The Cursed Blood, стр. 40
As if on cue the room darkened and changed, curtains hung in ribbons, sofas and bed were darkly stained and raggedly rent, and the carpet was a thing that would make the strongest stomached of us rush off to hug a toilet. Only thing that was still pristine was the bar, not surprisingly. “Mood lighting,” Jack explained with a shrug as we stared about.
“Well, let’s get on with it.” Happy Jack laughed as he folded his arms over his chest and fixed us with a sneering look that was as evil as it was inhuman. “Come on then. Chop, chop! I’ll even give you the first move, now. Isn’t that sporting?” He laughed wickedly.
Gramps simply walked over and stabbed him. Jack glanced at him almost amusedly, raised an eyebrow, and with a flick of a finger sent Gramps soaring through the air. Jack peered down at the dagger sticking out of his dinner jacket and snorted, then scowled.
“Firstly, that won’t work on me. Secondly,” he drew out the dagger and studied it a moment before it simply disintegrated in his hand into black dust that sifted through his fingers and drifted lazily down to the gore splattered carpet. He dusted off his hands and with an irritated sigh fingered the cut in his coat.
“Secondly, this was my favorite dinner jacket. I’ll take that out on your hide. Wherever did you manage to get that blighted reaper blade anyway?” he continued with mock curiosity as Gramps moaned and weekly tried to swat at him, which brought Happy Jack to a near fit of giggles until I managed to knock over the jagged shell of a whiskey bottle.
He glanced over his shoulder as I struggled to regain my wits and offered me an apologetic wink and needle toothed smile. “Why don’t you sit over there like a good lamb.” I flew across the room into the indicated chair and was inexplicably frozen in place, the air driven from my lungs.
“Good lad,” Jack chuckled approvingly. “Please excuse me while I tenderize the first course.” That said with a mocking bow, he picked up a bottle of liquor from the bar. He uncorked it, gulped down the meager remaining contents and tossed it in the air, catching it by the neck and hefting it like a club.
Gramps had just scrambled to his feet when he was on him, makeshift club battering him into the wall as Jack whistled a jaunty tune with each bludgeoning strike. Gramps groaned, bloodied and bruised as he slid down the wall to the floor. He stared up at the spirit of Jack with a bleary but defiant glare.
Happy Jack adjusted his trousers (revealing pink plaid socks) and crouched over Gramps, sneeringly running his manicured finger along his thin mustache as he spoke. “Tell me. How does it feel knowing I’m going to rip you both apart, eat you, and shit you out and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it? And then for dessert, I think I might pay the Spirit World a little visit and eat up everyone you care about there as well. Those nice warm, delicious souls should keep my belly delightfully tingly and full for a good long while. How’s that sit with you, eh chap?”
As a point of interest here, yes, a thing like Jack can devour souls in the afterlife, a thing that is dreaded (even by demons) beyond almost any other fate that is widely known as: The final death. Where everything you are is extinguished and consumed and the final spark of being is irreversibly snuffed out for eternity.
Gramps spat at him in answer. Jack merely chuckled amusedly and wiped his face with a monogramed lace hanky he’d plucked from his dinner jacket’s breast pocket.
I had been stuck there on that grizzly stained gaudily appointed chair, forced to watch and shiver in terror up till then. But at that moment I felt something dark stir, and then a familiar snap in me as something broke that felt hot, almost searing, and I screamed.
Last thing I remember seeing before the world span into darkness was Jack rising and turning to stare at me in something like wide eyed terror. Burning hellish cracks crept all over him and he began to just fall apart into what looked like burning flecks of blackness and dust.
I awoke in a soft, warm bed that was definitely NOT in Gramps’ lodge, as the sheets and heavy, cozy comforter was patterned in black and gold. A ceiling fan swirled lazily overhead, and I couldn’t ever remember a more comfortable pillow. I blinked about, my vision bleary and swimming.
“I need to know, Gretta. Trafficking in weaponized spirits is a serious matter. Who was the last living soul to reserve Room 33?” Gramps indignantly argued by the door, holding a bag of frozen peas over one side of his face.
Jaw set she made an unhappy sound at this and stared at him with unblinkingly dead in the eyes (which showed no small amount of guts as looking a fully grown Darkling in the eyes is something most Fey have a great deal of difficulty doing).
“I’m sorry, Artur, I really am. You know better than most that the Reunion Inn has a strict, unbreakable blood pact policy of privacy with each and every customer for their privacy and protection—It’s not that I don’t want to help you, it’s that I can’t. Trust me on this if on nothing else.