The Cursed Blood, стр. 58

It arrived ten minutes late, and we heard the clip clop of its horses’ hooves and rumble of its wheels long before we saw it. I remember it was a sleek dark yellow affair lit by hanging lanterns pulled by two terrifyingly huge black horses.

The driver, a kindly Irish Witch with ruddy freckled jowls and bright red hair beneath his cap, a knit scarf, pipe, and long peat coat of navy blue opened the doors for us kindly and even doffed his hat to my aunt who seemed to find the whole experience quite charming.

It was a comfortable carriage with cushioned seats and matching curtains neatly pulled back with leather thongs. We were off to a surprisingly smooth start with a clattering thunder roll of iron shod hooves on cobblestone.

Gramps sipped at a tarnished, battered silver hip flask with a noble looking stag crest engraved into it, passing it off to Fazool who eyed it a bit dolefully, a touch of disapproval wrinkling the skin about his eyes for a heartbeat as he accepted it, sniffed at its contents then smiled. “To present and absent friends?” he toasted. Gramps’ eyes misted as he nodded in approval as the Halfling took a long gulp, smacking his tiny lips appreciatively at Gramps’ drink of choice.

“I’m actually a fan of the American whisky. One of the rustic young country’s best inventions next to Jazz, apple pie, Baby Ruth candy bars, and Chicago deep dish pizza,” he gushingly explained as the carriage rumbled on, and they passed the flask back and forth to the disapproving pursed lipped glare of Aunt Milly, who politely declined a taste with an upturned nose and a snooty look like they were offering her a cup of steaming bog water.

We were just being regaled with the story of the Halfling’s first pizza which he claimed he had shared with Al Capone himself, (who had allegedly been trying to talk him into attending a very rigged baseball game) when the carriage was violently struck and almost tipped over. It righted itself with a horrible crash that left us all tangled and piled atop one another on the carpeted floor in a dazed heap.

“Oh, my word,” Fazool moaned as he struggled to his tiny, expensively shoed feet and helped me up as Gramps tried to revive Aunt Milly who had evidently rather badly stuck her head and was unconscious in his arms. Outside the horses abruptly screamed as something much more man-like that left me chilled landed on the roof with a thud. There was fearful shouting, a struggle, and a horrible howl then silence.

“Well, that definitely isn’t comforting,” Fazool said to no one in particular as he clutched at his walking stick and stared up at the roof. We all winced as a bloodied silvery blade plunged through it with a shower of wood, stopping centimeters from the Halfling’s nose, crimson dripping onto his fine clothes and face.

“Oh, no, they didn’t!” he cried as the roof came crashing in and down dropped a fearsome hooded and silver masked figure in all black leathers brandishing a wickedly curved sword. “You. Ruined. My. Blouse,” Fazool hissed as he whipped a dagger from his walking stick and savagely plunged it into the Nameless’s abdomen and gave it a sickeningly savage twist.

The sneering silver mask stared down almost curiously at the tiny thing that had impossibly killed it then toppled noiselessly into the cushioned seats just as another dropped down into the carriage, sword in hand. It swung a deadly stroke that hissed as it cut through the air at the Halfling who unflinchingly parried with his tiny blade, stepped forward and drove the pointy, silver end of the cane he had drawn his knife from somewhere that makes me wince to even think about on the would-be assassin.

Astoundingly, the Nameless didn’t even flinch, twisting soundlessly away. The silver mask with its almost hypnotic sneeringly gilded expression studying us all with the coldness of a shark regarding a particularly snarky sea bass as it steadily held its ornate sword at the ready before it in a double fisted grip.

It then seemed to notice me just as the now all too familiar cold set into my blood and my eyes blackened. It cocked its head and gave the grotesque impression that it was sniffing the air. A heartbeat later it threw something to the floor that unleashed an acrid cloud of eye tearing fog that left us all gagging.

When the smoke cleared after Fazool chokingly fumbled the carriage door open and fanned the acrid air with his tiny well-tailored jacket (that he was moaning about having to have dry cleaned) we discovered both of the deadly assassins were gone, leaving only the wreckage of our carriage, dead horses, and a murdered Summer Witch as evidence they were ever there.

“So rude, killing horses. They are such gentle beasts.” Fazool shook his head sadly as he took out a pink silk hanky from a pocket and wiped his blade clean before returning it to his walking stick with a disgusted snort. Sighing, he stuffed the bloodied hanky back into his pocket. “And we were having such a lovely evening. I trust Mildred is well?”

Gramps, red faced and obviously enraged, nodded down to the Halfling as he helped Aunt Milly who was fanning herself and obviously still groggy and shaken onto the now crowded lamp lit street that was lined with muttering spectators.

My eyes itched, I couldn’t stop coughing, everything was blurred, and once again I felt like someone was bashing at the inside of my skull with whatever they hit gongs with as I stumbled out and peered about at their side. I noticed a cloaked and hooded figure smoking a pipe watching us. It quickly walked away the moment I caught sight of it, then once again it simply slipped my mind.

“I need a drink, a smoke, and to