The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  “This is young Benjamin Bright, my Grandson,” Gramps introduced me proudly and the tiny Witch sparkled with interest as he giggled and slipped through the curtain, Parting it with his walking stick and stepping up and onto his tip toes to give me a tiny, well-manicured but impossibly strong hand to shake.

  “A pleasure, Master Benjamin. I must say I’ve heard simply wonderful things about you, and some incredibly sad things. I’m sorry for your loss.” He looked so sad and sincere that I honestly didn’t know what to say but a mumbled thank you as I shook his hand.

  “Oh, Fazool darling, you’re here!” Aunt Milly rushed franticly in and through the dining area, all but shoving diners and serving girls aside and swooped down to kiss the delighted salt and pepper wavy haired halfling on each of his rosy cheeks. “Oh, please tell me you’ve come early to swoop in rescue me from this dismal company and off to more cultured and refined things, pretty, pretty please?”

  “Delighted darling, simply charmed and delighted.” Fazool blushingly giggled as he kissed her gloved hand and the two shared a laugh like old clucking hens. “I don’t know though, Milly, your brother-in-law was just regaling us all with the most delightful, exciting, and wonderfully engaging stories. I’ve never heard the likes. I’m simply mesmerized and enthralled!”

  “Was he now?” Aunt Milly asked sternly as she eyed us both. “Not regaling my nephew about your bawdy adventures here at the Rovers Rest before it was a reputable and honest establishment, are you?” At this Gramps gave her a mockingly innocent look that she pointedly ignored.

  The animated little Witch giggled happily. “Oh, I used to know a delightfully explorative lady of the evening who had a room hear ages ago who for just a few copper gibbons and a stiff drink, preferably rum, would show you this simply amazingly life affirming trick where she would-” Fazool trailed off as my aunt leveled a long suffering and pained look at him, then glanced at me meaningfully.

  “Oh dear, please excuse my enthusiasm. Suddenly I’m all a flutter with old memories and feelings I’ve not had since I was just a little Halfling…” He flushed scarlet and shook his head bashfully and giggled. “The eccentricity of a mind younger than the body, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, a good bottle of wine, the 1286 Moonberry if they have it, will definitely cure you of that, you poor thing. If not, they are sure to have a 1312,” Aunt Milly fawned, and all but dragged the giddy Halfling to the bar where Mac, ever on point when it came to service and coin, was already deftly uncorking a bottle from the vast collection behind the bar. Though this one came from well beneath it and looked outrageously expensive, which was probably why he was beaming with joy at the approaching Witches.

  “Oh, yes, Moonberry, my favorite. You naughty thing, you remembered! And, while we drink we can discuss the incredible new piece of art I procured from Istanbul as we nibble at a good cheese tray then a nice smoke. I’ve got with me the most life changing leaf, you know.” Aunt Milly beamed and the two again started giggling like schoolgirls as they scurried off to appease their refined tastes, leaving Gramps shaking his head and smiling in amusement.

  “Two of the most powerful Witches ever to live and the both of them care more for pipe leaf, fine cigars, kindness, poetry, fine dining, obscure art, and designer shoes.” He watched them wistfully. “Though the world would be a better place if more thought like them.”

  “How?” I asked curiously.

  “Imagine if all of the most powerful beings on the planet cared more about making it more beautiful and happier instead of garnering power, buying oil fields, religious dogma, and squirreling away heaps of gold?” Gramps sighed. “The two of them could turn half the town to cinders in the blink of an eye with a thought and all they want after is a conversation, a shared meal, and kind words.”

  I didn’t understand it then, but now I’m deeply grateful to have met the odd, flighty, charming little Halfling Witch. Over the years he became a good friend, advisor, and powerful ally. Though he never could get me to like Moonberry, regardless of the vintage, much to his deep frustration. I did, however, procure him a obscenely valuable bottle of the 765 that quite publicly and embarrassingly brought him to tears.

  Unfortunately, he insisted we share it.

  We gathered outside at dusk to await our carriage to the council meeting; I had wanted to bring Manx as I had a horrible uneasy feeling, but Gramps insisted it wasn’t protocol. So, the big Witchound was snuggled on my bed with a porterhouse and bowl of water while we were out in a cool drizzle waiting for a cab under umbrellas with upturned coat collars.

