The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  This bloody unrest only ended in February of 1763 when Gramps had led in a particularly potent group into the wilderness, and after a viciously contested fight ending in the slaying of the last Shapeshifter (who unsettlingly predicted as he died that the return of his kind would usher in the doom of all Darklings) the terribly savage fighting, massacres, and atrocities were finally ended on both sides, (as the only ones not savages in war are the dead) and a solstice of peace was offered and accepted.

  During which, Gramps negotiated the treaty of The Packs (known simply as: The Pact). That regulated and relocated the Were-beasts to the Adirondacks in exchange for being left alone and protected (hunting them was once deemed as the epitome of trials to prove a young Elvish hunter’s skills, who took their kills’ fangs as trophies that were often worn on cords about their necks). Which incidentally was all the Packs had wanted in the first place. An end to the hunts.

  All that sounded horribly barbaric to me, but evidently the teeth and pelts the Elves collected from their kills had special properties that were highly sought after. Still though, that’s gross and wrong, and nothing will change my mind on it.

  Seriously, going out and killing people to wear their teeth and skin is very serial killer like, and just gives me the willies. Sadly, back in those days some still tried to poach them and are themselves hunted down if their intentions and crimes become known. By Gramps and Manx if they were lucky.

  The Were-beast packs if they weren’t.

  Next, we went on a hike of the grounds. By hike I mean White Owl, never one to walk more than he had to, led me about the lodge’s grounds and pointed out some rare and useful indigenous plants that grew wild through the Park.

  I admit this was a bit of a snooze fest for me who, despite being told that this could be essential for survival, had absolutely no interest in knowing the difference between witch’s hobble, mandrake, and icecap vine and their hundreds of different useful applications in everything from cooking, field medicine, alchemy, to herbology. Happily though, for my later years, I did manage to remember most of it, if only accidently.

  Just as the day was getting colder and darker, White Owl started his talk about always trusting one’s gut, and never letting anyone force me into second guessing my instincts. He advised that this could very well save lives as we stomped the goopy filth off our feet on the porch.

  I was quite happy for the boots Gramps had gotten me at this point as the Master had decided to traipse us through a veritable mire of inch deep sucking mud to show me a blooming icecap vine.

  Which also just so happened to be hung with bunches of very ripe, tastily tart pink colored berries that he harvested a hatful of, and he was munching quite happily on. He even shared a few, advising as he stuffed a handful of them into his mouth that they were best taken in moderation.

  Between juicy mouthfuls of berry, he sagely advised that next to our senses (which become quite enhanced after our Ascension Day), a Darkling’s best weapon is our instincts, stressing over and over how important that was for me to remember. I’m pretty sure he lived to regret that well-meant advice. Pretty much everyone did. At least for a long while.

  That evening, after my lessons and a heavy meal of a large mushroom and pepperoni pizza from Sall’s Pie Emporium (the local Feyish Pizza parlor that’s really more of a local institution than a mere local slice and wings joint) delivered by an extraordinarily grumpy Dwarf on a green motorized scooter. I decided it was high time I spent some time studying.

  We had eaten way more than we should have, and I had settled into the sofa, intent on reading. Manx curled at my feet as I flipped pages in one of the books Gramps had left for me. Honestly, it was interesting stuff and the enchantments in its pages, bindings, and ink did a lot more than help me understand words and subjects far beyond the average thirteen-year-old human’s comprehension—it literally showed me things in my mind, almost like a tv or film.

  Each word added bright strokes of a brush in a vividly living moving horror of experiences. Absolutely free of bias, singular perspectives, lies, or sugar coating (the magical ink allows for only complete and absolute honesty, which is quite handy at times, and also quite humbling).

  I vividly remember at the time that I was reading a chapter about Wizard genealogy that was a bit confusing. Particularly a paragraph about the peculiarity of their becoming, as they are an oddity among those gifted with magic in that their power manifested so conditionally and only after another Wizard’s death.

