The Cursed Blood, стр. 60

Sir Becket, patron of house Von Bright and ruler elect of Camelot strolled to the table sucking at his teeth and eyeing the lot of us (particularly Gramps) with a contempt filled look I imagine a chef glares after a mouse invading their kitchens.

“The others will be here shortly. It appears we have much to discuss, have we not?” he asked as he continued glared daggers at Gramps who unblinkingly glared them right back. Obviously, that was far from pleasing to our pompous host who again sneered, sucked at his teeth and rapt his knuckles on the table and sighed.

Sir Becket lifted his sleeve and checked his golden Rolex, then fished a heavy looking golden pocket watch on a chain from his tartan, ivory buttoned waistcoat pocket and checked that too, frowned like someone had stepped on his loafers or a dirty bug had landed on his crooked nose, and sighed irritably.

“The sooner we get this over with and you are all well gone from my perfect little town the better—wouldn’t you agree, Father?” I gasped. Gramps glared and the old hens—Fazool and Aunt Milly—stared at the Darkling lord as though they were figuring out the best way to torture him. The Halfling, his walking stick under his arm, started cracking his tiny knuckles meaningfully. All of which Sir Becket sniffed at and sneered.

“And this must be my little nephew that all of Feydom is buzzing about.” He rapped a knuckle on the table and gave me a smile that would have looked more convincing on a tarantula. “A true blooded Darkling. Tisk, Father—haven’t you been busy?” He sneered and winked lewdly at Gramps whose fingers I noticed were creeping towards the sword buckled at his belt.

Sir Becket poured himself a tall glass of ice water, brought it to his lips, gargled it, and swallowed just as the door at the hall’s other end creaked open and in walked the ever-severe looking Matron Malice in a grey pantsuit, her black hair up in a tight, neat bun (her real name’s Alice) of house Van Hellsing.

Lord Alek Romanoff and the Countess entered, and a quite uncomfortable looking Count Neming Dracule, wearing a spectacular tuxedo and opera cape, followed at their heels, his chiseled handsomely pale face framed by thick, jet black hair glancing about with a mix of curiosity, unease and tiredness (kind of like a rat taking a tour of a trap factory).

Regarding the Count, yes, he is the Countess’s estranged husband, and yes, he’s definitely a Vampire. Yes, he’s unspeakably old and dangerous. On an interesting note, he’s personally banned from almost every casino in the world (he owns the ones he’s not banned from) as he’s a degenerate gambler, a cheat, and impossibly rich to the point that his stakes tend to bankrupt a game table when he wins, and he almost always wins, fairly or not. Usually not.

Also, he owes White Owl a substantial amount of money he absolutely refuses to pay. Rather hypocritically accusing the old Master of cheating him in a game of poker they’d played at a tavern/gin joint named The Jolly Ho in the Old West, evidently with none other than legendary Wild Bill (who unconfirmed rumor has it was himself a Darkling) at the table.

There were introductions, the Countess advised that The Doctor regrettably was unable to join us as he had “pressing business,” and we were all over sweetly invited to sit by our disagreeable host, Sir Becket. Well—almost all of us.

“I’ve arranged for my…err…relative, young Ben here to join the squires to learn what a day in the life of a non-pampered unspoiled little Darkling who doesn’t live in a hunting lodge is like. I hope he will find it…educational.” Gramps froze halfway into his chair and looked thunderous and both Aunt Milly and Fazool had a look of deep concern, but Sir Becket merely laughed and snapped his fingers.

The door the others had entered the hall from slammed open with a loud bang and in marched the heavily muscled, never smiling Sergeant at Arms of Camelot, Greggory Blake in crisp military looking tight black shirt, trousers, and laced up boots so shined that you could see your reflection in them. He sported a crew cut on his balding head, dog tags with what seemed to be Orc tusks added to the chain, a heavy equipment belt from which swung a broad bladed sword and several daggers. He came to a halt before the table and offered our host a salute that was met with an eye roll.

“Get it out of my sight,” Sir Becket ordered with a dismissive wave and with a nod and another salute the huge man grabbed my arm in an iron grip and half frog-marched half dragged me from the table. He came to a wide-eyed halt when Manx blocked his path, a low, deadly growl rumbling in the Witchound’s throat as his heckles and fur about his shaggy back stood dangerously on end.

Sergeant Blake didn’t move a muscle save to ever so slowly release my arm and take a cautious step back. Both of his hands moved wearily up in the air as Manx padded forward and plopped down into a sitting position at my feet, daring the man to make another move as he stared at him, fangs bared, drool looping and dribbling to the carpet.

“You brought Manx, I see,” Sir Becket stated the obvious uneasily, eyeing the dog as he took a sip from his glass of water. “I hadn’t noticed until now. I wasn’t aware demonic war dogs were customary to bring to a conference, or that yours had inexplicably claimed a new Darkling, Father.”

“As you well know, boy.” The last was spoken by Gramps with such venom that the air chilled. “Manx goes where I go, and he makes his own choices. Tell your gorilla to not lay a hand on my grandson again, or quite probably my dog will have his unmentionables