  It arrived ten minutes late, and we heard the clip clop of its horses’ hooves and rumble of its wheels long before we saw it. I remember it was a sleek dark yellow affair lit by hanging lanterns pulled by two terrifyingly huge black horses.

  The driver, a kindly Irish Witch with ruddy freckled jowls and bright red hair beneath his cap, a knit scarf, pipe, and long peat coat of navy blue opened the doors for us kindly and even doffed his hat to my aunt who seemed to find the whole experience quite charming.

  It was a comfortable carriage with cushioned seats and matching curtains neatly pulled back with leather thongs. We were off to a surprisingly smooth start with a clattering thunder roll of iron shod hooves on cobblestone.

  Gramps sipped at a tarnished, battered silver hip flask with a noble looking stag crest engraved into it, passing it off to Fazool who eyed it a bit dolefully, a touch of disapproval wrinkling the skin about his eyes for a heartbeat as he accepted it, sniffed at its contents then smiled. “To present and absent friends?” he toasted. Gramps’ eyes misted as he nodded in approval as the Halfling took a long gulp, smacking his tiny lips appreciatively at Gramps’ drink of choice.

  “I’m actually a fan of the American whisky. One of the rustic young country’s best inventions next to Jazz, apple pie, Baby Ruth candy bars, and Chicago deep dish pizza,” he gushingly explained as the carriage rumbled on, and they passed the flask back and forth to the disapproving pursed lipped glare of Aunt Milly, who politely declined a taste with an upturned nose and a snooty look like they were offering her a cup of steaming bog water.

  We were just being regaled with the story of the Halfling’s first pizza which he claimed he had shared with Al Capone himself, (who had allegedly been trying to talk him into attending a very rigged baseball game) when the carriage was violently struck and almost tipped over. It righted itself with a horrible crash that left us all tangled and piled atop one another on the carpeted floor in a dazed heap.

  “Oh, my word,” Fazool moaned as he struggled to his tiny, expensively shoed feet and helped me up as Gramps tried to revive Aunt Milly who had evidently rather badly stuck her head and was unconscious in his arms. Outside the horses abruptly screamed as something much more man-like that left me chilled landed on the roof with a thud. There was fearful shouting, a struggle, and a horrible howl then silence.

  “Well, that definitely isn’t comforting,” Fazool said to no one in particular as he clutched at his walking stick and stared up at the roof. We all winced as a bloodied silvery blade plunged through it with a shower of wood, stopping centimeters from the Halfling’s nose, crimson dripping onto his fine clothes and face.

  “Oh, no, they didn’t!” he cried as the roof came crashing in and down dropped a fearsome hooded and silver masked figure in all black leathers brandishing a wickedly curved sword. “You. Ruined. My. Blouse,” Fazool hissed as he whipped a dagger from his walking stick and savagely plunged it into the Nameless’s abdomen and gave it a sickeningly savage twist.

  The sneering silver mask stared down almost curiously at the tiny thing that had impossibly killed it then toppled noiselessly into the cushioned seats just as another dropped down into the carriage, sword in hand. It swung a deadly stroke that hissed as it cut through the air at the Halfling who unflinchingly parried with his tiny blade, stepped forward and drove the pointy, silver end of the cane he had drawn his knife from somewhere that makes me wince to even t
hink about on the would-be assassin.

  Astoundingly, the Nameless didn’t even flinch, twisting soundlessly away. The silver mask with its almost hypnotic sneeringly gilded expression studying us all with the coldness of a shark regarding a particularly snarky sea bass as it steadily held its ornate sword at the ready before it in a double fisted grip.

  It then seemed to notice me just as the now all too familiar cold set into my blood and my eyes blackened. It cocked its head and gave the grotesque impression that it was sniffing the air. A heartbeat later it threw something to the floor that unleashed an acrid cloud of eye tearing fog that left us all gagging.

