The Cursed Blood, стр. 47
More than a few familiar, and openly unfriendly faces (to the Elves, at least) lining the path to the gate staring after him, taking in the odd exchange between child and King with unease and curiosity.
The Council had come to Gramps’ home once again, and the King of Elves spared them not a passing glance after his initial appraisal as he strode by. None of the Council for their part seemed to care very much about being snubbed. Though every one of them eyed his blackened armor and rings with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
The mysterious top hatted Doctor even laughed a low, cold, rumbling laugh that itched at my ears though oddly not a one of the pointy eared Elves seemed to pay it any mind. Or, for that matter even hear him as they headed to their radiant mounts in lock step behind their king, the one who held the door sparing me another look over his shoulder as they marched away.
They came to an uneasy standstill however when White Owl, Manx panting at his side, refused to move for a long, unpleasantly chilling moment that had my heart racing as he stood before the gates, arms folded over his Levi’s denim jacketed chest. His staff sat in the crook of his arm, still and motionless as stone, fearless and frowning from under the brim of his hat at the elves with unblinking scorn.
The High King of the Elves seemed to be having difficulty meeting the cold, hard gaze boring into him. A strange look that oddly resembled shame forced him to stand there at the fore of his hunters, staring humbly at the clump of dandelions at his feet as the man he told me was once his teacher stared daggers into him.
Finally, White Owl shook his head, as if he found the High King unworthy and stepped aside, the Lodge gate creaking open with a wave of his silver and turquoise beaded braceleted hand. There’s a story here, I promise you. It’s sad, tragic, full of betrayal and worth reading, but it’s not yet time for it to be told.
I wandered out to the porch uneasily, Gramps awkwardly trudging after me, and we watched the troop mount up. The High King of the Elves looking back at the Master from the saddle, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand before pulling on the reigns of his mount and leading his hunters out of sight with a thunder of hooves.
The Doctor turned to look at Gramps and I. “There be something you both need ta see. You comin’ wif us now, yeah?”
Chapter Nine
Fiendfire, prophecy, and a pot of chili…
Two things you have to understand about magic portals. The first is that it’s the only instantaneous way we Darklings can safely be magically transported from one place to another due to the effects we have on Fey and their powers. The second thing is that it takes a great deal of getting used to, usually leaving new travelers on their knees gagging up their lunch on the other side of one.
I was no exception for rule two. Staggering out the swirling vortex of reality warping in and out and round and round that left me heaving, dizzy, and the world spinning about me the moment my feet touched the grass. My knees buckled as fresh air hit my face like a cool spray.
To be fair, the rank smell really didn’t help me keep down my lunch or milkshake. The whole clearing was rank, eye burningly smoky and still somehow thick with the buzzing of flies. Never a good sign.
The Council stood, most eyeing me pityingly, clearly remembering their own first times, The Doctor again chuckling his grave dirt like laugh that only added to my discomfort as it sent creeps down my spine while he stepped out of the portal he had conjured and held open for us. The rest of the Council had preferred other magical forms of transport as even when one is used to portals, they still aren’t the most pleasant things.
“Poor dear,” Madam Mildred Maxine Del’Cove, or simply ‘Milly’ as she preferred, professed as she lit an exotic looking leafy cigar. “It’s a wicked day you’re having. It’s simply not fair. Tell me, dearest, how is your Grandmother Mary? It’s been simply intolerable enduring this council of ours without her guidance.”
“Umm, good for being a ghost, I guess… Grandma was on the Fey Council?” I asked. Gramps grumbled disagreeably, and Milly laughed.
“Ooh no, dear, no, no, no, no. Not that she wasn’t welcome, and we didn’t make overtures and such. She just found some of us…well, unpleasant company.” She pointedly didn’t look at any of her peers as she offered me her free hand and helped lug me off the muddy grass as if I weighed little more than a doll. She wiped my face clean with a fancy cream-colored lace napkin she conjured up, dabbing my face in a very embarrassingly mothering way.
“There,” she proclaimed as she fussed over my flannel, sniffing in obvious disapproval over Gramps’ choices of wardrobe. “Fit for fiddling and such as can be for the moment.” She straightened and gave me a wink as she took a pull from her cigar. “A nice big bowl of spicy noodles from Sam Kim’s in Detroit’s Feyish China Town would be just the ticket to stoke the blood after a young man’s first portal trip. Though sadly this mess of a destination does little for one’s appetite.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The scorched clearing appeared for all the world as though a cataclysmic bomb had gone off, leaving trees downed in neat rows in an almost perfect circle for hundreds of feet. The closer to the center one got in an appraisal, the more blackened, twisted, and deformed everything seemed.
The clearing itself was a hellish ash strewn thing sprinkled with still glowing cinders that was acrid and gaggingly thick with the reek of brimstone.