The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  Unfortunately, he likes me and can at times, be irreplaceably useful (which is a lucky thing for a being who can ruin a great day as easily as the urge to take a vicious crap can ruin that nice clean feeling one gets after just stepping out of a nice warm sudsy shower). As he’s one of the oldest Fey I’ve ever known and has an uncanny knack for being just valuable enough to stay comfortably in the good graces of just the right Fey to scrape by, extraordinarily comfortably and profitably I might add.

  But once again I find myself having to say that’s a story for another time.

  Gramps eyed his sister-in-law and smiled evilly. “In my time we still tossed chamber pots out the window onto the streets. Hope at least that’s changed since then…”

  “Oh. Dear. Gods,” Aunt Milly moaned in horror as she stared up about the buildings as if she genuinely feared a urine and fecal shower would toss down on her from a window at any moment.

  I honestly half expected her to conjure up an umbrella. Instead, she just pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and hurried up, her designer luggage, a whole train of it, hovering and trailing after her like a train of expensive bright pink flower printed ducklings.

  The doorway to the Rovers Rest Bed and Breakfast is huge, round, painted a rich green, and had a polished golden doorknob. Over the fairy light strung entry a wooden sign with faded, peeling golden lettering creaking and swaying from a worked iron post depicted a red clad youth in a feathered hat with a stick and sack over his shoulder whistling as he walked with a foaming flagon mug in his other hand.

  “Oh, this looks delightful,” Aunt Milly exclaimed as if she was trying too hard to convince herself of the fact as she opened the door. I remember being curious as I peered past Gramps into the candlelit foyer, my own very heavy baggage dragging after me.

  It’s surprisingly brightly lit from latticed windows and candles on sconces on tall iron stands along the timber and cream-colored plaster walls. Ancient round iron chandeliers hang from the timber beams and in colored jars at the center of the long wooden communal dining tables and more private and exclusive red leather cushioned booths that enjoy privacy afforded by colorfully beaded curtains. Soft, mellow jazz plays from a record player in the corner.

  A truly massive red brick mantled hearth is settled at the back and there is always a nice happily roaring fire over which more often than not a cauldron of stew or brace of ducks is roasting in their own fats. It always smells wonderful, a pleasant and cloying mix of bee’s wax candle, fresh bread, cooking food, pipe smoke, fresh cut flowers that are in vases everywhere you can find to put one, spirits, and the perfume of the serving girls.

  The owner “Mac” is an enormously fat, impressively mustached man with an ever-present dirty apron who bears a striking resemblance to an ill-tempered walrus with a sweaty bald head watched the dining room happily from behind the bar, absently cleaning mugs with a cloth, a tiny gold honeycomb shaped signet ring with a bee engraved at its center shining on his right pinky. His small, dark, beady eyes don’t miss a thing.

  The flirtatiously voluptuous, dusky skinned all-female staff laughed, giggled and sauntered about with shapely swaying hips in old fashioned wenches’ attire as they served food on silver platters and refilled drinks. All the while bending over and lingering in front of their mostly male customers, in what Gramps always refers to as “cleavage fishing” for tips, and information as they worked their charms with red painted lips and batting lashes.

  Aunt Milly stood stock still, absolutely dumbfounded as she observed with opened mouth and wide eyes. She rounded on Artur but seemed to be unable to find the words to scold him correctly. He just snickered and rolled his eyes at her as he walked past and made his way to the bar to check in, Manx trailing after his heels dutifully but looking back more than once at me as he sniffed at everything.

  Mac saw him coming, his glittering, shrewd gaze slipping from the demonic dog back to Gramps as his crooked, toothy smile melted. Slowly, he put down the tankard he’d been wiping and went very still. He frowned and stared, squinting as Gramps approached almost desperately trying to see the face beneath the brim of the hat.

  I couldn’t hear what was said, but whatever it was had the fat owner sheet white and his once tiny dark eyes the size of saucers as he stared slack jawed at Gramps, leaning heavily with both hands on the counter

  Slowly, a huge smile spread on his fat lips and he began to laugh a great big booming laugh, and he clapped Gramps on the shoulder in a very comradely way and shook his bolder like head, the entire dining room staring at them and murmuring.

