The Cursed Blood, стр. 75
Inside, however, is a much different story. The entire far wall is filled with lit glass habitat tanks and aquariums full of large spiders, lizards, snakes, fish, and other things that he cared for. The redbrick hearth has a stone mantle taken up with silver framed photos and a long peace pipe.
The kitchen was hung with planters of cooking herbs and stringers of root vegetables while the many shelves were sagging under the weight of countless jars of teas and foreign looking things I couldn’t even begin to identify, and the counters were neatly set with a large sink, modern appliances, and a huge marble mortar and pestle. His oven/stove is one of those old-fashioned wood burning numbers with a matching kettle on one of its many burners.
I would be spending the night over at White Owl’s then Gramps was going to be picking me up in the morning. Evidently, he had plans for a nice relaxing afternoon for the both of us to unwind a bit. Which sounded wonderful. I plopped my day bag by the worn sofa where I was instructed and curiously went to peer into the aquariums as my host lumbered off mumbling to himself to the kitchen to light the stove and start up a kettle for tea.
I stared at the iguana sitting on a red hunk of stone by a carved food dish surrounded by a garden of tiny plants and a tiny pool of water and tapped at the glass. It peered at me then licked his eye with a long dart like tongue. The eyes gave me the chills. They were piercing blue and very human looking.
“His name is Gerald.” White Owl’s unexpected introduction when I hadn’t even heard him walk up behind me made me nearly jump out of my boots. “He’s a nasty, rude thing—but it’s still not nice to tap on the glass. It frightens him.” As if on cue the lizard licked its own eyes, then scurried into the greenery about his rock and vanished, peering at us from behind blades of saw grass and a gnarled hunk of roots.
White Owl chuckled at this but his expression never changed, not even a crack, and then he proceeded to make further introductions of his living room’s little menagerie before dumping a pile of blankets and an overstuffed pillow for me on the sofa and wondering off back to the kitchen just as the kettle started whistling.
I continued to stare into a tank holding a small catfish I now knew to be named Tiffany. The spiny, whiskered fish was settled into a pile of river pebbles and staring out at us with very green eyes that made me more than a bit uncomfortable but for some reason I couldn’t look away.
It was right at that moment that there was a knock on the door and a clatter followed by a rolling sound of cup on tile. I turned to the kitchen in time to see White Owl scuttling after a dropped mug, grumbling about how “no one ever visits.” He scooped it up, eyed the broken loopy handle with disgust and tossed it with a crash into the sink as he stalked over to the door as another knock, this time louder, rang out against the red painted door.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he growled as again the door rattled with a knock that seemed to both trouble and irritate him. He looked like he was about to say something as he yanked it open but just stopped, mouth open in the start of a scathing comment that died into a long, hard, uneasy stare.
“Good day, my fine friends. May I come in?” The Doctor smiled at him, leaning with both hands on his skull topped cane with a sardonic laugh on his lips.
It was an odd and unsettling moment as we sat about White Owl’s tiny table, steaming cups of tea in front of us on saucers staring at the tall, top hatted Councilman who was staring at his tea dubiously.
“You don’ perhaps have somefin’…shall we say, stronger?” he asked hopefully in his gravely, heavily accented and multi-tonal voice to which White Owl merely shook his head in a very no nonsense, get on with it or you’ll be spending time in one of my aquariums kind of look.
“Ah well, no matter.” The man waved his hand and a dusty bottle of rum, corked and sealed with red wax just appeared on the table alongside a wooden slide topped box of Cuban cigars that admittedly got White Owl’s attention.
“Hospitality is the way to any healthy friendship, yeah?” The Doctor smiled predatorily and pushed to box to his host who quickly picked one out and secured it in his breast pocket. The Doctor deftly uncorked his old bottle of rum and poured a healthy dollop into his tea. “Ah, that’s better, no?” He asked with one of his grave dirt chuckles that sent chills down my spine.
Cigars lit and tea “made Irish” as I’ve heard the habit called, The Doctor fixed me with a look of interest that made me want to crawl under my chair.
“You, boy. You ‘ave made interesting friends… One recently mutual acquaintance of mine ’as taken more than a shine to you. I must say it is enough to make an old demon smile, or sick. I must admit I’m still unsure which way to go. I must say though, you begin to interest me.” He laughed again at this, and his admission made me want to crawl under my chair all the more. He ogled at me a long moment just puffing on his cigar and blowing