to be tall and lean and almost always have long hair (don’t ask me why, it’s just their thing) which is always black and straightened. As a race they have large, almond shaped deep green eyes, like polished emeralds, dark skin, and pointed ears.
As a species, they also possess the disturbing and unique ability to settle into a likely magical stillness (they will never admit its magic as they smugly like to brag that it’s a learned skill the other races are too impatient and unevolved to learn) that renders them almost invisible (almost like chameleons but more stabby), which make them formidable hunters, of animals and when necessary, nightmarish assassins of the races.
They are the third longest living of the Races, which due to their problematically photographic memory and at times, obstinate nature, can make them a bit unpleasant to deal with. As they also tend to be extremely dangerous if offended—even holding whole families and blood lines accountable for an affront, even when the actual offender is centuries dead.
The young hunter holding the door for us was the very picture of this. He had a neatly trimmed short beard and hawk like features and rested his sword arm on an exquisitely jeweled hilt belted at his waist. A great yew longbow and quiver of goose feather arrows was slung over his back.
I know, bow and arrows. How primitive, right? Wrong. Each and every one of those arrows is enchanted and every bit as deadly in the hands of an Elf as the best of Humanity’s firearms. More so if I have to be honest.
Inside waiting were two more with their worn brown leather hoods up peering out the windows with their hands clasped behind their backs. Another sat with his feet up on Gramps’ coffee table on the sofa by the fire flicking though one of his books.
This Elf however was no mere hunter, with hair pleated and decorated with crystals, carved jade beads and wearing robes of rich green under his richly embossed, jeweled, and engraved armor. The golden eternal tree on his lacquered red breastplate shone to a mirrored polish amid gold inlayed swirls, the red rubies shaped to apples hanging from its branches inevitably drew one’s gaze as if they had a power over the eye all their own.
“High King Rain.” Gramps froze and bowed almost automatically in a very courtly way. Even though he had known the Elf was there just seeing him seemed to have an effect akin to him being slapped in the face. The Elf set aside the book he had been reading and fixed us both with a startlingly pupiless silver eyed stare, a small smile on his deceptively youthful face as he stood to greet us.
“It’s been a long time, Artur Bright,” the Wizard King admitted, a note of sadness in his melodic, accented voice that was felt more than heard. “Time has been far kinder to me, I think.”
At this Gramps snorted. “Privilege of being the most powerful Wizard on the planet and an Elf, I’d say. If I had a drop of your Elvish blood in me the ladies would still like me more than you, Your Majesty.”
The Elf King laughed at this but then went absolutely silent and serious as he gazed down at me with the wonder of a child. Which to say the least was a bit uncomfortable.
“So, this is the boy,” he said to no one in particular as he circled me like a shark. “Interesting.” He nodded and smiled as he continued circling us. He finally stopped and crouched down before me, looking me full in the eye. I remember that I could see myself reflected in those strange, shining silver eyes. They looked like mirrors polished to such a sheen that each bit of light refracted from it. I had the uncomfortable feeling he was assessing me like a prize cow for the market fair, or worse, a pig for the slaughter.
“Well, aren’t you the special one.” He smiled. I remember that he smelled strongly of sandalwood, leather, and something else I couldn’t identify. It was almost like the air about an evergreen forested seashore just after a hard rain had fallen.
His vast power was almost palpable, a hypnotic presence that radiated off him in waves of cold that drew the eyes enviably into his strange gaze and pinned it there, leaving you helpless and vulnerable, with a crushing weight of a great futility bearing down like boulders of heavy judgement and despair. All that was in stark contrast to his almost kindly disposition. All at once I knew this Elf wasn’t one to trifle with, and if angered, would be a terrible foe.
“My youngest daughter Summer would love you; you have such an aura of sadness, but it’s balanced by a firm sense of right and wrong. The morose, murderous stick in the mud you have the dubious luck to call Grandfather would do well to learn from you, I think… As could many.” He stood and straightened his robe, head cocked to the side.
