Chapter 12-345: Old Timers (1/2)
Old Man Kregor pulled the door shut, and there was a subtle flash of magic. The Mick didn’t miss the symbol hanging about the White’s throat.
“Ye sold out to the Ivory King?” he exclaimed, clasping his chest as he joined the old White. “Me heart! The ancestors, whatever will ye tell them when ‘tis time?”
“I won’t be talkin’ to ‘em, we’re goin’ t’ different places,” the old White answered firmly, without a flicker of regret in his pale eyes. “Looks t’ be you’ve been some places, too, brat.”
“Mayhap even three or more, old fart.” He kept pace with the stiff gait of the White without a thought. “Chauncel’s still breathing? I would have sworn on me horse’s fetlocks something would have eaten him by now.”
“Best cook in the damn city,” the White sniffed. “But only to those what knows proper food.”
“Well, a spot of tradition is fair enough,” The Mick admitted, and informed Amaretta, “Chauncel is a Glutton, a few years ahead of me. Last I knew he was fronting for a Sage, but he must have got tired of prepping corpses, aye?”
“Ye’ve heard of the Cookbook of the Dead?” Old Kregor grinned, uttering a hollow and thin laugh, while glancing at Amaretta.
“My mother used it to cook for me all the time,” Amaretta admitted, intrigued. It was full of alternate recipes the Tomb Clans could use to satisfy their non-human hungers.
“He’s got five recipes in the most recent edition. That Irish Blood Sausage of his is a treasure!” Old Kregor smacked his thin and dry lips loudly.
“I’ve been eating his sausage for forty years?” The Mick exclaimed, and Amaretta looked delighted. “No wonder it reminded me o’ home!”
“Aye, for another thieving brat, he made something of himself,” the White sniffed, gesturing at a small tavern ahead. “’tis early, but he’ll be open for soup an’ bread, at the least.”
Gorphang’s, The Mick read in amusement, eyes flickering crimson, and let the old White take the lead inside. He held the door for his Lady, and entered into the first Irish tavern he’d been in for nigh on eight decades.
-------
The smells hit him so hard he had to stop and close his eyes just to take them all in. Oh, and there were some of the newer smells, of some pints and lagers and stouts that weren’t all that horrible... but the Tomb Clans had earthier tastes, and some of the cooking wasn’t all that appealing to normal humans, what with the amount of blood that was used.
“They are serving Crimson Borscht,” Amaretta breathed softly, inhaling deeply as she clutched his arm. “My mother tried, but she could not get it right...”
“Bread of the White,” The Mick murmured back. “I’ve not had it since...” He couldn’t even remember when the last time the proper bread with bone dust in it had sat on his plate.
There were a few people there, and they all turned to look at the newcomers.
Two Jujun, sallow-skinned and sunken-eyed, looking perpetually worn and fatigued, able to outwork a machine. A Bones woman, carefully puffed up in thick sweaters and padding, looking like a cancer victim under her hood, fantastic stitchwork accenting it all. A couple more Gluttons were present, dressed in work aprons that showed they were working in butchery or food service somewhere. They were lean and always-bruised, careful to keep their mouths closed, and the faint tang of alchemical perfume neutralizing their stench hanging about them.
The two Blooded looked back with crimson eyes, and the local Tomb Clanners all bowed deferentially to them, feeling the power the two of them held. Even were they not locals, they were nobody to mess with... and Old Man Kregor was with them, so they were not to be shunned, but...
“Chauncel Maurginnyl George Hastings Tannhatterly!” The Mick Spoke out, his Voice filling the place. “Let me see yer bone-gnawing face that’s been getting’ such rave reviews for maggot-ridden tripe, aye, and treat it proper-like!”
There was a clattering in the back room, and the door swung open as the Glutton barreled out.
He was more purple than blue-black now, his eyes gone all black, and his teeth all vertical needles. It meant he’d advanced his Bloodline nicely, and was definitely among the stronger and more dangerous of his people. Unafraid, he surged right up to the counter and dared to glare at the two Blooded straight-off.
“Mickal Geoffrey McCallister, as I eat an’ die!” the Glutton cook breathed out, staring at him. “Come from yer bloodletting to mingle with us mere mortals, now, have ye?” he sniffed disdainfully. “What do ye in my place?”
The Mick leaned in closer. “Some old fart said someone I knew made the recipe for sausage I been eating for the last forty years. I said that’s impossible, such a thing were not made by a mortal, so I be not pollutin’ me boots with their dust an’ grime.”
Chauncel’s answering grin was wide and would have totally unnerved most humans, especially as his long purple tongue twisted about. “Not mortal, am I now? Well, then, how can I be turnin’ away such fine company? What’ll ye be having?”
“Crimson Borscht!” Amaretta’s eyes were glowing red.
“Bread, and sausage,” The Mick said, inhaling deeply. “Something not fit for mortals, aye.” He reached out, and set a finger-bar of gold on the counter, totally shocking everyone. “Ye’ve been feedin’ me fer forty years, Chauncel Tannhatterly. Me apologies for the tab I been runnin’.”
Long-nailed hands swept the gold away smoothly, black eyes flashing. “Take the back room. I’ll have your meal in a trice, McCallister.”
“Chauncel.” The Mick stuck out his hand. “Ye called me Mick then, and ye’ll do it now.”