  It tended (as many Feyish or Arcane gifts do) to be inherited and passed on to blood relations but wasn’t always limited to such. It unhelpfully summed it up by stating that: ‘Wizardry and the Weave works their wills in mysterious ways.’

  It seemed there wasn’t much really concretely known about the process, as Wizards, who tend to be excessively private, insular, and obsessively secretive; All desperately fight tooth and nail to keep such vital information exclusively private.

  Obviously (and rightfully) fearing that such dangerous knowledge could one day be used against them. And, when they perceive it necessary, protect their secrets with outright terrifying and impassioned intensity.

  Hence, all that’s truly understood by the unwizardly of the races is that the Chosen would have survived a brutal trial or ordeal culminating in a great sacrifice of some kind, to earn the mantle at the time of one of The Five’s powers release.

  At this point my head hurt. My throat was dry. I was confused and my eyelids were becoming as heavy as the huge book I was reading, so I closed it and sat it down and thirstily slurped down the last of my Coke.

  I remember that as I swallowed the last pleasantly fizzy sip of it, an odd feeling crept over me that gave me a bad case of the shivers as I sat the empty glass (save for two sad looking ice cubes that rattled about) back on the deeply ring stained moose print coaster on the coffee table. A chill of wrongness that I shrugged off at first as the soda’s fault raised the hairs on the back of my neck as I glanced first at the clock on the wall, then anxiously about the room.

  White Owl was on his favorite chair dozing. His feet, tucked in pink rabbit slippers, were propped up on the coffee table, and he had a blanket over his lap. His forgotten, half smoked cigar was still sending its almost ethereal, fragrant perfume from the huge green glass ashtray on the coffee table right next to his half empty mug of now cold hot cocoa.

  I heard the tapping on the window at my side at the same time Manx lifted his head from my lap with a low growl, peering out into the darkness with a low forlorn sounding whine. Floppy jowls pulled back to reveal huge, white, sharp teeth better fitting to a shark mixed with a saber-toothed beast from a museum as he loosed a rumbling, deadly growl that immediately woke my “babysitter” with a violent start.

  White Owl leapt from his chair, the blanket flopping into a pile at his feet as he stared hard out the window. Eyes now so dark and thunderous that all the silly old man persona he worked so hard to upkeep melted away as quick as the vicious looking flint headed tomahawk and bone beaded, feathered, and many pouched staff materialized out of nowhere into hands that were empty but a moment before.

  I would have screamed if I could have but nothing came out when I opened my mouth as the racoon sized, multi-eyed, hairy spider –looking thing scuttled across the window outside. Its eight spiked and clawed bristly hairy legs screeching and tapping against the glass like an evil rain.

  Worse still, there was more than one of the things scuttling about the lodge’s exterior and scratching at its door. And then, just to complete the living horror movie vibe, it started to rain, and thunder and lightning like mad—heavy droplets careening from the heavens in a blinding curtain.

  “Wait here,” White Owl ordered simply. “No matter what you see or hear, stay inside with Manx.” That said, he hurried to the door which opened for him with an eerie creek. The iron tipped butt of his staff stabbed out in a spear-like thrust to impale one of the wickedly screeching things before it made it into t
he house, the door crashing closed behind him so violently the frame rattled.

  I remember my heart thundering as I gaped at the door in rapt terror, my insides leaping with every flash and floor shaking crash of thunder. Flashes and screeches and shouts of terrible anger from outside melded ominously with the rush of rain and hammering of my heart, as I knew a horrific battle was being fought outside, and it couldn’t possibly end well and there didn’t seem to be anything I could do about it.

  At my side Manx continued to growl and look about, as if he could see far more than I could (which is pretty darn likely). Until the scream that is. At this the growl turned to a low, mournful whine and my heart sank at the same time as something inside me broke.

  I don’t quite remember when, how, or what gave me the notion, but I was outside blinking into madness before I knew it. A huge, ferociously angry Witchound snarling at my side. Ribbons of venomous looking drool lolled from his toothy maw as I gaped in shock at the hellish fight, my fists balled and shaking with anger.

