The Cursed Blood

wagon, ages and ages back in “the old country” as he put it. From what I could gather between mouthfuls of bread and stew was that I was lucky things were so easy now a days, and that this perceived change may not necessarily be an improvement from Gramps’ perspective.
The conversation wandered between helpings of stew and between gulps of his coffee. Gramps even got to telling me a bit about Manx, who was far from a normal dog. He had been given to him as an unexpected wedding present by a dear old friend (who he refused to talk about). Ever since, the two had been on the hunt together and were incredibly close, neigh onto inseparable. Or “bonded” as he put it.
Gramps had wistfully divulged between ladling another helping of stew into my bowl that in the beginning, such companions were found at the side of every Darkling. But sadly, those days were done, and faithful old Manx was the last of his kind to serve.
Moreover, the huge curly tailed dog is a demon, specifically a Witchound. Don’t let that alarm you though, as he’s only dangerous when he needs to be. Nevertheless, on those occasions when that side of him is loosed, you’d best hope you aren’t what he happens to be chasing. And if you are, praying, fighting, and running won’t do you a lick of good.
I was told to trust Manx. As despite the good natured, nap loving, food thieving exterior, the Witchound was really an uncommonly intelligent, stalwart, and fiercely loyal protector with impeccable instincts and otherworldly abilities. Gramps alluded that the huge other worldly dog had saved his life more than once in their years together.
Gramps went on to assure me that the powerful, scruffy demon would protect us both with his life if necessary. Manx, having drifted off to sleep under the table at my feet with a belly full of bread and warm clumps of gravy laden beef several minutes before, added his own emphasis to that sentiment with a loud pronounced snore.
I found myself at this point believing him somehow as he told his stories and pointed out this and that memento of old adventures or silver framed pictures (I noted sadly that there were none of my parents and suddenly regretted not packing one before we all rushed here to dump me off) on shelves and such as he laughed at his own jokes and tried to distract me from what he seemed to know I was feeling.
Making an honest (and a bit over the top) effort to cheer me up that actually half worked, and just like that I started liking the tough as nails looking, kind of grumpy (and a little bit weird) old man far more than I wanted to admit as we sat there sharing our first meal together.
After supper Gramps told me to wash up and when I was ready for bed, he brought me back to my room and sternly gave me three especially important rules to follow in his home.
The first was that never under any conditions was I to go into his room. Especially at night.
He insisted that if it were absolutely essential that he was needed I was instructed to knock on his door and was promised that Manx would wake him.
The second was that I was to never, ever, leave the house without him at night. Ever. In fact, he made me promise to never even open the front door for anyone after nightfall. Even if they were pounding at it and screaming for help. The door, he explained, was plenty strong and would definitely hold, even against a battering ram, he boasted. He outlined that if help was needed and he wasn’t there, I was to call the emergency number on the phone.
No more, no less.
The third rule was that under no circumstances was I to invite anyone into the lodge, in any way. Especially after dark. Further explaining that the gates should keep the worst mostly off his property, but if the unexpected happened and anything ever did make it through to knock, I was to keep with rule two.
Admittedly none of this inspired much in the way of confidence. It all sounded very alarming. And I knew by Gramps’ serious tone that this was no joking matter. Which I will tell you didn’t exactly leave me feeling warm and fuzzy about what may be lurking about the grounds trying to get in.
He seemed to sense this (I suppose my wide-eyed pale face was a dead giveaway) and with a good natured and slightly roguish smile that made him look decades younger chuckled, vowed, and swore up and down there was nothing to worry about. That it was all just him taking precautions.
That said, he turned the lamps off with a click, tousled my mop of unruly hair, and with Manx at his heels, shut my bedroom door behind him. Part of me wishes I had listened and abided by that second rule a little closer, while another part is happy I didn’t.
But once again, we’ll get to that later.

Chapter Two
Bacon, pancakes, and a side of blood feud
The next morning “bright and early” as he put it, Gramps sent Manx in to wake me. Which of course the big Witchound took to mean, “jump up with the small human and lick his face and paw and cold snout him until he surrenders to the inevitable and gets up out of bed so I can go outside.”
I freely divulge that the massive demonic dog has a gleeful talent with this that borders on wicked. I remember that I woke up with a headache, a bit hungry, and utterly confused as to where I was as I blinked up at the bedroom ceiling. I was wondering why my vision wasn’t blurry and tried to put things back together.
I fumbled for my glasses on the nightstand and pulled them on, squinting at how fuzzy things looked with them on.