The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  The next morning over breakfast, Gramps told me we were going into one of the mundane (non-magic non-Fey) towns by one of the Adirondacks’ many pristine lakes for a pressing appointment, and more importantly so I could meet someone, warning me that I was to keep my eyes peeled and be on my best behavior. He then instructed that after breakfast I was to pack my leather pack with my book and spare clothes, then meet him by the truck.

  When I asked who I was to be meeting he merely grumbled something about annoying questions and patience that was honestly quite forgettable and stuffed his mouth full off cheesy scrambled eggs and refused to say anything more on the subject. Obligingly, I downed my bacon, toast, juice, and eggs (even managed to sneak Manx a strip of bacon) and was off to pack without another word.

  I was surprised when I got outside to see the big Witchound in the truck bed. He seemed quite happy to be there, too. Gramps honked the horn and beckoned for me to hurry from the driver’s seat where he was already waiting, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel and grumbling to himself as I climbed in and buckled up.

  Manx loosed a chipper sounding bark when Gramps turned the key and after a moments the big old truck growled to life. The dog shook the whole truck as he playfully bounded about like a happy overgrown puppy.

  Gramps grumbled a bit more as we passed through the gate which opened for us as soon as we neared it. He eyed the long, wind tossed, bright white strips of toilet paper in the branches irritably as we pulled out the gravel drive.

  I spent most of the ride staring silently out the window at the cottages, old buildings, trees and such that we passed on the way. Manx happily let the wind blow in his face as he leaned his huge head over the side of the truck with his tongue hanging out while Gramps puffed on his pipe.

  “He’s been found, you should know that. And against my better judgement your wishes for mercy have been conveyed to the Council as a surviving family member,” he stated out of the blue about an hour into the drive.

  I didn’t need to ask who he was talking about; I just sat there and felt a cold weight in my belly and wetness in my eyes. I continued to stare out the window, suddenly feeling despondent and bitter as I found myself thinking about my parents and mulling agonizingly over everything I wished I had said to them while I had the chance, and some horrible things I wish I hadn’t, and would have given anything to take back.

  “What will happen to his family?” I asked softly, as I wiped my face with my coat sleeve. Honestly, I was almost afraid to hear the answer knowing what I knew about the feud between our peoples.

  “Don’t rightly know, as they weren’t with him when he surrendered to the Elvish patrol that caught up to him in Montana,” Gramps answered unhappily.

  “Elves, in Montana?” I asked confusedly. I’d just read about them and knew for a fact that pure blooded Elves weren’t a common thing in the Americas. Especially in Troll country, as Trolls deeply adore the taste of Elf flesh and the Elves tended to wisely give the deceptively cunning brutes a wide berth.

  According to the books the mountainous state was infested with the dim-witted things and an Elvish party getting anywhere close was like ringing the dinner bell for every Troll for miles around. The hulking, mottled, lumbering cave dwellers could sniff Elves out from miles away, like great white sharks smelling blood in the water.

  Moreover, Elves weren’t known to get into things like this, or even interact in Feyish matters of any kind that didn’t directly affect them. Preferring instead their mysterious homeland that no one knew the location of to ever mingling with the other races, they had become very secluded since World War Two and had even left their ancient stronghold in Germany’s Black Forest all but abandoned.

  “Odd, I know,” Gramps admitted, suspicion thick in his voice as he continued. “It’s been ages since the Elvish High King has seen fit to intercede in anything at all—never mind a fugitive hunt, which makes me uneasy.”

  That was also as odd as it was unsettling news. As Efferieal Rain, also simply known as the Jade Wizard, was a very, very old and uniquely powerful Elf who reigned over the Brethren Court (the ruling body of the Elvish peoples comprised of seven noble kings over which the High King presides) with love, kindness, and compassion, at times protecting his people with a terribly single-minded savagery.

  As one of the Five and believed to be the most powerful of all Wizards of the time (rumored only to be rivaled by the enigmatic Chin the Radiant of China, also known as the Crimson Wizard) he wasn’t one to be trifled with, trusted, predicted, or underestimated in any way.

