The Cursed Blood

by Jeremy Craig

  But I couldn’t have that because she was dead and gone and I was all but alone in a world full of magical things that hated me. I realized what I was doing when I heard Aunt Milly again scolding Gramps, and quickly (and a bit self-consciously) wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

  “When will you ever learn to listen, Artur? He’s been cursed by a warlock, witnessed a demon attack, and goodness knows what else all in a matter of hours! You can’t just throw all this at him at once. He’s a BOY, not one of your tough as yew knights of old, for devil’s sake!” She seemed about to say more but thought better of it as she plopped Manx’s water bowl down at the Witchound’s paws and fixed Gramps with one of her infamous glares that I was just glad hadn’t been leveled at me for once.

  “I think it’s best to send Ben off to bed,” White Owl advised as he was the only one to notice I was back with them all and staring. It was a grand idea to them but honestly, I dreaded sleep. What if she was waiting for me in my dreams again? What if she came again with her fire and furies?

  I got a fresh pair of jammies from my dresser, as my luggage was likely burned to ash at the Rovers Rest. I didn’t have many options or even my toiletries. I flopped into bed and desperately tried to fight off sleep. My body, however, had other ideas. I remember smelling burning wood like a pleasant campfire as my eyes drooped shut, and by then I was past caring as exhaustion took me into a dark embrace and held tight.

  I blinked and found I couldn’t move anything but my eyes. It was like I was weighted down by a super heavy, ice cold blanket. I knew what was going to happen, and my mouth wouldn’t even let me scream.

  She smiled down at me from the foot of my bed, creepy ethereal yellow eyes on a pretty, familiar face that looked tired and sad as she just sat there. “I’m glad you made it, Ben. You were good to listen, though you had little choice in it, didn’t you, you poor thing?” She saw my terror and almost cried, but with a deep breath somehow managed to sum up the energy and will to control it, staring at me mournfully instead for a terrifyingly long moment that I was absolutely sure I was going to die in.

  “I’m sorry, Ben, about so many things. I had to burn that ward about your door—I hadn’t a choice. I just had to talk to you one more time. Tell your grandfather about it for me, will you?” I couldn’t nod but she seemed to see in my eyes that I would, so she nodded happily. “You’re safe, for now. I promise I will do everything I can to keep you that way. So much depends on it…” She trailed off as if there was so much more she wanted to say as she sat there, wringing her lace gloved hands, her eyes dimming to a warm amber brimming with warmth, strength, and deep emotion.

  “I’m being controlled, Ben. The woman you saw at the diner—she’s a Darkling like you. Well, not really like you as you’re special, aren’t you? Oh, she dearly wants you dead. She was very distressed that you escaped, you know. But she has no idea we are bonded, and she can never find out. She’s dangerous, Ben. Her name is Alicia Lancelot, and she’s not working alone. Tell your Grandfather about everything I’ve said. Free me, Ben. Promise me that?” she pleaded.

  I don’t know why but I knew I absolutely would, and she seemed to know it, too. She gave me such a radiant smile that my heart fluttered before vanishing to black vapor just as my door crashed open. I awoke with a start as Aunt Milly, White Owl, Fazool, and Gramps were preceded by a growling Manx into my room.

  Gramps took one look at me and cursed. “What did she say, lad?” He growled so seriously that I was immediately awake. I sat there in bed and quickly advised we weren’t yet in danger. Gramps cursed again when I told him about the warding about the door and gazed up at it sourly, running a hand over the burned-out arcane runes.

  “She burned out a higher warding.” Fazool whistled. “For only a child this girl is quite an impressive young Warlock.”

  Higher wardings are tricky things. Incredibly hard and expensive to make, they require the powers and meticulous workings of a Wizard, and are almost impossible to break once cast and forged.

  It is designed to repel some of the darkest things spawned or summoned from the unearthly plains, keeping them from creeping out of closets (which definitely can be used as other worldly portals) and creeping under beds or worse. The warding makes intrusion of a magical, supernatural, or ethereal nature all but impractical to even the most powerful of Fey. To say breaking such a thing would be difficult is an understatement of cosmic proportions.

