The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  Twisted as it was, he was right. He usually was, I’ve come to find. It was always wise to listen whenever the usually foppish, joke cracking, giddy, wine and fine food obsessed Halfling takes the effort to be serious. As he had a unique way of quickly seeing situations, and through things that tended to let him catch onto hidden truths and such most would miss or dismiss.

  There are some things you need to know. Firstly, in regard to Warlocks, we may as well try to fend their power off with umbrellas for all the good our Darkling immunity will do us. As they aren’t really using magic, but tapping into something older, darker, and deeply feared.

  Warlocks can summon and control things from the hellish realms outside of reality. Don’t ask me to explain it because Wizards have studied accounts of it for ages and couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Simply put, all that’s known is that Warlocks are dangerous, almost beyond comprehension. Which is why they tend to hunt them, which is about the only thing the Wizards agree on or will collaborate on.

  One of them, the Eldest, known as Raj Ardrawan Penderdrake who resides in a hidden palace in Morocco, had ‘The Demon Eye’ (its proper name is all but unpronounceable, at least to me). It is a relic of the last Warlock to reach adulthood and plague the world. It literally glows a ghostly purple when a new one is born and actually wants to go to them.

  It’s how the Wizards have hunted them all these years. They honestly had no idea what else it could do, at least until it was far too late, but that’s a story for another time. What needs to be known is that for some reason it hadn’t warned them this time and a Warlock had survived past infancy.

  As to what had been done to me, it’s a dark bit of blood magic—outlawed and rarely even spoken of due to how vile it is. It’s a blood pact, a bond so total and binding that only an extraordinary and uniquely powerful Fey, like a Wizard or Warlock, could ever hope to pull it off.

  Evidently, it was one of Eric Von Clampett’s favorite little tricks from his bag of horrors used to control, bend, manipulate, and break almost anyone to his will. His presence become as addictive as heroin. At times he used it to horrific effect to make bloody examples of those who displeased him.

  It connects two beings so completely that their life forces were all but tied to one another and nothing could be hidden ever from the bonded, no matter the distance between them.

  Neigh onto unbreakable, the curse was said to be a terrible thing, especially if it was somehow magically severed, leaving the surviving souls shattered, changed, and unstable. Most of the Sundered—the proper term of a survivor of such a curse—ended their own lives within a year of the blood links breaking. Many among the Feyish sympathetically considered this a tragic mercy.

  In short, a blood bonding (or curse as it’s better known) is one of the most reviled crimes in all of Feydom. The only thing (most consider) worse is the soul bonding which is essentially a second, double dose of the elixir of blood. And which must be taken willingly by a blood bonded pair, which is usually lethal to mundane’s and those of weaker magical potency, (hence the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet) that absolutely links two lives (body and soul) so completely and in ways that few in Feydom can even begin to comprehend, and few even dare consider in their nightmares.

  Such things of “blackest magic” are so feared they were not even spoken of in public, in fact, mentioning them in polite company can very quickly end a fine meal or friendship. Just mentioning it is usually enough to send a deathly chill through a room and thrills of terror up the spines of listeners.

  The Binding of Blood and the Soul Bonding are one of only three Dread Curses that usually carries a sentence of burning at the stake (Feydom was hesitant of executing a bonder when the bonded still lived, for obvious reasons) with very, very few exceptions for even attempting it or knowingly retaining any grimoire books or writings or records of any kind containing its instructions.

  Such things were strictly outlawed and furiously investigated by the Wizards who viewed such things as a serious threat to them personally, almost as much as were venom (which is one of the few poisons that they fear). The Five had a distinct and apoplectic outlook on the Dread Curses and had been known to incinerate whole villages and everyone in them if it was believed such knowledge was secreted away and being protected within its confines.

  Aunt Milly was furious and gave such an epic, legendary scolding to Gramps and White Owl that only ended when there was a loud banging knock on the lodge door that sent Manx into another fit of angry barking. We all started as the door banged in and rattled against the broom closet door behind it as Sir Becket, Lord of Camelot, barged angrily in with a train of Darkling knights with swords drawn at his back.