  He also hadn’t of late made a habit of interfering personally in matters of the races. Simply put, for all intent and purposes, the non-Elven were beneath his notice, regarded as little more than half bright savages.

  In fact, since the end of the last World War he had only deemed it necessary to leave the Elvish secluded and mysterious homeland once—to personally help end Eric Von Clampett, Arch Wizard of the Black Robes’ murderous reign of unholy terror once and for all. And even then, it took the murder of his beloved sister and a dire threat to all life and magic on Earth to provoke the reclusive Wizard into action. (Though none are sure which reason was the final straw that compelled him to intervene).

  Gramps had fought at the fearsome Elf Wizards’ side more than once. But he refused to talk about it, or his most terrible enemy Eric Von Clampett, in any way. Sourly insisting instead that I should read more and ask less questions.

  From what I understand the last interaction he’d had hadn’t ended well at all. As the bereaved Elvish High King had evidently left in a rage when the Council had prohibited lethal measures against the evil Wizard he had come to kill.

  After that, without his aid, many a soul had suffered and horribly died trying to finally apprehend Eric the Black. According to the books it had looked as though the area of the final battle had been hit by an atomic blast from one of the mundane human armies’ bombs. None had heard a thing of significance from the Elves since.

  “What did the Elves do?” I finally brought myself to ask, a queasy feeling boiling in my belly as I did. Something about this just didn’t sit right with me, even then.

  “They won’t be handing him over to the Council. Mercy petition or not. They made that perfectly clear after they absconded back to the sea with him… Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.” Gramps’ answer wasn’t exactly reassuring and really just left more questions kicking about in my head than anything else.

  “Any-who.” Gramps puffed on his pipe thoughtfully a moment as we approached the town. “We’re here.” (no, I’m not going to tell you where it is or its name for obvious reasons). It’s a rustic, cozy place off in the middle of what most would consider nowhere but had become quite seasonally busy with tourists and vacationing families seeking shelter from the insanity of city life amid the trees.

  Well to do looking shops lined either side of the main street each with brightly lettered wooden signs in blues, greens, and browns hanging off their porches and walkways. Moose, loons, bears, and woodland creatures were depicted in almost all of them. Rocking and Adirondack chairs were in almost every pumpkin festooned and Halloween decked out porch.

  I couldn’t help but smile as we drove through, passing several ma and pa sporting outfitters advertising guide services, gift shops, antiques, brick-a-brack, and artsy stores and one charming busy looking restaurant along the way. Through the large bay window many happy diners could be seen enjoying a lively buffet style brunch.

  The place, like all the towns and villages in these mountains has a charm to it that seems almost enchanting (although in most cases there is absolutely no actual magic involved), drawing you in while binding your heart to their majesty and never letting go.

  We passed more than a few touristy spots, a laundry, several colorful roadside advertisement billboards and a few cottage style motels, a gas station, a grocery store, and then things got a bit more affluent looking as we passed a few gated
drives and pricy looking hotels that must once been large, extravagant summer homes nestled in back a way into the landscape along the lakeshore. It was to one of these winding well landscaped drives that we turned into.

  The large, ostentatious building seemed moderately busy. There were expensive cars parked in an orderly fashion about the hedge lined paved lot. White shirted staff with black vests, pants, and ties bustled about with silver trays on the covered veranda that was neatly lined with party lights, and serving seated guests in waistcoats and trousers, dresses, jewelry, and shiny shoes that likely cost more than Gramps’ truck.

  “We’re bringing Manx in there?” I asked hesitantly. What would anyone in there make of a huge, muddy pawed Witchound traipsing through the lobby, I wondered.