  Gramps eyed the awed Halfling and scoffed. “She summoned demons and had them slaughter who knows how many people. That isn’t impressive—its evil, and dangerous,” he snapped as he continued to eye the scorched-out symbols and shake his head.

  “She can’t help it,” I interjected, earning a sharp glare from Gramps and a long suffering one from Aunt Milly. “She is a prisoner. She’s being controlled.” I then went on to tell them everything else. The part about the woman who was keeping her prisoner’s identity seemed to leave Gramps unwell as he went grey and wavered where he stood and had to lean on the wall even as he clutched at his chest.

  Panicked, Aunt Milly had White Owl manhandle Gramps to the sofa so Fazool, who evidently was quite an accomplished Medicus Arcanus—a Witch learned in medical magics—could give him a once over. I trailed after and sipped at the bitter herb tea White Owl insisted I drink as Aunt Milly hovered, pacing by the sofa watching and wringing her hands.

  Fazool ran a glistening red oval crystal he had fetched from a black, old style leather medical bag he had conjured up over Gramps’ chest which Gramps kept complaining was cold. The Halfling, still in his pajamas sighed and shook his head. “He needs rest. It looks like a minor cardiac event—it’s really nothing serious if he sticks to bed for a day or so and drinks his potion like a good boy.”

  He patted Gramps’ arm who was glaring at him from the couch and buttoning his shirt. “Seriously, Artur, at your age you NEED to be taking better care of yourself. The body’s a temple after all.” He giggled, much to Gramps’ obvious irritation.

  “Oh, he will be following those instructions to the letter,” Aunt Milly assured. “Won’t you, Artur?” she demanded. She gave him a wickedly hard smile as she added, “Because I won’t be giving you any other choice.” At this Gramps groaned miserably.

  Well before dawn, White Owl had driven me to his home. Before you think it, no it isn’t a “Kemosabe” like wigwam or teepee. It’s a nice little one bedroom cottage with window planters, a winding moss overgrown stone slab path to the front door which is painted bright red, and a nice four seasons porch out back overlooking the loveliest lake and dock that looked just perfect to fish from.

  The cottage grounds even had a rusted mailbox, shed with peeling red paint, and a round roofed greenhouse, all very normal looking…save the tacky collection of pink flamingos and garden gnomes, which are a touch creepy. There’s something about the way those little red hatted garden decorations look at you with those painted eyes that give me the willies, and for good reason.

  Inside, however, is a much different story. The entire far wall is filled with lit glass habitat tanks and aquariums full of large spiders, lizards, snakes, fish, and other things that he cared for. The redbrick hearth has a stone mantle taken up with silver framed photos and a long peace pipe.

  The kitchen was hung with planters of cooking herbs and stringers of root vegetables while the many shelves were sagging under the weight of countless jars of teas and foreign looking things I couldn’t even begin to identify, and the counters were neatly set with a large sink, modern appliances, and a huge marble mortar and pestle. His oven/stove is one of those old-fashioned wood burning numbers with a matching kettle on one of its many burners.

  I would be spending the night over at White Owl’s then Gramps was going to be picking me up in the morning. Evidently, he had plans for a nice relaxing afternoon for the both of us to unwind a bit. Which sounded wonderful. I plopped my day bag by the worn sofa where I was instructed and curiously went to peer into the aquariu
ms as my host lumbered off mumbling to himself to the kitchen to light the stove and start up a kettle for tea.

  I stared at the iguana sitting on a red hunk of stone by a carved food dish surrounded by a garden of tiny plants and a tiny pool of water and tapped at the glass. It peered at me then licked his eye with a long dart like tongue. The eyes gave me the chills. They were piercing blue and very human looking.

  “His name is Gerald.” White Owl’s unexpected introduction when I hadn’t even heard him walk up behind me made me nearly jump out of my boots. “He’s a nasty, rude thing—but it’s still not nice to tap on the glass. It frightens him.” As if on cue the lizard licked its own eyes, then scurried into the greenery about his rock and vanished, peering at us from behind blades of saw grass and a gnarled hunk of roots.