  When the smoke cleared after Fazool chokingly fumbled the carriage door open and fanned the acrid air with his tiny well-tailored jacket (that he was moaning about having to have dry cleaned) we discovered both of the deadly assassins were gone, leaving only the wreckage of our carriage, dead horses, and a murdered Summer Witch as evidence they were ever there.

  “So rude, killing horses. They are such gentle beasts.” Fazool shook his head sadly as he took out a pink silk hanky from a pocket and wiped his blade clean before returning it to his walking stick with a disgusted snort. Sighing, he stuffed the bloodied hanky back into his pocket. “And we were having such a lovely evening. I trust Mildred is well?”

  Gramps, red faced and obviously enraged, nodded down to the Halfling as he helped Aunt Milly who was fanning herself and obviously still groggy and shaken onto the now crowded lamp lit street that was lined with muttering spectators.

  My eyes itched, I couldn’t stop coughing, everything was blurred, and once again I felt like someone was bashing at the inside of my skull with whatever they hit gongs with as I stumbled out and peered about at their side. I noticed a cloaked and hooded figure smoking a pipe watching us. It quickly walked away the moment I caught sight of it, then once again it simply slipped my mind.

  “I need a drink, a smoke, and to brutally murder whoever sent those ruffians to ruin my evening,” Fazool whined dejectedly as he stomped tearfully over to the massacred horses and again sighed heavily. “Poor, poor majestic things. Who could do this to you?”

  The next morning, we arrived at Camelot’s Grand Hall via an official carriage escorted by a troop of what for all the world looked like mounted knights complete with pole arms and shields all decked out in steel caps, breastplates, surcoats, and chainmail.

  It had been a long night. A rather stuffy, emotionless Darkling investigator had grilled us for hours while a troop of his black leather trench coated peers with silver skull lapel pins stared at us accusingly. It had only ended when Aunt Milly had finally lost her temper, proclaiming her head hurt and that she was unspeakably famished.

  She hurried them on their way by threatening to turn the lot into snails and portal in a fine French chef to whip up some buttery escargot. Afterwards, they quickly pocketed their ringed notebooks and backed out the room apologetically, though they continued to give Gramps dirty, dark looks until the door was slammed in their faces.

  So, seeing the long, pennant hung, single story historic stone building (I know, in the States a building tips the scale at a meager hundred, and we mark it a National landmark, but this is a whole different thing) was more than a bit of a relief.

  I likely would have had far more interest visiting the hall where the Round Table once sat, but I had a headache, it was raining and dreary, and I felt absolutely miserable. I’d had nightmares when I’d finally drifted off the night before and I still couldn’t shake them.

  The demon spiders had eaten Manx and turned into silver masked fiends that chittered and screeched as they chased me through an endless forest of moaning trees with skeletons hanging from them and for some reason the girl I’d met kept crying inconsolably and pointing at something I couldn’t see no matter how or where I turned to look for it.

  I had only picked at breakfast, barely spoken a word, and Aunt Milly kept complaining that I looked peaky (whatever in Satan’s saggy boxers that means). Gramps kept telling her to hush and leave me be, and Fazool seemed to sympathize but kept offering me sweets, insisting that a good dark chocolate cream was just the tonic for a case of bed head. No one understood that even the thought of food made me want to hug a toilet and yack my guts out.

  So, I sat there in the carriage, insisting to only minimum resistance that Manx this time came with us, an idea the Witchound took to quite happily. He sat between Fazool and I—something Fazool wasn’t quite fond of but didn’t have the heart to complain about—and we had an uncomfortable ride with Gramps and Aunt Milly staring out opposite carriage windows watching the scenery whip by and not talking or looking at one another for some odd reason.

  Fazool tried a few times to get everyone talking but failed miserably, finally resigning himself to twiddling his thumbs awkwardly and peering uneasily at Manx who kept staring down at him and pant, heavily drooling on the carriage cushions. I’m not sure what he feared more, the idea the huge dog would start licking him and slobbering on his coat tails or that it might eat him. Honestly, I just think Manx smelled the copious amounts of bacon the Halfling had packed in at breakfast and was looking for a treat.