  Gramps chuckled. “Nope. He’s guarding the truck – last time I came here I left with a pair of cursed tires and a hex bag in my glovebox. The coven that runs this place likes their little pranks, you see.” He seemed to find the whole thing a bit annoying and funny all the same. “Manx is my security—the bloody witches won’t go anywhere near him,” he explained as he stowed his pipe and gave me one of his unnerving smiles that told me he secretly hoped the witches would try and give Manx a bit of fun.

  All of a sudden, I was quite aware of my simple flannel, boots, and jeans and started to feel more than a bit out of place as Gramps waved off a valet in a black coat and pulled into a spot near two Mercedes.

  The trusty old Ford stuck out like a sore thumb with a great big flashing blue neon ring about it spelling out the words STARE AT ME. To make matters worse, it backfired loudly as we puttered to a stop amid the luxury cars.

  Hesitantly, I shouldered my pack and joined Gramps, which took a bit of jogging as his long strides had already taken him halfway to the place’s manned stained-glass doors. Manx gave us a good spirited bark as he settled to gnaw on the bone Gramps had tossed in before heading for the door.

  The two hulking serious looking men in black sunglasses and dark suits gave him a slight incline of the head as he approached, as if they were all well acquainted and pulled open the doors for him without a word. I’d honestly been terrified they’d take one look at us and sternly turn us away. Maybe they thought we were the help?

  Shrugging, I followed him into what to me seemed like one of the places Dad used to take us once a year for Mother’s Day—fancy restaurants attached to the local country clubs and such where we all got dressed up and had to choke down quiche and stuff as Mom drank mimosas and wine from crystal while we all sat about white clothed tables with rose and baby’s breath flowered centerpieces and tealight candles.

  In the foyer, amid a set of comfortable black leather sofas, side tables, and a magazine strewn mahogany coffee table an older man with a short silver beard in a crumpled but expensive looking suit was reading the newspaper. Or at least trying to look like he was as he peered at us over the top of it, a cold look in his dark eyes as he watched us wander in.

  The “gentleman” folded his paper (which took some effort with the cast on his left arm), fixed us with a haughty, narrowed black glare that sent prickles down the back of my neck, put his paper under his arm, and stalked away. Gramps paused and stared after him a moment, something of a startled look on his face that he shook off with a resigned sigh. Evidently, he was used to the snootiness.

  I wasn’t.

  If I was uncomfortable before, I was even more so now. I could almost feel the horrible itchy neckties constricting about my neck as I starred wide eyed about the place on our way to a huge shiny oak reception desk. A dumpy, slightly heavyset greying lady in staff vest and tie greeted us with a thin-lipped smile and nod when we walked up to the lobbies desk.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Artur. Been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence—and you’ve brought a little guest. How wonderful.” She smiled in a kind of mechanical way and offered Gramps, who was scratching at his beard, a knowing wink that seemed to make him a bit uncomfortable as we waited in silence.

  Her shiny gold nametag crookedly pinned to her black vest identified her as “the manager”—her name spelled out in all capitals as GRETTA. She adjusted her glasses (they had those silly tiny gold chains dangling from the legs, you know, the kind you see decrepit old librarians wearing?) and neatened her pile of papers by tapping them on the desk, clearing her throat as she slipped a finger down the list of names on the top of her pile and nodded. “When you’re done seeing her, we’ve got a poltergeist in Room 33 again. Damned thing keeps scaring the hell out of the guests when it’s not trying to murder them.”

  Gramps groaned. “You’ve tried sage?”

  Gretta chuckled and nodded as she stepped out from behind the desk and beckoned for us to follow. “Even had the local exorcist give it a shot. Poor old cotter had a heart attack and had to be carted out in an ambulance, which I don’t have to tell you is not good PR for our establishment’s image at all”

  “I can imagine. Last one years back had to be scrubbed off the floor, if memory serves?” Gramps grumbled as we passed door after gold numbered door on the thickly carpeted hallway.

  Gretta groaned and nodded. “Had to have the whole room re-carpeted and all the furniture replaced. Wasn’t enough left of that doddering old fool to fill my cat’s litterbox. Too much more of that and we’ll start having issues with the church… Again.”