  “Arrest him, and take the boy and Witches, alive if possible, if not…that’s fine, too!” he yelled as he pointed a finger at his father that trembled with rage, and the two rows of armored men filed forward dutifully as they sought to encircle us in a ring of deadly sharp steel that caught the reflection of the flames in the lodge’s hearth as the swords were raised.

  “Will ye come peaceful like?” one asked hopefully before a hundred and so pounds, give or take of shaggy Witchound drove him to the floor, landing on his back with a clatter of armor at the receiving end of a leap Manx had taken from his spot by the fire. The man’s helmet rolled away to his comrades’ feet, and he flailed about in terror.

  A long, low threatening growl ripped like a chainsaw from the huge war dog’s bared jaws and all that saved the hapless knight a bad death was a sharp snap of fingers from Gramps that paused the toothy lunge that would have had the dog’s dagger like teeth fastening about the back of the man’s neck, chainmail coif or not.

  “I think not,” Gramps growled as he again drew his sword, the hissing rasp of steel on leather seemingly enough to drive the knights back a hesitant step as they eyed the legendary lord that I knew simply as Gramps with open fear.

  “You really didn’t think this through, did you, son?” he spat in a steely venomous whisper as he raised his sword and glanced at his warped reflection on the oiled blue steel then fixed Sir Becket with a predatory look that had every ounce of rageful defiance drain from the Lord of Camelot’s face. At this the knights took a much larger retreating step as they stared uncertainly from Gramps to their lord.

  “Y-yo-you cowards,” he gasped indignantly and more than a touch hypocritically if the tremor in his hand told anything of the truth of it.

  “Take him, take him now!”

  Not a soul moved and the Lord of Camelot stomped his foot in anger, but took not a single step forward.

  “Why, pray tell, would you stop cowering in Camelot and come all the way here where you haven’t a shred of authority, and try this, today of all days, son? You do know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?” Gramps asked softly as even Aunt Milly, Fazool, and White Owl stared at him in unease. “I’m going to kill you, son. I’m going to make it last. I’m going to make it hurt.”

  “You- you – you CAN’T kill me!” He stomped his foot like a spoiled child. “I’ve diplomatic immunity. You- you can’t even touch me.” He sneered, but the quiver in his lips betrayed his terror. “You attacked Camelot. You’re – you- you’re in league with a Warlock. You- you’re out to get me, to usurp me! I’ve every right to arrest you all!”

  “This sounds all very familiar,” Gramps stated with a dark chuckle. “Like after you murdered your own mother, blamed me for it, tried to have me assassinated and usurped my throne.” He took a step forward and the whole lot took a step back, save his eldest son who seemed frozen in place and speechless with a dark stain creeping down the leg of his trousers as he stared at his father’s sword in horror.

  “I didn’t murder Mother! You fled, ran like a coward!” He finally insisted, panickily waving his hands about and wide eyed.

  “I chased your evil minions all over Feydom, you mean. Correct, son?” Another step forward and another retreating step from the knights was taken. “Then, then you banished me on p
ain of beheading, until that is it was proven that your Wizard was pure evil.”

  “I didn’t know, I didn’t-”

  “Lies,” Gramps hissed He would have rightfully murdered the pathetic man right there if Aunt Milly hadn’t stepped in right as he whipped about his sword as his son fell cowering to his knees before him, her grabbing hold of his arm tightly.

  “Not. This. Way. Not in front of Ben. Not like this,” she hissed. “It would ruin you.”

  “Let him go,” White Owl agreed with an expressionless nod. He pointed to the man with his dripping toothbrush. “It’s not yet his time.”

  “He needs to die,” Gramps snapped and tried to twist free and shake Aunt Milly loose, but she wouldn’t budge and held her grip persistently.

  “Yes. He does. Many evil people need to die. But we can’t become like them, can we?” she asked softly. With a sigh Gramps sheathed his sword and went to turn away, White Owl patting him on the back reassuringly.