  White Owl chuckled at this but his expression never changed, not even a crack, and then he proceeded to make further introductions of his living room’s little menagerie before dumping a pile of blankets and an overstuffed pillow for me on the sofa and wondering off back to the kitchen just as the kettle started whistling.

  I continued to stare into a tank holding a small catfish I now knew to be named Tiffany. The spiny, whiskered fish was settled into a pile of river pebbles and staring out at us with very green eyes that made me more than a bit uncomfortable but for some reason I couldn’t look away.

  It was right at that moment that there was a knock on the door and a clatter followed by a rolling sound of cup on tile. I turned to the kitchen in time to see White Owl scuttling after a dropped mug, grumbling about how “no one ever visits.” He scooped it up, eyed the broken loopy handle with disgust and tossed it with a crash into the sink as he stalked over to the door as another knock, this time louder, rang out against the red painted door.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming,” he growled as again the door rattled with a knock that seemed to both trouble and irritate him. He looked like he was about to say something as he yanked it open but just stopped, mouth open in the start of a scathing comment that died into a long, hard, uneasy stare.

  “Good day, my fine friends. May I come in?” The Doctor smiled at him, leaning with both hands on his skull topped cane with a sardonic laugh on his lips.

  It was an odd and unsettling moment as we sat about White Owl’s tiny table, steaming cups of tea in front of us on saucers staring at the tall, top hatted Councilman who was staring at his tea dubiously.

  “You don’ perhaps have somefin’…shall we say, stronger?” he asked hopefully in his gravely, heavily accented and multi-tonal voice to which White Owl merely shook his head in a very no nonsense, get on with it or you’ll be spending time in one of my aquariums kind of look.

  “Ah well, no matter.” The man waved his hand and a dusty bottle of rum, corked and sealed with red wax just appeared on the table alongside a wooden slide topped box of Cuban cigars that admittedly got White Owl’s attention.

  “Hospitality is the way to any healthy friendship, yeah?” The Doctor smiled predatorily and pushed to box to his host who quickly picked one out and secured it in his breast pocket. The Doctor deftly uncorked his old bottle of rum and poured a healthy dollop into his tea. “Ah, that’s better, no?” He asked with one of his grave dirt chuckles that sent chills down my spine.

  Cigars lit and tea “made Irish” as I’ve heard the habit called, The Doctor fixed me with a look of interest that made me want to crawl under my chair.

  “You, boy. You ‘ave made interesting friends… One recently mutual acquaintance of mine ’as taken more than a shine to you. I must say it is enough to make an old demon smile, or sick. I must admit I’m still unsure which way to go. I must say though, you begin to interest me.” He laughed again at this, and his admission made me want to crawl under my chair all the more. He ogled at me a long moment just puffing on his cigar and blowing huge, sickly sweet-smelling yellowish clouds of tobacco smoke from his nostrils.

  “You found her?” White Owl asked, to which The Doctor merely nodded, a serious, contemplative look on his face as he settled his cigar into a ruby skull shaped ashtray—that moments ago hadn’t been there—where it sat, sending a steady stream of rich, fragrant smoke from its glowing end. He added another generous measure of rum to his tea, sniffed it, smiled wolfishly, and took a sip.

  “More accurately, the girl found me,” he added before he drained his tea then filled the cup entirely with rum and gulped that down, too. “She scares me, more than any demon in the pits or any Wizard on this earth ever ’as. The fools that imprison her knows not the danger they are in or the danger they place us all in, as the tether on her is slipping… I think you ‘ave somefin’ to do with that, yeah?”

  I gulped and he smiled. “Ah yes, there it is. I can smell her blood in you… Strange, you don’ seem to mind it there, do ya? Interesting. Interesting, indeed. Perhaps you and I shall be friends. Yes, close, close friends in the days to come?” He smiled.

  Again, I gulped and White Owl turned to me and gave me a dark scowl that turned wistful as I was sure he was reading me, right down to my very soul. After a moment a ghost of a smile slipped onto his face that was gone so quickly, I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it.