“When you approached this,” he peered about with obvious distaste, “well…house, this afternoon, tell me, what did you feel?” He asked in a voice as soft as the landing of a drifting rose petal as he walked to the mantle and studied the painting hung over it with arms folded and a long finger with a huge gold ring tapping thoughtfully on his lips.
“Cold?” I answered confusedly, although at this even Gramps brow arched and he glanced down at me uneasily.
“I see.” King Efferieal Rain nodded, noting my warm flannels with an appraising look. “And when you approached Room 33, did you feel cold then, too?” Gramps glanced sharply at the Elf but stayed silent. A shrewd, brooding, suspicious gleam alit in his black narrowed eyes.
“Yes,” I answered. “But less so.”
“Now, this is vitally important, Ben.” The King turned, hand on the hearth as he studied me, a troubled but curious lining to his perfect face. “Tell me honestly. What precisely did you feel when you faced the spider demons and that ugly old thing parading about as a spirit in the Reunion Inn?” Gramps flashed up at the Wizard at the mention of the incident at the Reunion, but again he bit his tongue. At this point I, too, was wondering just how much the Elf knew.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I answered honestly after a moment to which the King smiled understandingly.
“Take your time and try, little Bright,” he encouraged with a friendly smile. “Close your eyes and go back, see what you saw and feel again what you felt…I can help you with this, if you like?”
I nodded.
“You are very brave; I know you have felt this before, so I needn’t explain it to you. I must warn you, however. As a Wizard, when I read you, it will be much more vivid and real. It will be as though you are again there, reliving it in the flesh.” He smiled again as he placed his finger on my forehead. “Relax, do not resist. It will be unpleasant should you try.”
“I’m not so sure that’s-” Gramps was cut off by a patient but curt look from the Elf High King, grumbled unhappily and turned his obviously worried attentions back to me.
I squeezed my eyes shut and thought for a moment, then struggled. Frustrating myself trying to remember more than the little flashes and such, pushing and pushing until again I felt myself spinning in a sanity jarring warp.
All at once I remembered the things scuttling and swarming White Owl. I again witnessed Happy Jack laughing and pummeling Gramps with the empty liquor bottle, his face grotesque
in his feral joy.
And just like that something inside me broke, and a deep suffocating cold took hold. My eyes, though I didn’t know it at the time, snapped open as I stared back at the wide-eyed Elvish Wizard King with orbs I’m told, that had gone as dark as the oblivion of the void in a slow seep of inky blackness, like glossy pits of oil leading to an endless void.
I, however, saw nothing as I began to levitate off the floor, my arms spread wide, fingers splayed, and blood thundering in my ears. I could hear muffled shouting over the thundering in my ears, a rushing of air, then nothing.
I had a strange dream as a part of me floated, drifting in a chilled, empty darkness. I remember a girl’s voice in my mind; it was sweet and kind and full of sadness, but I couldn’t see her.
I knew the voice but couldn’t place it and when I woke, I didn’t remember much, and honestly wouldn’t have remembered it at all had I not done something very stupid a few weeks later, and as consequence had such a long time to think about it, between moments of utter terror and violence, of course.
I’m told it was Gramps that shook me out of it, and I’m still not sure how he managed it to this day as when the Dark descends and the magic of Merlin takes complete hold there is little that can be done, even now when I’ve better control over my curse.
At first when the Darkness lifted it left me drained and cold with a headache that makes the worst migraine feel like a summer breeze. Ever had a little too much sleep and wake up not a bit rested and with a headache from hell and not quite sure where you are?
Yeah, that’s pretty much the best way a mundane Human can picture it. It wasn’t a fun thing to wake from on the best of days, and that certainly wasn’t the best of days to say the least.
Happily, though (depending on how you look at it) it gets easier each time you Fall to the Dark (which is what it’s called when a Darkling’s gift is activated). As gradually more control is developed with each use and usually, after a while, the bout of sickness after unleashing the anti-magic inherit to a Darkling’s nature is totally abated. Up to a point.