  A pair of tall, beefy, neatly bearded guards that could have been twins with steel helmets and massive swords saluted with gauntleted fists to their chests. As they wordlessly opened the building’s massive double doors with a creak by pulling the huge iron rungs and we walked passed, I noticed they seemed to be wearing, what looked to me, to be absolutely ridiculous looking livery and hosiery and had very ruffled collars.

  The room was amazing. The marble floor was polished to a mirrored sheen and there wasn’t a spot of dust to be seen. Tapestries, taxidermy, shields, muskets, old framed photos, and paintings hung from the walls. Everywhere the eyes roamed old armor on stands and racks of ancient swords were set amid expensive Tiffany stained-glass lamps, furs, and even a massive bear skin rug before a fireplace that could fit a small cottage in that hosted a roaring fire.

  At the hall’s center, overhung by a spectacular dragon skull chandelier that was dangling from a spiked iron chain was a long oval squeaky-clean oak table. The table was surrounded by matching high backed chairs and set with a very Wall Street business meeting-like array of water glasses, pitchers, what looked like a solid gold spreading knife, named place settings and a tray of assorted bagels and cream cheese.

  “Welcome.” A wheezy low voice with steel in it started us all, and we each gawked about a bit dumbly until a slender, slicked back blond haired, hawk faced man smiled back at us from beside the fireplace where we were all quite sure no one had been a moment before.

  He glared, swirling what I think to have a brandy in a crystal sniffer as he stared at us with the sneering nose raised in disdain of a man well in gold but short on humility (and many other deeply vital “H” words one might expect to find in a decent human being).

  “Well, do come in. And shut the damn door,” he growled irritably “You’re letting in a bloody draft.”

  He made a scoffing noise, eyed his fine drink as if it had lost its sweetness and with a disgusted sigh tossed the drink into the fire, glass and all. He tugged at the hem of his expensive gold buttoned tweed suit jacket, adjusted his matching bowtie, and then very exaggeratedly clasped his behind his back. It was all very theatrical, and he seemed to be enjoying himself if only in regard to our discomfort.

  Sir Becket, patron of house Von Bright and ruler elect of Camelot strolled to the table sucking at his teeth and eyeing the lot of us (particularly Gramps) with a contempt filled look I imagine a chef glares after a mouse invading their kitchens.

  “The others will be here shortly. It appears we have much to discuss, have we not?” he asked as he continued glared daggers at Gramps who unblinkingly glared them right back. Obviously, that was far from pleasing to our pompous host who again sneered, sucked at his teeth and rapt his knuckles on the table and sighed.

  Sir Becket lifted his sleeve and checked his golden Ro
lex, then fished a heavy looking golden pocket watch on a chain from his tartan, ivory buttoned waistcoat pocket and checked that too, frowned like someone had stepped on his loafers or a dirty bug had landed on his crooked nose, and sighed irritably.

  “The sooner we get this over with and you are all well gone from my perfect little town the better—wouldn’t you agree, Father?” I gasped. Gramps glared and the old hens—Fazool and Aunt Milly—stared at the Darkling lord as though they were figuring out the best way to torture him. The Halfling, his walking stick under his arm, started cracking his tiny knuckles meaningfully. All of which Sir Becket sniffed at and sneered.

  “And this must be my little nephew that all of Feydom is buzzing about.” He rapped a knuckle on the table and gave me a smile that would have looked more convincing on a tarantula. “A true blooded Darkling. Tisk, Father—haven’t you been busy?” He sneered and winked lewdly at Gramps whose fingers I noticed were creeping towards the sword buckled at his belt.

  Sir Becket poured himself a tall glass of ice water, brought it to his lips, gargled it, and swallowed just as the door at the hall’s other end creaked open and in walked the ever-severe looking Matron Malice in a grey pantsuit, her black hair up in a tight, neat bun (her real name’s Alice) of house Van Hellsing.

  Lord Alek Romanoff and the Countess entered, and a quite uncomfortable looking Count Neming Dracule, wearing a spectacular tuxedo and opera cape, followed at their heels, his chiseled handsomely pale face framed by thick, jet black hair glancing about with a mix of curiosity, unease and tiredness (kind of like a rat taking a tour of a trap factory).