The Cursed Blood, стр. 73

upon himself to delve into a story about a time he had enjoyed a lovely picnic years ago with the King of France in his wife’s vast rose garden. He went on and on about the oysters they dined on for what felt like ages as White Owl stood by the window and stared outside, absently flicking at his Zippo and Gramps lay there glaring dejectedly at the ceiling.

A half hour later Aunt Milly re-appeared, drenched and grumbling about the weather in Beijing this time of year awkwardly toting a glistening roasted Peking duck on a large cutting board as she lugged several bags full of other goodies, handles looped over her arms. She went to carving and serving and before we knew it a sumptuous feast direct from China was laid out on Gramps’ table, complete with tea and a bottle of rice wine that Fazool got all bubbly about.

She insisted I learn to use chopsticks, which took a bit of getting used to under her tutelage, but I thoroughly enjoyed supper even as I tried to forget what had happened not more than a few hours ago, as Fazool and Aunt Milly chatted and drank like they had not a care in the world, though their eyes told a much different story.

They sipped and supped and giggled and reminisced about old times in a very put on show of nonchalance, all the while taking turns studying me covertly between mouthfuls.

White Owl eyed the food and gave it a good college try but I caught him feeding almost everything but the duck—which he truly seemed to enjoy—to Manx under the table, though I was wise enough to keep it to myself. Gramps spoke little, up until Aunt Milly was clearing away the dishes and empty paper to-go cartons into the rubbish bin.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this,” Gramps said out of the blue to me, causing Aunt Milly to drop the wine glasses to the floor where they shattered. Cursing and glaring at her brother-in –law, she snapped her fingers and out of the far closet a broom and dustpan leapt to life to clean, a thing Manx seemed to find highly entertaining to bark and chase after.

“Not now, Artur. He’s been through enough,” she stated firmly, but Gramps wasn’t having any of it.

“He’s a right to know everything.” Gramps explained then about what they all thought had been done to me and how, and what it meant. At this point I was absolutely terrified. It went on and on with Fazool only interjecting occasionally as Aunt Milly loudly and violently went about cleaning up. He then explained what had happened at the Council.

After Christmas I would be reporting to New Orleans. The Council had demanded more than just Gramps take a hand in my training. At first Sir Becket had insisted that I be permanently transferred to his custody or Camelot would take no part in any of the Prophecy nonsense they had convened to discuss. This, of course, was in no way acceptable, and after a battle had almost broken out The Countess had proposed a solution that left no one happy, so naturally it had been grudgingly agreed on.

Manx and I would be securely portaled from the ACFA’s headquarters to the Van Hellsing estate in Transylvania for a period of six months to be trained by Matron Malice Van Hellsing herself.

I felt numb as I sat there at the table staring at my half empty cup of chocolate milk, thinking about what had happened to my life, what I’d lost, and what had been done and still could be done to me. Why did everyone else never think to ask what I wanted and what I needed?

At some point I just stopped listening and zoned out completely, deep in thought that left a steady stream of tears dribbling down my cheeks, that I didn’t really notice at first.

It seemed that White Owl had been right during our talk on the porch, people had plans for me. What bothered me more was that most everyone didn’t seemed to care enough to ask me what I was feeling, what I wanted, or even if I was ok. Which I most definitely wasn’t. At that moment I just wanted my mother to come in and hug me and tell me everything was going to be ok.

But I couldn’t have that because she was dead and gone and I was all but alone in a world full of magical things that hated me. I realized what I was doing when I heard Aunt Milly again scolding Gramps, and quickly (and a bit self-consciously) wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

“When will you ever learn to listen, Artur? He’s been cursed by a warlock, witnessed a demon attack, and goodness knows what else all in a matter of hours! You can’t just throw all this at him at once. He’s a BOY, not one of your tough as yew knights of old, for devil’s sake!” She seemed about to say more but thought better of it as she plopped Manx’s water bowl down at the Witchound’s paws and fixed Gramps with one of her infamous glares that I was just glad hadn’t been leveled at me for once.

“I think it’s best to send Ben off to bed,” White Owl advised as he was the only one to notice I was back with them all and staring. It was a grand idea to them but honestly, I dreaded sleep. What if she was waiting for me in my dreams again? What if she came again with her fire and furies?

I got a fresh pair of jammies from my dresser, as my luggage was likely burned to ash at the Rovers Rest. I didn’t have many options or even my toiletries. I flopped into bed and desperately tried to fight off sleep. My body, however, had other ideas. I remember smelling burning wood like a pleasant campfire