The Cursed Blood, стр. 32
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