The Cursed Blood

I peered over the rim of the lenses and things were crisp and clear, but when I gazed through them again everything was all warped and fuzzy like a fun house mirror.
It weirded me out, but I put them back on the nightstand and decided to get dressed before the overexcited hound left bruises on my side from ramming his cold nose into me and patting at me with his oversized paws in his effort to urge me along.
“Ok, ok, I’m up, I’m up,” I complained halfheartedly as Manx panted up at me and whined as he watched me stretch, yawn, and toss the sheets aside to grudgingly get up and start the day.
Gramps had laid out the best choice (in his opinion) of clothes on the dresser before dinner the night before. Rummaging through my suitcases and travel bags all the while shaking his head and mumbling about “city folk” and “bloody mundane’s” as he promised over and over again that we would be setting out for provisions the next day and would get me “better sorted” then.
Between Manx’s whining, badgering persistent urgings, and a rumbly empty stomach, I was out of bed way before I’d gotten all my ducks in a row. Not that the big Witchound cared. He was happy as long as I was up and acknowledging him. Petting his head and scratching behind his floppy, furry ears, I simultaneously hopped about trying to pull on my jeans.
I donned the only flannel I’d owned up to then, a warm pair of woolen socks and a battered old pair of white sneakers that had definitely seen better days all as Manx whined and sniffed at me like I was the most interesting thing he’d smelled in ages.
I was pulling on the denim trucker style jacket I’d gotten from my dad for my last birthday and out the bedroom door with an excited bear like dog on my heels (that almost bowled me over in his hurry to get outside) about ten minutes later.
“Good morning. No glasses, eh?” Gramps noted with an odd smirk. I shrugged, and he chuckled to himself, ushering me and the dog out the front door with a snort. It was cold and barely light out yet. The air was crisp, and the leaves were changing.
It would have been lovely if I’d had the interest at the time to take it all in as he rushed me to his old truck. It was an old battered blue FORD with rounded fenders and a bed walled with wood panels—kind of like a farm truck.
Manx bounded off and began sniffing the ground as he circled and romped among the first of the colorful and dry fallen leaves (which evidently smelled divine if you happen to be a demon dog), clearly not interested in joining us for provision shopping. Gramps eyed the Witchound and shook his head with a chuckle as he climbed in.
He shoved his key into the ignition, turned it, and with a growl and puff of exhaust it started up. Killer Queen by Queen unexpectedly blasted on the radio. Gramps grumbled, lowered the volume, pointedly ignoring my raised browed look as he slammed his door shut and gruffly told me to buckle up.
I watched the Witchound get smaller as we drove away, the gate opening for us as we approached as if by magic, (which is exactly what it was) then slamming shut the moment we were through. I could have sworn that one of the Gargoyles was watching us (which of course it was, as that’s its job) very closely as we drove away, itching at its snout with a stone claw before returning to a normal.
Then before I knew it, we were down the road, driving in silence as Gramps fiddled with a pipe he keeps in the glovebox. He considers this particular pipe his “travel pipe” in case you were wondering. He frequently and lovingly refers to it as Bessy (which is a bit creepy if you ask me).
I watched this in uncomfortable silence for a while as I worked up the nerve to try to ask questions, something Id already gotten the feeling Gramps had little patience for.
“Why don’t I need my glasses?” I finally asked.
Gramps paused before securing the pipe stem between his teeth, eyeing me cautiously a moment before answering as he drove.
“Part of the change, boyo. Darklings like us just don’t need them. Least till we get a bit older,” he added that last bit a little bitterly as he squinted at the road sign half hidden in the shrubbery to the side of the road a way’s ahead. He grumbled about silly questions as he fiddled at striking a match to light Bessy while all but steering his with his knees.
I got the impression this was something he really didn’t want to talk about and kept quiet, staring out the window the rest of the trip as Gramps went about his morning pipe routine. He had his pipe lit and was puffing away at it well before we reached a tiny blink-or-you-might-miss-it town, just as the last of the orange and red in the sky faded and the loons in the nearby lake were just starting to sing.
We pulled into the gravel lot of a busy neon lit old style metal trailer like diner on the town’s outskirts. A sign by the steps to the door advertised an early bird special, bottomless always fresh coffee. Feydom famous bacon burgers, award winning dragon’s breath chili and a Pig in a Poke (whatever the heck that is) every Thursday with WE NEVER CLOSE scrawled in big, bright red letters at the bottom.
It’s called The Wayfarers.
The famous local joint is run by a stout, grumpy old long bearded Dwarf and his wife. From what I understand they opened it ages ago after Mr. P suffered a tragic accident in the mines that left him well compensated and honorably discharged from the industry, but completely unable to settle down