  Green ghostly fire ripped through the blackness as White Owl fought the horrifying, scuttling things off in a quicksilver chanting dance of death, magic, and weapons that seemed to be ebbing, his jeans and flannel darkly stained and torn. He saw me, his dark eyes wide with desperation and horror and screamed for me to get back inside, but I didn’t.

  I just stood there frozen for a long moment. I honestly don’t recollect much, just flashes and nightmares and black splattering ichor as Manx tore into the beasts with savage roaring hunger, tooth and horribly hooked claw ripping, crunching, and tearing.

  But no matter how many of the chittering things they dispatched, three more scuttled into the fray, mandibles clacking in an evil swarm. They just kept coming and coming, more and more and more in a creeping, seemingly endless screeching stream.

  I knew we were done for. There was no way Manx and White Owl—who seemed to have suffered more than a few savage looking bites that seemed to be taking a terrible toll—could keep this up for much longer. The inevitable outcome was obvious.

  One thing I remember clearly is the cold that settled over me. One that was like artic claws of ice running through my veins as the world seemed to dim and the lamps flickered as I raised up my hands for some reason.

  Then, nothing.

  I woke up the next morning under soft, colorful, warm, woolen blankets on the couch by the fire to much low, urgent sounding conversation. People were in Gramps’ house. Lots of them, as Manx lounged lazily in his customary spot by the fire as if nothing had happened at all, happily and noisily munching on an enormous bone.

  And there he was. Tired but angry looking as he stood beside a tall, thin woman in a tartan dress. She wore a long velvet black hooded cloak and silver broached shawl and was smoking a cigarette at the end of a long black thing that appeared odd and silly, held as daintily as it was, with pinky outstretched. Although nothing about the stern, miffed looking red head seemed funny.

  She was listening to him and nodding, puffing and nodding over and over as Gramps and a handsome, dark skinned top hatted fellow (who gave off an unsettling aura of shiftiness and power that couldn’t be overstated) in a silver buttoned great coat with long, gold beaded dreadlocks, vehemently argued. The tall, dark, mysterious man’s silver skull topped gentleman’s cane waved about as he wildly gestured and he made his ill received point in a low, heavily accented multi-toned growl that made the skin crawl.

  Another, (quite voluptuous) younger woman, in a veiled Sunday church-like hat and sporting a low-cut diamond accented evening gown of deep violet (that left little to nothing to the imagination) leaned against Gramps’ mantle. Elbow length sequined gloved arms folded over her ample chest.

  To the less observant she seemed bored, yawning and staring about pouting her perfectly red lips from behind her veil, as if she were looking desperately for something to occupy her fleeting attention. But, if you happened to look a bit closer (and just a bit of forewarning, staring is NOT a very a good Idea. As it’s rumored that she’s turned men into swine and had them butchered, cured, and served for supper for far, far less) you would likely note that a dangerous storm was brewing in her steely grey eyes.

  It was her that first noticed I was awake, and while most young boys would find the attention of an incredibly enchantingly pretty woman like her a fine way to wake, there was just something about her that made my deeply uncomfortable as she gestured at me meaningfully with a nod and roll of her eyes.

  At this, all conversation stopped.

  “I told you to never venture outside at night without me. What the devil were you thinking?” was the first thing Gramps said in his telltale, scolding, whip-like grumble. And, while he was obviously miffed, he was plainly far gladder that I was laying there all snug and warm in one piece.

  A feat I still can’t fully explain.

  “Is White Owl ok?” I asked, as while at the time I didn’t remember much, I was very much cognizant that something terrible had happened. Given the month I’d had, I feared the worst.

  “The Master is healing comfortably, thanks to you, it seems?” the Smoking Lady assured as she introduced herself as “Madam Mildred Maxine Del’Cove… You may call me Milly” with a bit of a theatrical gesture as she swooped forward a step and peered down at me from behind the shiny lenses of her huge, red framed designer glasses.

  The dreadlocked man with the top hat leaned on his cane and glowered at me with eyes that were distressingly dark, but flecked with glittering red. It’s kind of like looking at a partially extinguished fire at nighttime, that had just a few embers still burning amid the wet ash.

