The Cursed Blood, стр. 55
Gramps returned a moment later, silencing my Aunt’s obvious misgivings with a wave and tossed her a numbered brass key on a delicate chain with a purple dyed rabbit’s foot dangling from it that she almost aggrievedly snatched it from the air.
She twitched and stared down at what she obviously considered to be an absolute abomination in her gloved hand in yet more wide-eyed horror. “What, pray tell, do you think I am to do with this ghastly thing?” she asked offendedly as she held the rabbit footed room key up with two fingers before her, as if she considered it contaminated or unclean.
“Open your room’s door with it, of course,” Gramps explained simply with a poorly restrained laugh.
She glared at him. “It looks like the key to a bordello room, a place of ill repute, a whore house room key a-”
“You’re very right. It used to be. Now, however, it’s a very nice presidential suite on the third floor with walk-in closets, afghan carpets, large private bathroom with hot tub, wet bar, fireplace, plush living room, and screened in balcony.” Gramps seemed to lessen her angry trepidation with each travel brochure style word, but she still fumed and glared at him.
“Which way?” she snapped tiredly with more than a little acid in the words as she taped her soiled designer shoed toe on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest. Gramps pointed to a well-lit hallway that leads to the stairs to the right and she stalked off crossly, mumbling about thread counts and linens and things with her enchanted luggage bobbling after her.
“Hungry?” Gramps asked cheerfully as a burly baggage boy in a red waistcoat, fine shirt, trousers, and shiny pointed shoes (don’t let the term “boy” fool you, the Halfling may look it but he is by no definition of the word a “youth”) swept in from behind the bar, eyeing Manx apprehensively (as he only came up to the huge dog’s snout. I could understand his unease) and relieved me of my luggage, adding it to the cart with Gramps, continually eyeing the shaggy, very toothy Witchound at our feet uncomfortably.
He sauntered nervously up to Gramps and tugged at his flannel, a tiny, chubby, childlike handheld out expectantly. Grumbling petulantly Gramps fished out a shiny gold crown from his trouser pocket and plopped it into his hand. The Halfling’s eyes bugged as he hefted it, beamingly smiled up at us, and after one last shuddering stare at Manx was off like a shot, pushing the luggage cart dutifully before him.
I nodded wordlessly at the thought of a hot meal as I stared about the busy room, the unease from our hooded, pipe smoking observer still uncomfortably lingering, but not so much that a good breakfast didn’t perk my interest.
We were seated (Manx happily lounging beneath the table) by a painfully pretty girl in one of the establishment’s screened booths. I found myself dumbly staring after her through the beaded curtain as she sauntered off after a sly wink, to fetch us a tall carafe of cold orange juice.
“It’s a charm,” Gramps explained with a chuckle. “Rover Witch girl magic to addle males into emptying their lips, purse strings, and wallets… You will see through it when you come of age.”
“Of age?” I asked, as most of my readings up to this point had been regarding the Fey, I was still fairly ignorant of my own people.
“Yes, on a Darkling’s eighteenth birthday they come fully into being. You will then be able to see through magic of all kinds… Among other things,” he explained cryptically as our delightfully accented server returned with our juice, glasses, and a house complimentary napkin lined basket of hot doughnuts dusted with powdered sugar.
We ordered and with another sultry wink she was gone, the curtains rattling, clacking, and swaying behind her as she rushed off to the kitchens, her enticing perfume lingering after her.
“Will Aunt Milly be joining us?”
Gramps sorted. “The snooty old Witch likely needs to lie down for a good while after having her delicate sensibilities so roughly offended.”
“So, no then?”
Gramps again snorted and laughed at me and nodded, pursing his lips as he watched me sneak the hound a generous hunk of doughnut. “We won’t be seeing her until lunch when the rest of the gang arrives.” He sipped his juice and sighed appreciatively, a note of annoyance in his tone at the very thought of the rest of the Council’s arrival.
The Council consists of a Darkling from each of the three families and six powerful Witches. Each democratically elected by each of the seated Fey peoples for life (or until they are kicked off it or executed for any serious impropriety) to represent their best interests in worldly matters before the Wizdrom (the Wizard Court, which since ancient times has stood in what is now known as Egypt but has long stood empty).
Technically, the realm’s three surviving, not incarcerated reigning Wizards had far more power and sway and all but ruled the Fey world. However, the Council was now far more involved in the governance as the Wizards neglected all the old traditions and tended to keep themselves aloof in their towers, exploring such mysteries as such brilliant minded, powerful, and all but timeless beings as they saw fit.
So far, quite unsurprisingly, only the Dwarfish, Elvish, and Atlantean delegations had been left unaccounted for RSVP-wise, most all but completely ignoring the invitations.
The surly Dwarf Councilman had even gone so far as to send the card back, burned to ashes and smelling strongly of cat pee in a giftwrapped box fancily tied shut with a great flowery ribbon with a quite explicit note in curly penmanship in gold ink where he vividly and vulgarly