Sort of Dead

65 - The Illegitimate Son

‘Wait,’ I say, while Aar scowls beside me, 'you told us you crossed their path and they messed you up real bad. What was that all about?’

Rasthrum removes his gloves. Now I see why he wears them. His hands aren’t hands at all; they’re basically claws. And they’re branded claws. There’s a little contortion on each thumb, shaped somewhat like some bird. A raven, unless I'm mistaken.

‘Uh, I’d rather you keep them on,' says Aar, his scowl converting into what looks like a frown. The kind of frown you make when your teacher passes gas in the middle of explaining a vital topic. You feel sorry for them, sure, but then slowly the smell reaches your nostrils and you lose all sense of worldly wisdom.

Rasthrum ignores him. ‘Wake your Uncle,' he orders.

I do so. Mr. Om is up and at it sooner than you could say “rise and shine”. And suddenly I’m reminded of all the time I spent in his mansion, all the times he used to keep me company when no one else would. Before I had Aar and Bee, I only had him. Well, him and Es, but let’s just count real people here. Whelps. No time to think of all that now. (Besides, the corner where he sleeps stinks so badly of cabbage, I can’t stand there a second longer.)

While I’m stirring Mr. Om up, Bee gets up, too. Well, the more the merrier.

‘What’d you wake me up for?’ Mr. Om asks. There’s a sense of alarm in his tone. ‘Are we there?’

Before my mouth is even open, Aar hops in, making use of all his acting acumen: 'Yeah, those witches. They kidnapped Es.’

Have you ever seen magic, kids? Well, here it is: all color disappears from Mr. Om's face in an abra-snap-cadabra gilly-gilly-whoosh.

For a microsecond I’m worried as well, until I see the expression on Aar's face. He’s just clowning around. Call me sadistic, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy seeing Mr. Om like this. After all, he’s the reason why my life is the way it is.

Mr. Om's at a loss of words. ‘I . . . what . . . how, when did this happen? What are you sniggering at, Mar?’

As if on cue, Es drifts into the carriage, not a care in the world, singing a melody she has no doubt composed while she gave Saayu company.

Mr. Om looks at her, then at me, then at Aar. ‘That is not funny!’

Aar and I high-five. Bee crosses her arms and shakes her head like she’s surrounded by complete imbeciles. Es doesn’t realize what’s going on, but doesn’t ask it either – which is very much unlike her. She’s just hovering in a corner, humming her tune. Ever since that entanglement – if that’s what we want to call it – between us, she seems reserved. Detached. Did we do something wrong or break some spirit laws or whatever?

‘Quit it,' Rasthrum calls out, and it’s a struggle for me to snatch my eyes away from a humming Es. ‘We don’t have much time left.’

That’s when Mr. Om spots his ungloved hands – claws – and the little birds on the thumbs. Rasthrum’s lips twitch; dare I say he looks like he’s going to smile?

'That's . . . ‘ Mr. Om takes a step back, and I don’t think he realizes that. ‘You are . . .’

‘I am,' says Rasthrum easily.

Okay, so how my Unc – I mean, Mr. Om looked like when we joked about Es's abduction is nothing compared to what he looks like right now. It’s like he just realized he’s jumping off a cliff or something.

‘I’ll explain everything,' and so the tale of the survivor-vampire man begins. (Aar requests him to put his gloves on while he’s at it.)

‘Have you heard of what they call Lakoswanion?’ Rasthrum asks.