The Cursed Blood

definitely wasn’t at all helped by the whole insisting they were Feyish royalty thing they bragged about every chance they got. Not that anyone believed them or listened.
Erol Clampett Senior eyed our table and pointed us (mostly me) out to his two older boys that seemed more Orc than man. The unpleasant trio glared at me from under huge, caveman like foreheads the angry, sour way most do when they see a dirty cockroach or rat scurrying out of their kitchen cupboard.
Gramps had stopped spooning honeyed porridge into his mouth and had taken up staring right back at them. His black eyes narrowed to cold glittering slits as he sipped at his coffee.
It was extraordinarily uncomfortable for me as they just stood there holding the door open. Playing a game of who’ll blink first with Gramps that they never had a chance of winning. All the while letting in a draft while the other diners looked from them to us in a way that clearly spelled out trouble as well as the seasonable chill was in the air and that not a soul was all that happy about either being let in while they tried to eat their breakfast.
I’d learned since that the whole town was built on hallowed ground and that the Clampetts couldn’t even so much as lob a hex bag at us (as if it would have done them any good). I knew that I was absolutely safe with Gramps but that didn’t make me feel any less awkward as I sat there with my pancakes going cold and goopy as the brutish, overalls and denim jacketed trio cracked their knuckles and glared at us from beneath their filthy old hats.
It was then that the stained apron sporting Papa P lumbered out of the kitchens. The swinging double doors slammed startlingly against the shiny steel serving station, rattling the containers of clean silverware and neatly stacked cups as he pushed into the dining room, threateningly toting a massive cast iron skillet in a Christmas ham-sized fist.
He looked for all the world like a hugely bearded, heavily tattooed, grumpy, grease splattered, ill-tempered boulder as he fixed the lot of unwelcome hedge witches with a glower that could clamp at the bowels of a dragon.
“We’d best be a’leaving as the place’s gone and got itself a varmint infestation’ an all,” Erol cackled and spat on the pristine floor. Refusing to meet the old miner turned cook’s thunderous stare as the three Clampetts turned to leave after gracing us with a murderous, threatening stare. The door swung shut behind them with another ring of the bell and slowly conversation started to pick back up again.
Papa P glowered furiously at the door, snorted, nodded solemnly to Gramps, and shook his head unhappily as he adjusted the ridiculous looking paper cook hat he wore with his free hand. Then, almost having to turn himself sideways to squeeze back through, pushed himself back into the kitchen to fetch a mop, muttering angrily as he went. He emerged a few moments later to mop up the tobacco spittle congealing on his floor.
This was the one only time in my life I couldn’t bring myself to eat another bite of those pancakes, even though I was still hungry. There was something about those three that just put me off and on edge. Gramps seemed to be of the same disposition since he barely touched his porridge, and even waved off a refill as he glowered at the door as if he expected the unpleasant men to saunter back in at any moment.
We left about ten minutes later, on my insistence the remainder of my sausage and his bacon in a waxy white paper to go bag to give Manx a bit of a treat when we returned to Craggmore. Gramps didn’t seem overly thrilled by the idea, complaining that the Witchound was fat and spoiled enough already.
He finally relented though once Mama P overheard my pleas and insisted that a ‘doggy bag’ sounded like a wonderful idea, rather cheekily scolding him that the food (which her beloved husband slaved away behind a stove to cook for him) would go to waste if he just left it on his plate.
So, grumbling about getting ‘ganged up on’ Gramps paid, leaving a generous tip, tucked the to go bag under his arm and swept off in a huff, leaving me to catch up. I exited the diner to the ring of the door’s bell just as he’d slammed the truck’s door and was sitting there waiting for me to climb in and buckle up as he grumbled at me about “letting in a bloody draft” as he urged me impatiently to shut the door.
Then, after tossing me the leftovers bag Mama P had doodled a badly drawn dog on (it looked like a deformed watermelon with four sticks stuck in it), he turned the key, and nothing happened. Cursing rather impressively at how the day was going, he gave it some gas and tried turning the key again, and thankfully the beast of a truck roared happily to life with a pungent cough of exhaust.
He eyed me witheringly and shook his head as he fumbled for his pipe in his jacket pocket. His smile crumbled as when he pulled it out water dribbled out of its bowl onto his lap. After taking a long calming breath he set the wet pipe into the cup holder and pinched at the bridge of his nose just like Dad did every time he got frustrated and was struggling to reign it in.
“Let’s hope the rest of the morning goes better, eh boy?” he asked with a bitter smile.
Sadly, he didn’t get his wish.

Chapter Three
A traipse through town and a truck bed of trouble…
Our first stop after breakfast was the town’s “hardware shop” the eclectically named “Lock, Stock & Barrels Co.” (which seemed to have more swords, longbows and such on display than hammers, saws, screwdrivers, lumber and such