  “Get out of my sight, boy,” he growled over his shoulder as he went to walk away. He froze as Sir Becket started to laugh, rocking back and forth and side to side where he knelt as he loosed a high, cold laugh that stood the hairs on end.

  “Coward.” His son laughed almost manically, at least until Gramps whirled about and hammered a fist into the side of his head that sent the man tumbling all but senselessly and drooling blood to the floor with a thud. The knights gasped but made no move to aid their fallen lord. Gramps knelt over his stricken, murdering child and lifted him by a twisting fistful of shirt so they were nose to nose.

  “You are a spineless murdering pile of filth, son. I am going to kill you. Not today, but soon,” he said as he shook him like a rag doll in his grip. “Immunity or not, soon you will pay for the evil you’ve done. I promise, and you know I always keep my promises. Don’t you, son?” Sir Becket whimpered but managed to say nothing intelligible before Gramps sent him back to the floor with a ringing slap to the face and stood, staring down at him with disgust.

  “You lot,” he addressed the knights who had watched the whole thing with rapt horrified fascination. “I suggest you not return to Camelot, unless of course you wish to feed my son’s gallows that is.” He arched a brow at them meaningfully and the whole group looked amongst themselves and murmured uneasily, casting dark looks at their disgraced lord who was senseless and groaning on the floor.

  Swords clattered as they dropped to the floor at the knights’ feet and they almost simultaneously bowed their heads respectfully to Gramps and brought their gauntleted fists to their chests.

  After a firm official reprimand, Sir Becket, Lord Ruler of Camelot had been placed in protective custody pending his transport back and frog marched off Gramps’ property by a pair of dark suited and sunglassed men with shiny shoes, military haircuts, and huge shoulders.

  He screamed, blustered, and complained about being assaulted and threatened the whole way. As he was forced into a very official looking black sedan, he loudly proclaimed he would have revenge and demanded satisfaction before the car door was slammed in his face.

  The Camelot knights had officially requested sanctuary from the American Consulate of Fey Affairs and Enforcement Bureau and had been portalled to the Agency Head office on New Orleans Bourbon Street, Number 333 ( under it would be more accurate) to be processed and evaluated.

  Gramps had received a debriefing and a stiff apology and handshake from a pretty, grey skirt suited dark skinned woman with long dark curly hair, dangerous looking high heels, a leather folio, and clipboard. He had been asked to sign a typed-up waiver packet from a manila envelope red stamped as TOP SECRET that acknowledged he would seek no unauthorized punitive actions against Camelot or its ruler.

  Before she too sauntered off to the car with the gift basket of baked goods and such that had been left at Gramps’ gate under her arm for “testing,” she had stared at me hard and handed Gramps another, far thicker envelope from her bag that he accepted with a tired wordless nod. I had a feeling my life was about to get complicated and once again I wasn’t wrong. In fact, by then I was getting mighty tired of being right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Apologies, an arch fiend, and a trip to the dungeons…

  “Oh, well that went swimmingly,” Fazool exclaimed for the umpteenth time as he stared at the door and drank more than should have been possible for his tiny body to contain. “You do know that vile brat of yours is going to do something stupid in the near future, right?” he asked as he emptied one of Gramps’ bottles of whisky into a glass.

  “I’d be more surprised if he didn’t.” Gramps grunted and nodded as he started brewing some coffee over the stove.

  “You are aware that they have machines that do a fairly fine job of that now, right?” Aunt Milly asked eyeing the ancient, slightly discolored percolator with distaste. Again, Gramps grunted and nodded, though he chose not to discuss it as he began riffling through the cupboards and fridge to whip up a meal.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Aunt Milly scolded. She stalked over, took a chef knife from Gramps before he cut into an onion, and led him to the counter. “I’m in no mood for your back woods cooking. I’m ordering take out, and that’s all there is to it,” She stated in a tone that told us all this wasn’t up for negotiation.

