The Cursed Blood, стр. 20
The girl’s unexpected kindness was a pleasant surprise. I honestly wasn’t surprised she knew, as everyone seemed to. Evidently my parents’ murder was the talk of the town and had caused quite the stir. Small towns are like that—rumors and juicy news spread like wildfire, especially bad news. Especially bad news pertaining to Darklings in Feyish communities.
Most, however, tended to avoid speaking to one about it, even young, not yet ascended ones. I’d learned when White Owl had drove me into town that most preferred to stare and maybe offer a sympathetic nod. The ever-kindly Mama P being the only exception to the rule I’d met thus far.
The woman in scarlet, who looked maddeningly and impossibly familiar (but for the life of me I couldn’t place her) busied herself with her slightly upturned nose buried in the menu and again, didn’t seem to notice the girl tossing me a wave and sad little smile as her tall glass of chocolate milk arrived a few minutes later. Though Mama P, who had just taken their order after serving their drinks seemed to find the whole thing quite adorably amusing as she afforded me a sly, blush inducing wink as she rushed off to convey their requests to the kitchen.
White Owl returned to our booth from the restroom and rubbed his many ringed hands together in anticipation as he gazed hungrily down at the plate that had arrived while he was indisposed.
He sat with an exaggerated sigh and eyed me curiously. Then he tossed a curious look at the girl that was sipping at her straw and rolled his dark eyes, shaking his head as he lifted one of the three breakfast sandwiches up and took a bite.
“It’s good to distract yourself. Particularly now,” he advised as he chewed the huge mouthful with obvious relish. “But don’t distract yourself too much, little one. Your grandfather will be home soon, and we still have much to do. Don’t lose your wits—at times they are all you have between you and…unpleasant consequences.” He swallowed and gave me one of those rare smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
What he was referring to would be that Gramps was out on an investigation, looking into my parents’ murder at the burned down wreck that had once been our happy home in the middle of suburbia, and was expected back any day now. In that time there was much he expected me to read from those big, clunky enchanted books of his.
He’d even hinted he would be quizzing me on it when he got home, and that if I failed to meet his expectations the penalty would be most unpleasant, especially if he discovered it wasn’t done because I’d been wallowing in my guilt and pain like a mute hermit since he had driven off on his hunt.
I had a sudden waking nightmare of scrubbing at his old pots and pans until my fingers wrinkled like peach pits and doing pushups until I couldn’t feel my arms. I had a lot of work to do to catch up, and not a lot of time left to do it.
I nodded back at White Owl absently as lots of thoughts swam about and almost mechanically ate my hovering forkful of chocolate chip pancakes. Food did help. I’d learned that lesson well as I cut into the remaining cakes, intent on downing it before it dissolved into rings of mushy, syrupy goop.
We eventually had a productive afternoon after arriving back at Craggmore for a brief siesta (the Master insisting we first needed a break between eating and good old hard old fashioned bookworming to allow for proper digestion) during which we settled into a spirited session of cards where he insisted on teaching me blackjack (which he insisted was an essential life skill) at the lodge’s dining room table.
After about an hour of being happily trounced at cards (he scoffed it off as beginners’ luck) White Owl lackadaisically ran me through Gramps’ prescribed exercises and drills. All the while munching on a candy bar and sitting on a lawn chair with his feet propped up on a cooler full of ice and beers. One of which he was sipping at.
Next, he regaled me with some history over lemonades on the porch, particularly covering some of the History of the Adirondacks. Which evidently was home to some exceedingly rare, dangerous, and reclusive breeds of Were-beasts, which are simply Fey that can turn into beasts.
The born changing at will, and the bitten only on the full moon. (This is evidently one of the ways a mundane can become infected into becoming Fey, and accounts for more than a few disappearances of hikers over the years) Which of course inspired a whole subset of mundane human films that I will always deeply enjoy, especially now that I’ve become better acquainted with the packs.
He also advised that Darklings, however, are happily inherently immune to the contagion in a Were-beasts’ venom, which is one of the reasons why Gramps patrols the park, to keep the packs from getting up to too much mischief and mayhem.
Which thankfully, hadn’t happened since the ascension of the last shapeshifter (a Were-beast with golden eyes capable of mimicking both human and beast forms that has the potential to unite the packs) in 1754 which led to some fairly savage raids and battles in the deep woods of colonial America.
There was even notation here that a Shapeshifter was one of only two beings that when in Feydom, a Wizard or Darkling couldn’t see through their veneer of flesh to what they really were beneath. (The second category is Reapers, which at the time I didn’t know enough about to be properly terrified of). Which was one of the reasons Feydom so deeply fears and hunted them.
This bloody unrest only ended in February of