  It appeared like quite the happy reunion, as if long ago, the pair had shared many an adventure together. And that the innkeeper was far more delighted by the meeting than his old comrade in arms seemed to be. In fact, I had the feeling the only thing preventing the fat man from scooping Gramps up into a huge bear hug was the bar, which was a shame as I’d have loved to see that happen.

  Manx barked once and put his huge paws up on the bar as he panted up at the big Witch and happily received a scratch between the ears as the two men talked, all the while Aunt Milly stared after him in horror.

  It took a few moments but almost everyone eventually returned their attentions to their drinks and food, the low undertone of conversation and utensils clinking on flatware returned.

  Well, mostly everyone.

  One figure seated at a table by the fire in the back gave me a creepy, tingly feeling as he continued to stare. Not in a passingly curious way, but something far more intense and calculating. His scarred visage covered in shadows and a short-cropped silver beard partially lighted beneath his hood by the glow from his pipe.

  What really stood out was something seemed to be off about his right hand that he was using to hold his curiously long-stemmed pipe. It was bulky, as if he was wearing a gauntlet of some kind but in the poor light, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

  After a long uncomfortable moment of me watching him he pointedly rose from his chair, dumped some coins noisily on the table and left, his dirty green cloak billowing behind him. But oddly I forgot all about him a moment later, something earwormy and insistent telling me it was nothing to worry about and I needed to let it go, and for some reason, I listened.

  Gramps returned a moment later, silencing my Aunt’s obvious misgivings with a wave and tossed her a numbered brass key on a delicate chain with a purple dyed rabbit’s foot dangling from it that she almost aggrievedly snatched it from the air.

  She twitched and stared down at what she obviously considered to be an absolute abomination in her gloved hand in yet more wide-eyed horror. “What, pray tell, do you think I am to do with this ghastly thing?” she asked offendedly as she held the rabbit footed room key up with two fingers before her, as if she considered it contaminated or unclean.

  “Open your room’s door with it, of course,” Gramps explained simply with a poorly restrained laugh.

  She glared at him. “It looks like the key to a bordello room, a place of ill repute, a whore house room key a-”

  “You’re very right. It used to be. Now, however, it’s a very nice presidential suite on the third floor with walk-in closets, afghan carpets, large private bathroom with hot tub, wet bar, fireplace, plush living room, and screened in balcony.” Gramps seemed to lessen her angry trepidation with each travel brochure style word, but she still fumed and glared at him.

  “Which way?” she snapped tiredly with more than a little acid in the words as she taped her soiled designer shoed toe on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. Gramps pointed to a well-lit hallway that leads to the stairs to the right and she stalked off crossly, mumbling about thread counts and linens and things with her enchanted luggage bobbling after her.

  “Hungry?” Gramps asked cheerfully as a burly baggage boy in a red waistcoat, fine shirt, trousers, and shiny pointed shoes (don’t let the term “boy” fool you, the Halfling may look it but he is by no definition of the word a “youth”) swept in from b
ehind the bar, eyeing Manx apprehensively (as he only came up to the huge dog’s snout. I could understand his unease) and relieved me of my luggage, adding it to the cart with Gramps, continually eyeing the shaggy, very toothy Witchound at our feet uncomfortably.

  He sauntered nervously up to Gramps and tugged at his flannel, a tiny, chubby, childlike handheld out expectantly. Grumbling petulantly Gramps fished out a shiny gold crown from his trouser pocket and plopped it into his hand. The Halfling’s eyes bugged as he hefted it, beamingly smiled up at us, and after one last shuddering stare at Manx was off like a shot, pushing the luggage cart dutifully before him.

  I nodded wordlessly at the thought of a hot meal as I stared about the busy room, the unease from our hooded, pipe smoking observer still uncomfortably lingering, but not so much that a good breakfast didn’t perk my interest.

  We were seated (Manx happily lounging beneath the table) by a painfully pretty girl in one of the establishment’s screened booths. I found myself dumbly staring after her through the beaded curtain as she sauntered off after a sly wink, to fetch us a tall carafe of cold orange juice.

