The Cursed Blood, стр. 51
In fact, I think I’m the only other living soul who knows the recipe to this day, despite many attempts to weasel and bribe it out of me. “Ohh…a pinch of this and that,” is the most anyone’s gotten out of me yet, which is book loads more than the Master’s divulged about the recipe in ages (come to find out even Gramps had been unsuccessfully trying to weasel it out of him for decades), even telling famous chefs and world leaders to buzz off when they pester him about it.
White Owl treats the formula like keeping its secret is somehow critical to Feydom’s stability and security. So honestly, I’m still not sure what made me the lucky bearer of the secret of his chili, but who am I to complain?
The Countess got a bit of color back after the first few hesitant spoonful’s (it does indeed make you feel better) and as everyone busied themselves talking, gulping down chili, and dunking thick, crusty buttered bread slices into bowls, the story of what befell them at the Clampett’s homestead leaked its way out.
They had been set upon quite violently and unexpectedly by the black silk and leather robed, silver masked Nameless. They had only just managed to fend off the evil Fey.
In the end it had been the Countess that had sent the whole unholy flock packing with a spectacular display of devilish necromancy, her specialty. All this seemingly confirming lastly and completely to all that had been there that the Clampetts had indeed been behind or at least involved in everything in one way or another.
My parents’ murder, the attacks on the other Darklings, the hunting of the Clairvoyant, and the attack on the Lodge. Perhaps even hiding this new Warlock that everyone thought the likely culprit now leading the Nameless away on their homestead (which sat on a convergence of ley lines that made detecting things through magical means all but impossible).
In the end the wicked hillbillies had likely done themselves in mishandling the Fiendfire that the Warlock had whipped up. I had a slight brightening hope at that moment that maybe this horribly evil being had been consumed along with the homestead and all its occupants but had been quickly disillusioned of this notion. Evidently, Warlocks are the only Earthly thing Fiendfire can’t even give so much as a sunburn to.
Conversation slowed, dimmed, then ended as the last of the chili was sopped up with buttered crusty bread slices, and washed down with a tall glass of milk for me, and taller magically frosted glasses of frothing, oak barrel matured, Dwarfish mushroom beer (a trusty old standby of Gramps’ that he keeps a few bottles of in the fridge, for emergencies) for everyone else.
Even Aunt Milly, who I was just starting to learn had a delicate pallet more accustomed to caviar and wine than beer and beans, wolfed it down as daintily and ladylike as she could manage. Though to be frank, I think she was still pining over the Chinese food she’d had a hankering for earlier in the evening.
Just as the Countess had taken her leave to start the highly involved and complicated centuries old protocols to convene the Council, and I had been set to gathering dishes, White Owl pulled me aside.
Brushing off my concerns for the chore Gramps had set me on with one of his exaggerated eye rolls, he snapped his fingers and sent the dishes whooshing to the kitchen. Aunt Milly all but having to dive to the floor to avoid a daunting flock of bowls and cutlery on their way to the sudsy sink, as the Master beckoned me out to the porch for a talk. Manx trotted after us while Gramps stared daggers at his old friend as he muttered obscenities to himself elbows deep in dishes.
We settled into White Owl’s customary spot, the table and two Adirondack chairs closest to the door, the hanging lamps lighting with another snap of the old man’s fingers as he settled into his seat with a pronounced sigh.
Manx flopped onto his side, staring off into the forest. His back leg worked as he drifted off, watery eyes drooping closed as the two of us sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the chirp of bugs and the soft distant hoot of an owl, as usual, waiting for the Master to begin in his own time.
Truthfully, rushing him is like a tiny halfling trying to tug a gargantuan tusked elephant with a sting leash. Either the leash will break, or the mighty elephant will step on the pesky nuisance before the mightily noble beast will ever take a single step before it intends to.
“I know you’re curious about the big secret of why everyone makes such a confounded fuss about you, eh?” he began as he fixed me with a shrewdly sympathetic but flat look, lips pressed into a thin line as he studied me with his dark shiny eyes. “I imagine it’s been a bit frustrating, has it not?”
I nodded and he grunted, staring off into the distance for another long moment before continuing. “Most people would say it’s complicated. I disagree. To me, it’s simple as can be, but I’m not like most people, am I?” he asked, to which I nodded once more, despite it being an obviously rhetorical question, something he seemed to find a touch amusing.
“What ‘those’ most people lack that I have in excess is experience. I was there, you see. When Merlin made your kind.” This admission somehow wasn’t nearly as shocking as his claim to be the mastermind behind pie. Not the mathematical concept, but the dessert one. Which the Master firmly believes is absolutely more essential and influential to human development than any string of numbers.
“I warned Agnos this was a bad idea and would cause him to come to a