The Cursed Blood, стр. 22

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 the 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