  Gramps seethed a moment, looking for all the world like he desperately wanted to say something. He met her determined, stubborn look then thought better of it. Throwing up his hands in defeat, he stalked over to the table mumbling incoherently and took a seat, resting his chin on his fist and making a face that looked amusingly like a childish pout.

  What Aunt Milly meant by “take out” is different from most people’s definition of pizza, subs, or cartons of Chinese or Indian food. She stalked outside tying a scarf about her head and vanished with a loud crack that rattled the classes on the table.

  Gramps, still mumbling and looking absolutely miserable, eventually retreated to the couch and flopped over absolutely refusing to talk, and Fazool took it upon himself to delve into a story about a time he had enjoyed a lovely picnic years ago with the King of France in his wife’s vast rose garden. He went on and on about the oysters they dined on for what felt like ages as White Owl stood by the window and stared outside, absently flicking at his Zippo and Gramps lay there glaring dejectedly at the ceiling.

  A half hour later Aunt Milly re-appeared, drenched and grumbling about the weather in Beijing this time of year awkwardly toting a glistening roasted Peking duck on a large cutting board as she lugged several bags full of other goodies, handles looped over her arms. She went to carving and serving and before we knew it a sumptuous feast direct from China was laid out on Gramps’ table, complete with tea and a bottle of rice wine that Fazool got all bubbly about.

  She insisted I learn to use chopsticks, which took a bit of getting used to under her tutelage, but I thoroughly enjoyed supper even as I tried to forget what had happened not more than a few hours ago, as Fazool and Aunt Milly chatted and drank like they had not a care in the world, though their eyes told a much different story.

  They sipped and supped and giggled and reminisced about old times in a very put on show of nonchalance, all the while taking turns studying me covertly between mouthfuls.

  White Owl eyed the food and gave it a good college try but I caught him feeding almost everything but the duck—which he truly seemed to enjoy—to Manx under the table, though I was wise enough to keep it to myself. Gramps spoke little, up until Aunt Milly was clearing away the dishes and empty paper to-go cartons into the rubbish bin.

  “I’m not sure how to tell you this,” Gramps said out of the blue to me, causing Aunt Milly to drop the wine glasses to the floor where they shattered. Cursing and glaring at her brother-in –law, she snapped her fingers and out of the far closet a broom and dustpan leapt to life to clean, a thing Manx seemed to find highly entertaining to bark and chase after.

  “Not now, Artur. He’s been through enough,” she stated firmly, but Gra
mps wasn’t having any of it.

  “He’s a right to know everything.” Gramps explained then about what they all thought had been done to me and how, and what it meant. At this point I was absolutely terrified. It went on and on with Fazool only interjecting occasionally as Aunt Milly loudly and violently went about cleaning up. He then explained what had happened at the Council.

  After Christmas I would be reporting to New Orleans. The Council had demanded more than just Gramps take a hand in my training. At first Sir Becket had insisted that I be permanently transferred to his custody or Camelot would take no part in any of the Prophecy nonsense they had convened to discuss. This, of course, was in no way acceptable, and after a battle had almost broken out The Countess had proposed a solution that left no one happy, so naturally it had been grudgingly agreed on.

  Manx and I would be securely portaled from the ACFA’s headquarters to the Van Hellsing estate in Transylvania for a period of six months to be trained by Matron Malice Van Hellsing herself.

  I felt numb as I sat there at the table staring at my half empty cup of chocolate milk, thinking about what had happened to my life, what I’d lost, and what had been done and still could be done to me. Why did everyone else never think to ask what I wanted and what I needed?

  At some point I just stopped listening and zoned out completely, deep in thought that left a steady stream of tears dribbling down my cheeks, that I didn’t really notice at first.

  It seemed that White Owl had been right during our talk on the porch, people had plans for me. What bothered me more was that most everyone didn’t seemed to care enough to ask me what I was feeling, what I wanted, or even if I was ok. Which I most definitely wasn’t. At that moment I just wanted my mother to come in and hug me and tell me everything was going to be ok.