  “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Like you would have answered if we did?” She leveled her TV-like glasses at him pointedly and smiled over sweetly to which he grumbled unhappily. She stopped, checked her clipboard, and eyed a room. “Here we go. Don’t forget to stop by the desk after your visit… A poltergeist is good stuff for a young Darkling to wet his beak on after all.” She smiled down at me, handed me a lollypop, and ruffled my hair before bustling back down the hall.

  I had just pulled off the wrapper when I noticed Gramps hold out his hand for it and shake his head wearily. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you. Look again.” Confused, I glanced down again at what was in my hand and almost dropped the sickening filmy, moldering, rotten crab apple on a stick to the floor. I could hear Gretta cackle at her little joke as she hurried back to her reception desk as I gagged and handed it over.

  With a short laugh he knocked out “shave and a haircut” on the polished door, which was opened by a very elegant grey haired, tall, smiling woman in a silver sequined sparkly dress.

  “Artur, I’ve missed you—and who is this?” She paused mid hug and stared, her sharp, bright blue eyes staring down at me for a moment before widening, wetness gathering at the corners as she let out a long deflating sigh.

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head as if adamantly denying something. “Tell me it’s not true Artur. You promised.” Gramps sniffed and hung his head, one hand on my shoulder as he propelled me forward to stand before her.

  “Mary, dearest… Meet your grandson, Ben.”

  She let out another long shuddering breath, wiped away a tear, and fixed Gramps with a look that would have left a dragon stone dead. I honestly didn’t know what to say. I knew from my parents that Gran had died ages ago. That meant…

  “Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She crouched down and drew me into a warm but sad hug then held me at arm’s length. “I’m so sorry, dear. Yes, yes, I’m dead. A ghost, actually.” She chuckled. “And yes, again. I most definitely am your grandmother.”

  “Mary, my sixth wife—is…well, was, a Clairvoyant Witch,” he explained. “Her gifts only grew more powerful when she crossed over.”

  “That they did, Artur, and you would do well to remember it,” she scolded as she studied me. “Well, excuse an old woman her eccentricities. Ben, it’s good to meet you. Though some warning would have been nice,” then again fixed him with another dark look that had Gramps fidgeting. “You could have at least had a seance at Madam Cleo’s to give a girl some warning, Artur. All the emotion and loss bottled up like a psychic powder keg in this one might have given me a
heart attack had I still been alive.”

  As it turns out Madam Cleo is a powerfully gifted Oracle. One of only two to ever be known to exist in Feydom—halfblooded twins, a man and woman. Rumored to be the product of the first tragic union between Wizardly Vraad and Feyborn Human woman. A being so psychically and magically gifted that she had in fact, all but recused herself from higher matters of Wizards and the races of Fey.

  Instead she carved out a nice comfortable (and profitable) theatric niche in society as a medium and psychic for hire, up until she abruptly retired to a tiny cottage deep in the Adirondacks. Refusing just about anyone’s requests for consults or readings.

  It’s said more than a few foolish folks over the years who got a little too persistent into trying to force her out of retirement just up and vanished. This rumor persisted long enough for most everyone to just give her and her cottage in the woods a wide respectful berth.

  For some odd reason though, it was said that she had seemed to always drop everything to answer whenever Gramps dropped a line. Something I was wise enough not to ask about.

  No one really knew (and those that are in the know outright refuse to talk about it) what happened to her brother, or what caused the rift that drove her from serving Feydom as Oracle. And oddly, all records of them both in general just up and vanished into thin air and anyone who was anyone of great importance seemed to just quite conveniently forget. It’s not a pretty or pleasant story.

  Nor is it one I’m quite ready to tell.

  Grandma Mary smoothed her dress with her hands, sauntered to the room’s sofa, sat herself down, and took up a long-necked wine glass, watching us wander in with a strangely troubled and weary look on her aristocratically pretty face.

  “What’s a Clairvoyant?” I whispered to Gramps, who only laughed in answer.