The Cursed Blood, стр. 33
I wasn’t.
If I was uncomfortable before, I was even more so now. I could almost feel the horrible itchy neckties constricting about my neck as I starred wide eyed about the place on our way to a huge shiny oak reception desk. A dumpy, slightly heavyset greying lady in staff vest and tie greeted us with a thin-lipped smile and nod when we walked up to the lobbies desk.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Artur. Been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence—and you’ve brought a little guest. How wonderful.” She smiled in a kind of mechanical way and offered Gramps, who was scratching at his beard, a knowing wink that seemed to make him a bit uncomfortable as we waited in silence.
Her shiny gold nametag crookedly pinned to her black vest identified her as “the manager”—her name spelled out in all capitals as GRETTA. She adjusted her glasses (they had those silly tiny gold chains dangling from the legs, you know, the kind you see decrepit old librarians wearing?) and neatened her pile of papers by tapping them on the desk, clearing her throat as she slipped a finger down the list of names on the top of her pile and nodded. “When you’re done seeing her, we’ve got a poltergeist in Room 33 again. Damned thing keeps scaring the hell out of the guests when it’s not trying to murder them.”
Gramps groaned. “You’ve tried sage?”
Gretta chuckled and nodded as she stepped out from behind the desk and beckoned for us to follow. “Even had the local exorcist give it a shot. Poor old cotter had a heart attack and had to be carted out in an ambulance, which I don’t have to tell you is not good PR for our establishment’s image at all”
“I can imagine. Last one years back had to be scrubbed off the floor, if memory serves?” Gramps grumbled as we passed door after gold numbered door on the thickly carpeted hallway.
Gretta groaned and nodded. “Had to have the whole room re-carpeted and all the furniture replaced. Wasn’t enough left of that doddering old fool to fill my cat’s litterbox. Too much more of that and we’ll start having issues with the church… Again.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“Like you would have answered if we did?” She leveled her TV-like glasses at him pointedly and smiled over sweetly to which he grumbled unhappily. She stopped, checked her clipboard, and eyed a room. “Here we go. Don’t forget to stop by the desk after your visit… A poltergeist is good stuff for a young Darkling to wet his beak on after all.” She smiled down at me, handed me a lollypop, and ruffled my hair before bustling back down the hall.
I had just pulled off the wrapper when I noticed Gramps hold out his hand for it and shake his head wearily. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you. Look again.” Confused, I glanced down again at what was in my hand and almost dropped the sickening filmy, moldering, rotten crab apple on a stick to the floor. I could hear Gretta cackle at her little joke as she hurried back to her reception desk as I gagged and handed it over.
With a short laugh he knocked out “shave and a haircut” on the polished door, which was opened by a very elegant grey haired, tall, smiling woman in a silver sequined sparkly dress.
“Artur, I’ve missed you—and who is this?” She paused mid hug and stared, her sharp, bright blue eyes staring down at me for a moment before widening, wetness gathering at the corners as she let out a long deflating sigh.
“Oh, no.” She shook her head as if adamantly denying something. “Tell me it’s not true Artur. You promised.” Gramps sniffed and hung his head, one hand on my shoulder as he propelled me forward to stand before her.
“Mary, dearest… Meet your grandson, Ben.”
She let out another long shuddering breath, wiped away a tear, and fixed Gramps with a look that would have left a dragon stone dead. I honestly didn’t know what to say. I knew from my parents that Gran had died ages ago. That meant…
“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” She crouched down and drew me into a warm but sad hug then held me at arm’s length. “I’m so sorry, dear. Yes, yes, I’m dead. A ghost, actually.” She chuckled. “And yes, again. I most definitely am your grandmother.”
“Mary, my sixth wife—is…well, was, a Clairvoyant Witch,” he explained. “Her gifts only grew more powerful when she crossed over.”
“That they did, Artur, and you would do well to remember it,” she scolded as she studied me. “Well, excuse an old woman her eccentricities. Ben, it’s good to meet you. Though some warning would have been nice,” then again fixed him with another dark look that had Gramps fidgeting. “You could have at least had a seance at Madam Cleo’s to give a girl some warning, Artur. All the emotion and loss bottled up like a psychic powder keg in this one might have given me a heart attack had I still been alive.”
As it turns out Madam Cleo is a powerfully gifted Oracle. One of only two to ever be known to exist in Feydom—halfblooded twins, a man and woman. Rumored to be the product of the first tragic union between Wizardly Vraad and Feyborn Human woman. A being so psychically and magically gifted that she had in fact, all but recused herself from higher matters of Wizards and the races of Fey.
Instead she carved out a nice