The Cursed Blood, стр. 72

“Let him go,” White Owl agreed with an expressionless nod. He pointed to the man with his dripping toothbrush. “It’s not yet his time.”

“He needs to die,” Gramps snapped and tried to twist free and shake Aunt Milly loose, but she wouldn’t budge and held her grip persistently.

“Yes. He does. Many evil people need to die. But we can’t become like them, can we?” she asked softly. With a sigh Gramps sheathed his sword and went to turn away, White Owl patting him on the back reassuringly.

“Get out of my sight, boy,” he growled over his shoulder as he went to walk away. He froze as Sir Becket started to laugh, rocking back and forth and side to side where he knelt as he loosed a high, cold laugh that stood the hairs on end.

“Coward.” His son laughed almost manically, at least until Gramps whirled about and hammered a fist into the side of his head that sent the man tumbling all but senselessly and drooling blood to the floor with a thud. The knights gasped but made no move to aid their fallen lord. Gramps knelt over his stricken, murdering child and lifted him by a twisting fistful of shirt so they were nose to nose.

“You are a spineless murdering pile of filth, son. I am going to kill you. Not today, but soon,” he said as he shook him like a rag doll in his grip. “Immunity or not, soon you will pay for the evil you’ve done. I promise, and you know I always keep my promises. Don’t you, son?” Sir Becket whimpered but managed to say nothing intelligible before Gramps sent him back to the floor with a ringing slap to the face and stood, staring down at him with disgust.

“You lot,” he addressed the knights who had watched the whole thing with rapt horrified fascination. “I suggest you not return to Camelot, unless of course you wish to feed my son’s gallows that is.” He arched a brow at them meaningfully and the whole group looked amongst themselves and murmured uneasily, casting dark looks at their disgraced lord who was senseless and groaning on the floor.

Swords clattered as they dropped to the floor at the knights’ feet and they almost simultaneously bowed their heads respectfully to Gramps and brought their gauntleted fists to their chests.

After a firm official reprimand, Sir Becket, Lord Ruler of Camelot had been placed in protective custody pending his transport back and frog marched off Gramps’ property by a pair of dark suited and sunglassed men with shiny shoes, military haircuts, and huge shoulders.

He screamed, blustered, and complained about being assaulted and threatened the whole way. As he was forced into a very official looking black sedan, he loudly proclaimed he would have revenge and demanded satisfaction before the car door was slammed in his face.

The Camelot knights had officially requested sanctuary from the American Consulate of Fey Affairs and Enforcement Bureau and had been portalled to the Agency Head office on New Orleans Bourbon Street, Number 333 ( under it would be more accurate) to be processed and evaluated.

Gramps had received a debriefing and a stiff apology and handshake from a pretty, grey skirt suited dark skinned woman with long dark curly hair, dangerous looking high heels, a leather folio, and clipboard. He had been asked to sign a typed-up waiver packet from a manila envelope red stamped as TOP SECRET that acknowledged he would seek no unauthorized punitive actions against Camelot or its ruler.

Before she too sauntered off to the car with the gift basket of baked goods and such that had been left at Gramps’ gate under her arm for “testing,” she had stared at me hard and handed Gramps another, far thicker envelope from her bag that he accepted with a tired wordless nod. I had a feeling my life was about to get complicated and once again I wasn’t wrong. In fact, by then I was getting mighty tired of being right.