  “It’s a charm,” Gramps explained with a chuckle. “Rover Witch girl magic to addle males into emptying their lips, purse strings, and wallets… You will see through it when you come of age.”

  “Of age?” I asked, as most of my readings up to this point had been regarding the Fey, I was still fairly ignorant of my own people.

  “Yes, on a Darkling’s eighteenth birthday they come fully into being. You will then be able to see through magic of all kinds… Among other things,” he explained cryptically as our delightfully accented server returned with our juice, glasses, and a house complimentary napkin lined basket of hot doughnuts dusted with powdered sugar.

  We ordered and with another sultry wink she was gone, the curtains rattling, clacking, and swaying behind her as she rushed off to the kitchens, her enticing perfume lingering after her.

  “Will Aunt Milly be joining us?”

  Gramps sorted. “The snooty old Witch likely needs to lie down for a good while after having her delicate sensibilities so roughly offended.”

  “So, no then?”

  Gramps again snorted and laughed at me and nodded, pursing his lips as he watched me sneak the hound a generous hunk of doughnut. “We won’t be seeing her until lunch when the rest of the gang arrives.” He sipped his juice and sighed appreciatively, a note of annoyance in his tone at the very thought of the rest of the Council’s arrival.

  The Council consists of a Darkling from each of the three families and six powerful Witches. Each democratically elected by each of the seated Fey peoples for life (or until they are kicked off it or executed for any serious impropriety) to represent their best interests in worldly matters before the Wizdrom (the Wizard Court, which since ancient times has stood in what is now known as Egypt but has long stood empty).

  Technically, the realm’s three surviving, not incarcerated reigning Wizards had far more power and sway and all but ruled the Fey world. However, the Council was now far more involved in the governance as the Wizards neglected all the old traditions and tended to keep themselves aloof in their towers, exploring such mysteries as such brilliant minded, powerful, and all but timeless beings as they saw fit.

  So far, quite unsurprisingly, only the Dwarfish, Elvish, and Atlantean delegations had been left unaccounted for RSVP-wise, most all but completely ignoring the invitations.

  The surly Dwarf Councilman had even gone so far as to send the card back, burned to ashes and smelling strongly of cat pee in a giftwrapped box fancily tied shut with a great flowery ribbon with a quite explicit note in curly penmanship in gold ink where he vividly and vulgarly expressed where he expected them to stick their ‘invitation.’

  We ate our eggs, black pudding, beans, fried tomato slices, blood sausage, toast, and bacon in silence. Manx noisily lapped at the bowl of meaty broth the serving girl had kindly brought him, complements of the house, of course). Manx predictably getting more than a few choice treats from my plate as I tried to make sense of the odd fare while we talked.

  Gramps talked and I listened as he regaled me with old stories of his time as a young knight and a bit of the more colorful history of the city, free of the trappings of literature.

  To this day I say there is magic, real magic, in Gramps’ voice. It can soothe and reassure, and it cracks more viciously than a whip when he’s angry so that even the bravest take notice and tremble. It also has a strange, quiet way of making you listen, no matter how many times you’ve heard his story or how much you don’t want to hear it—it will still be taking you deep into it with him where you almost feel like you were actually there.

  I swear I even saw it ensnare Aunt Milly once, and that is a true testament to its power. She stalwartly refuses to listen to anyone at times, even Wizards. Truly, it’s the best kind of magic I’ve yet to encounter, and one that has taught me a great many things.

  He talked of the Great Betrayal (to the dulcet tunes of a handpipe and string band of brightly attired traveling jongleurs that had just started playing to earn their stay and meal), when the Vraad fell upon the families of Darklings. He told how the enraged and appalled Agnos Merlin had brought the survivors together in Camelot to protect them for a time, forming a noble Council of honor and justice—a haven, a sanctuary, a safe place for Darkling and Fey alike. That was the World he had grown up in.

  Camelot had been the greatest of cities in the darkest of times (in his opinion). A true light on a hill during an age of savage war, hate, and wicked sorcery that plagued all Fey as each bitterly contested one another with swords, spears, tooth, claw, and all manner of deathly magics for resources, land, gold, to right perceived wrongs and most of all, beliefs and convictions of faith.