  The Master folded his arms and glared at the Arch Demon with a cold intuitiveness as he watched him nurse his drink and smoke his cigar. “What does she want?” he finally asked after a long uncomfortable silence, his question eliciting a throaty, otherworldly chuckle from our fiendish visitor.

  “Only one thing in the whole wide world, though I tried to dissuade her of it—even offered her anything she desired in her black little heart, but she is quite stuck on it. Though now I can see it’s mutual, yes?”

  The Demon’s smile broadened as he nodded to me. Somehow, I knew I didn’t have to answer. He just knew what was in my heart. Even though she scared me I liked her. I wanted her to be free. The Doctor chuckled dryly and smiled a predatory smile filled with dark delight as he winked at me in a way that more than eluded that my suspicions were correct.

  “What does she want? Out with it then, if you please,” White Owl repeated icily as he looked one to the other with growing trepidation.

  “Not what. Who. Obviously.”

  “Who then?” White Owl asked even though I have my suspicions he knew the answer already, though I hadn’t a clue what the tough, unreadable, and taciturn old man made of it.

  “Him, of course.” The Doctor pointed at me with his cigar and smiled through a thick cloud of tobacco smoke that eddied about the low timber rafters. “And, I don’t think it be wise to try to further dissuade her. She be meaning him no harm.”

  White Owl sat back in his chair, which creaked as it strained to support his weight as he put his chin to his chest, seemingly lost in thought. “And you thought it best to come here to tell me this and not his grandfather. Why?”

  “She wished me to deliver this,” he replied simply, pulling a crisp white envelope from his sleeve. He sniffed at it and shuddered, a hint of fear in his eyes as he extended it to me with a long nailed and many ringed hand. White Owl appeared as though he wanted to intercept it but seemed to think better of it and settled back down in his chair with a creek of protesting wood, his lined face unreadable.

  “Go on, take it. It’s just a letter.” The Doctor’s smile was far from reassuring. I stared at it and him for long past what was polite and finally took it with a very shaky hand. Again, he winked at me and went back to blowing cigar smoke from his nose and silently staring as if he found it all highly entertaining.

  The envelope was warm and smelled of lilies. My name was scrawled on it in a flowery, curly, pink inked script. It wasn’t sealed with wax or licked shut like a post envelope. It was just folded over. I opened it carefully and pulled out the paper inside. The Doctor’s red flecked eyes never blinking as he watched.

  Dearest One,

  I’m being held in Camelot; I think they know everything, and I fear for us both.

  There isn’t
much time…

  Free me, my Darkling,

  Morgan Le’Fey

  I don’t know how or why, but I felt the cold settle over me and something else that was warm and constricting and harsh. Then the letter burst into terrifyingly familiar infernal flame as I held it, tiny imps consuming the paper in a sinister dance that had both The Doctor and White Owl sliding back in their chairs from the table so quickly that their chair legs screeched along the hardwood floor and they both nearly toppled over.

  “’Well, that was unexpected.” The Doctor straightened his tie as he stood and backed away. “Yes, I like you Benjamin Von Bright. It is decided, no? You and I shall be friends, the greatest of friends,” he repeated with a harsh laugh as he vanished into a cloud of buzzing blackness like a swarm of evil flies that left only a smell of sulfur and his echoing laugh behind him after they buzzed out the nearest cracked window and was gone.

  I remember I was breathing hard, and my hand was shaking as the last of the note turned to grey floating ash that fluttered to the table. White Owl later told me that my eyes had gone all black like oily pools of the abyss. It took a great deal of heavy breathing to regain my composure as the Master stared at me with very wide eyes as he pushed himself up from his chair. After a long, pregnant moment he rushed to the phone and started franticly dialing.

  Minutes later a portal swirled and crackled to life in the yard and out stepped my very pale aunt, who shoed away a particularly feisty garden gnome (yes, the kind you see in tacky gardens—but of a much more sinister and Feyish variety) wielding a teensy-weensy pickaxe, then rushed in—all but knocking the door of its hinges as she hammered at it.