The Cursed Blood, стр. 82

“Morgana was married to Merlin?” I asked in surprise, and Gramps nodded grimly, his eyes distant.

“She was beautiful and kind and rarely used her powers. It was her that summoned Manx as a wedding present on the eve of my marriage to sweet Guinevere. All that changed when her husband died. Her wrath, much like her great, great, great granddaughter’s was something terrible to behold.” He eyed me meaningfully, and I paled. “Yes, Ben. Morgan Le Fay, your pretty little Warlock.”

It’s not every day you find out the girl that likes you is related to Merlin and Morgana of legend. I think I took it pretty well as my grandfather was pretty legendary himself.

I was kept on bedrest for a week, eating soup, reading Gramps’ books, and petting Manx who seemed to have taken it upon himself on returning from his hunting to take up duties as my bodyguard—switching from snuggling up to me and snoring on the bed and sitting like a shaggy, tail wagging gargoyle just outside my open door with the frame’s runes singed off.

I do have to admit though, that more than once as I lay there staring up at my room ceiling, I wished my mother would slip in smiling and tell me it was all just a terrible dream. Assure me that they weren’t dead, there was no such thing as Wizards and Elves and Darklings, that all seemed to have more say in my future than I did, and most of all my parents were alive and well and ready to go out for pizza.

But I knew beyond any doubt, even as I wished ever so dearly for it that it most definitely wasn’t a dream. I had made promises, lost loved ones, people wanted me dead, and worse still, that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Fazool, ever the optimist, decided it was time for me to go for a walk after bringing me my lunch tray. Lunch was sea bass and asparagus that Aunt Milly had whipped up then went back to switching off between sulking, crying, and chaotically pacing as she stared out the windows.

Personally, I’d have preferred a bowl of chili, a nice stew, maybe some of the Wayfarers’ chocolate chip pancakes—in fact, just the thought of those fluffy chocolaty flapjacks had my mouth watering at just the right moment as Aunt Milly walked in. And for the first time in what felt like ages, she gave me one of her most brilliant, genuine smiles as she stood in the doorway scratching at Manx’s floppy ears. She stood there watching me eat with a chocolate chip pancake daydream painting a goofy blissful smile on my still battered face.

It took me goodness knows how long to even notice she was there as I forked lemony fish and buttered greens into my mouth, blissfully pretending to wash my imaginary buttery pancakes down with an ice-cold Coke, just the way I like it, from a straw in one of the glass bottles.

I’ve never had the heart to tell her that I hate sea bass and hate asparagus even more—it’s safer that way. The only downside is now she insists on making it for me on special occasions. Which is incredibly thoughtful, sweet, and disgusting.

Fazool, bless him, has deliberately ruined the fish more than once to mercy us into burgers and pizza, weathering Aunt Millie’s rage while quite happily sipping at his wine and nibbling on a pepperoni slice.

When I finally noticed her, I mercifully spilled my tray. She felt terrible and I, being a dutiful nephew, told her I was absolutely stuffed and had delighted in every perfectly flakey bite. She happily ate this fib up. I’d dearly wanted to down a nice tall stack of pancakes the entire time. Fazool thankfully restrained his smile as best as he could from his favorite chair in my room, kicking his legs and sipping at some wine.

“Goodness! I’ve finally got some true culture into you. Artur wouldn’t know fine dining anymore if stuffed kidneys dropped on his fool head.” She fussed over the state of my pajamas, fumbled through the drawers of my dresser, and plopped some laundered, folded clothes on the bed. “Alright then. Up and at-em.”

She smiled tearily and helped me out of the bed and to the washroom, insisting I get a nice shower, tooth brushing, hair combing, and such before my walk.

Though thankfully the sight of my heavily scarred back sent her bawling from the bathroom before I was fully disrobed or she may have insisted on standing watchfully in case I fell. I remember everyone treated me like I was made of porcelain, then I saw my reflection and nearly did fall over.

My hair, now long and almost to my shoulders, was silver. Not like old man silver, but fully silver. My ears, poking from beneath my hair even had a graceful Elvish point to them. Even my eyes, normally blackened on the Ascension Day on a Darkling’s eighteenth birthday were as dark as the abyss.

I just stood there staring, Manx whining at my side with his tail wagging for a long moment before turning on the shower and stepping in. Gramps’ books had said the use of my gift would have effects, but I’d never thought it would be this sudden.

All of a sudden, I felt a bit nauseous as the realness of it all hammered home like a blade gutting away any childish notions or hopes I had of normalcy. I was still clinging desperately to the last rungs of childhood as death and fear were slowly and mercilessly being chipping away at. I knew as I stared at myself that no one would ever see me for me ever again.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and as I pondered my mandatory training I had to look forward to far away from Gramps (the last of my family that I really wanted any part of), and likely even farther from Morgan (who I was