  It was bitter, bloody days. But, with Merlin and his Noble First Darkling forming a knighthood of the blood of the three families survivors and standing firm against the rising dark those evil days weren’t without hope or justice or a vengeful sword to drive back the horrors and bring justice to the wicked.

  He spoke of Orcs, Goblins, Weres, Vampires, and demons and pitiless wars fought with horrible magics, muscle, blade, fang, and claw by valiant Elf, Dwarf, and Witch until finally the dreaded Dark Lord that had conspired against the light and life itself was finally defeated, tragically at great and terrible cost by a hero King amid a great grove of fig trees in the last great battle of the races. His amassed dark Wizardly power returned to the ether of the arcane.

  Sadly, he explained Merlin’s dream was short lived as the Vraad, angered by vengeful, merciless attacks of retribution by a disgraced and exiled darkling knight and his followers fell again upon Camelot, and Merlin himself was tragically struck down as he tried to end the terrible fighting. Gramps admonished that things had never been the same since, wondering what might have been had the arch Wizard lived.

  The battle, he explained, left the knights’ Council broken, the round table sundered, its elders all dead, and the rest divided, and so more vanished in their anger and grief, vowing to join the exiled Forsaken of the blood in vengeance and in quest to end the Fey threat once and for all.

  I noticed that more than a few were listening, a good number with tears brimming into their drinks, a couple dark looks, and a few more just enjoying the stories as we ate and talked. More even seemed to file in through the Rovers Rest great round door, as if word had somehow spread of the story telling, sitting close by and on old penny-pinching Mac’s insistence ordering tankards and food just to listen.

  It was the longest breakfast of my life at that time as I shared bacon and blood sausage with Manx who lay beneath the table at our feet. But it flew past in the blink of the eye amid stories of blood feuds, heroism, and magic.

  A Halfling of particularly dainty feature, slight of build but flashy in dress “bravo-d” and clapped when Gramps finished up a particularly riveting one about a predominantly awful hunt for a lost Roman Legion in the haunted
forests of Gaul.

  It was fascinatingly bursting with the excitement and intrigue of a kidnapped princess. Full of chases, tracking wicked things through dark forests, intrigue, and tragedy (through which the dapper suited Halfling even dabbed at a few tears as he raptly listened, his huge, expressive eyes glittering with wonder), finally climaxing with a bloody, heroic battle where a noble Dwarf king’s forces and the Darkling Lupine Legion put aside their insurmountable differences to defeat a coven of Blood Witches and their slave army beneath a bright full moon on a bridge over a raging torrent of a river.

  It was a sad, exciting story that seemed even old fat Mac had bent an ear to listen carefully to, but the Halfling’s gleeful appreciation seemed to break the spell like a splash of icy water onto a sleeping man, and all at once the regular din of the tavern’s dining hall returned with the clink of cutlery and platter and low conversation.

  “’Fazool, I didn’t see you there,” Gramps sighed in greeting, then smiled watching the little man pat Manx with obvious trepidation when he lumbered out panting from beneath the table to great him–the powerful little Witch was hard not to like, no matter how much one tried. There was just something about him that seemed driven to make him sickeningly agreeable and sweet, no matter how deadly he was.

  “No matter, no matter,” he giggled and waved in an almost girlish way, a huge ruby ring flashing from his pinky in the candlelight as he afforded us a beaming smile over the rim of a shiny pair of golden crescent moon shaped spectacles. “Why, my stars, I’ve never HEARD you so nostalgic, Artur, you old butcher you. It’s an absolute delight. This dismal Council thingy is already going off far better than I had ever hoped. I’m all giddy and a-tingle with the excitement of it!”

  He paused then seemed to catch sight of me for the first time. “And who is this?” He pointed at me with his little walking stick topped with a carved ivory grasshopper and gave me the most welcoming look I’ve yet to get from Fey or mundane, man or woman. Though an ancient dragon once matched it but I can’t say that it was meant to be welcoming. When HE smiled at me, he was quite hungry at the time after all.