The Cursed Blood, стр. 41
She shook her head and stomped a foot for emphasis as something worrisome lit beneath the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “Just trust me, Artur. The Coven deals with this kind of betrayal in its own way. This won’t go unanswered.”
“Bugger the bloody rules. This is serious,” Gramps growled, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side, the knuckles cracking.
“You keep saying that like I’m not fully cognizant of it. Trust me when I assure you that I definitely am. It’s just that my hands are quite effectively tied. You want justice, find out who did it and tell the Coven. Then trust me… You will get some serious justice.” Gretta fixed him with a sinisterly blunt look that made me shudder. “Also, I’m sure that I don’t have to remind you, Artur, that if you do manage to ferret out reliable and concrete intel on who did this before our own investigation is concluded, and happen to send it our way, the Coven is never shy about expressing its gratitude.”
Gramps snorted derisively at that, rolling his one visible eye and barking out a harsh laugh that made it quite plain he wasn’t buying a word of what Gretta was selling.
The obviously frustrated Witch gave him a conflicted but withering look, making a low scoffing sound as she glanced over her shoulder at me and nodded meaningfully to Gramps who turned and offered me a week smile through his bag of frozen sweet peas.
“How are you feeling?” he asked wearily. I grimaced in answer as I pushed myself up in the bed. “That good, huh?” Gramps smirked. “We’ve got lots to talk about, Ben, but you did well. Better than well in fact, but we will talk more when we get home, ok?” I nodded and rubbed at my throbbing head.
“Well,” Gretta interrupted, “hate to break up a touching moment and all, but I’m officially instructed by…upper, upper management.” She winched at this. “That you, Ben Bright, have their personal thanks for your services and that you now have a regular comped reservation privilege at the Reunion Inn whenever you want it. I don’t know what you did, little boy, but it has even my boss’s bosses shook.” She eyed me narrowly over the top of her glasses before pushing them back up her nose.
“So, no more moldering crab apple lollypops?” I asked weakly as I rubbed at my throbbing head and tried to put things together enough to make sense of what she was talking about. It dawned on me right about then that I had felt the same when I awoke after blacking out following the spider demon attack at Craggmore.
She laughed and nodded. “Artur, see you again same time next year?” Gramps grunted his ascent, and after fixing me with another narrow, uneasy stare, she was turning on her high heels and off through the door and hurrying back down the hall as quick as can be.
“You know, I’m really starting to get the impression that Witch doesn’t appreciate our patronage of this fine establishment.” Gramps chuckled, wincing painfully, and clutching at his ribs at the effort of it as he watched her scurry off.
Manx seemed quite happy with the treat Gramps had ordered him from room service, munching happily on the two thick, juicy, raw porterhouse steaks and soup bone Gramps had tossed into the truck bed alongside a shredded copy of the “Reunion Inn pet policy” that had come up with it that outlined that infernal beasts were strictly forbidden on the grounds.
Gramps had torn it up in front of the terrified looking Witch that had delivered the food who had ran off pushing her cart down the hall as fast as her six inch heals could take her after pocketing her tip.
Chapter Eight
Arson, a promise, and the Elf King…
The ride home was again silent—me sitting staring out the window while Gramps drove and puffed on his pipe. Gramps kept glancing at me though, a thoughtful look on his puffy, black and blue face whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice as I slurped at my mint chocolate chip milkshake I’d gotten as my part of our room service order, peering despondently out the window.
We smelled the smoke before we saw it, acrid, and evil smelling. Nothing like the rich cloying sweetness of a campfire or a pipe of tobacco. It was at this point Gramps put his foot down hard on the gas pedal and with a spurt of tiny stones and dust we sped down the road.
The closer we got the more an unnatural cold settled over me, raising goose flesh in my arms and making me shiver. I glanced from my milkshake to Gramps who all but floored it at in his panicked hurry to get home.
It was horrible.
Right outside our gates sat several saddled, rather stunning brilliant, iridescent white unicorns pawing at the road testily. White Owl, grimmer than usual, stood outside the gate leaning on the stone pillar, arms folded, cowboy hat brim low over his face, smoking a fat cigar. All about Fey milled uncertainly, parting for the truck as Gramps pulled in, his battered face paling as he caught sight of the mess.
The guesthouse and workshop were reduced to almost nothing. A couple of blackened boards hung from warped timbers, some twisted metal and charred ruin that still billowed out black smoke high into the air. The main cabin had thankfully fared much better, although it to had gained an ugly blackened patch about the porch.
White Owl met us as Gramps put the truck in park and, a bit shakily fumbled out, leaning heavily on the door.
“Clampetts through us a little Molotov cocktail party. I couldn’t save the outbuildings, but I