  Still leaning on the mantle as if it was a grand piano at a fine cocktail bar, the glamorously bejeweled younger woman introduced herself with an eye bating, throaty purr as “Countess Adalyn Montague Dracule.” With a pronounced eye roll she apologized for her “uncouth peer’s rudeness” as she cryptically introduced the dreadlocked, silent man as “The Doctor.”

  He afforded me a sneer and bowed his head to me just once in a gesture that was far from welcoming or friendly. Then smiled predatorily, revealing perfectly white and very sharp looking teeth (that a few of which seemed to be made of gold) in a way that was somehow worse than his glowering.

  “We ‘ave questions,” The Doctor stated plainly as his shudder inducing smile melted. His lyrical, Cockney accented words seemed to be spoken by many voices, all a bit off from the other, in a low tone that tightened at my neck and made my hairs stand on end as it echoed and rumbled about my brain.

  “Surely that can wait.” Madam Maxine Del’Cove waved dismissively as she sipped at a green liquid from a crystal tumbler that just appeared in her empty hand. “Absence, darling. The only libation for the season.” She smiled as she took a puff from her cigarette. “It does wonders for these cold October days. So close to Halloween, you understand?”

  Of course, I didn’t have a foggy clue what the old bat was going on about but just nodded all the same. She seemed to understand this as if she read my mind and let out a surprisingly fiendish girlish giggle.

  “Oh, I like this one. For a boy he has spunk and a teensy wincey bit of wit. Charming…Though he could do with a bath.” She wrinkled her nose and offered me an apologetic smile as she blew out a perfect smoke ring.

  “They are Fey of course, and…something else,” Gramps explained with an uneasy look to the dark fellow who had yet to take his oddly unsettling eyes off me. “Three things, boy. They are all extremely powerful, they have come a long way, and they will know if you lie. So don’t. Ever.”

  I honestly felt like one of those bugs in a museum. Pinned to a corkboard and preserved behind glass to be ogled at by thick spectacled brainy types with pocket protectors, mommy issues, and stamp collections with the way they all stared at me. It gave me a gut clenching case of the heebie-jeebies.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I was looking at three of the most powerful beings in the world (barring the ever-secluded Wizards
, Warlocks, a few ancient demons, beings, and things best not mentioned, of course) and something that could only be described as an Arch Fiend.

  “He won’ ‘ave the chance to lie,” The Doctor stated with a shrug as he conjured up a thick Cuban stogie that lit the moment it touched his lips, the smoke of it clouding about him. “And, no… I’m afraid we canno’ wait another minute.”

  To this Madam Maxine Del’Cove sighed and impressively one shotted her drink, and Gramps gave the tall dark top hatted apparition a cold hateful look that could have moldered milk. Quite unperturbed The Doctor merely shrugged as he puffed at his cigar and blew out a dark cloud of acrid smelling smoke, “’Tis the best thing to get it over with, yeah?”

  As an answer Manx’s head rose from between his paws and he let out a long low growl as he fixed the now unsettled “The Doctor” with a black look that put him back on his high heeled boots as the Witchound slowly rose from its spot, heckles rising as he padded to a spot between him and myself.

  “That is most unusual,” Madam Maxine Del’Cove muttered with an arched brow as her glass refilled itself. “Witchounds never show such loyalty to any other than the one soul they bond with at the pairing… Curious, and troubling.”

  “Manx,” Gramps sharply stated. “Down, boy.” To his shock and irritation, the Witchound’s heckles only grew as he bared his teeth and continued growling. A deadly simple warning in his big, watery black eyes that caused Gramps to pale and take a step back as the huge, shaggy, floppy eared head swiveled to him and let out a heart shuddering bark.

  “Well I’ll be…,” Gramps gasped as he backed away another step under his dog’s protective scrutiny. He once disclosed years later that never before had he been on the receiving end and felt that look from his hunting dog. Always on the hunts it had been their prey that felt it, but now he understood the terror they had on their faces when the beast caught up to them much, much better.