Chapter 3: Feng Shui
After our run in with Sheriff Swan and Deputy Mustache, we managed to get to the Timberly's Bread and Breakfast without incident, passing an absurdly large school for a town of 3,000 in the process. Seriously, this thing resembled a major hospital more than a school; it had multiple buildings for crying out loud!
Anyway, the only tense moment occurred upon arrival, when the kindly middle aged owners of the Bed and Breakfast, presumably the Timberlys, expressed discomfort at the idea of my dog sharing a room with us, communicated their opinion through that good old small town tradition of constantly glancing at Mouse while asking the same question several different ways. Given I was wet, tired, aching, and irritable for any number of reasons, most of which were related to Thomas, I think I can be forgiven for not quite picking up on this folksy homespun bit of passive aggressiveness and merely thinking both Mr. and Mrs. Timberly had some sort of early onset senility, but apparently my brother is more in tune with people. I suppose growing up in a household that made the Medici look like gossiping high school girls has some benefits.
Of course, whatever points he'd won back he instantly squandered by making his cover story that Mouse was my helper dog, as I had, he whispered in just the right way to be sure I heard, special needs. Both owners promptly bought the story, nodding solemnly and flashing me pitying looks, which I took as further proof of either Thomas's charm or my theory about senility. Seriously, who could possibly buy a stupid story like that? Of course, the only other option for why they so readily accepted that I needed a trained dog to function in basic society was not one I wanted to dwell too deeply on.
Our rooms secured and my ego bruised, I let Thomas deal with the customary exchange of currency for shelter and we made out way up to the room. It was a homey little set up full of knickknacks and paintings of birds and embroidered bed covers, the sort of place couples trying to bring the spark back into their relationship came to spend their time trying not to be overheard by the other five couples trying to do the exact same thing. To the place's credit, though, most of the furniture and the bed did show the wear of a place that had been well lived in, with a faint smell of baked goods that had likely sunk into the creaky floorboards. The place might have been a little old, but it had aged gracefully and was proud of its wrinkles. That we could all be so graceful in our twilight years.
Once we'd arrived and settled in, I had immediately begun trying to pry information out of my brother about why we were here.
"Fresh northern air does a body good you know. Seriously Harry, when was the last time you got out of that personal dungeon of yours?"
It was going about as well as it usually did.
Rubbing my temples in a fashion that was disturbingly similar to what my mentor Ebenerzer McCoy had done whenever I had managed a stupider stunt than usual, I tried to remind myself that fratricide was in no way an option.
"Thomas, if you are seriously telling me we walked through miles of mud soaked forest just to get some fresh air I am going to turn you into something small and unpleasant." That was a bluff of course, and he knew it. Turning people into frogs was a major violation of the Second Law of magic, and prime head chopping justification. Not that it wasn't looking more and more worth it by the second. "Now, you got me out here by saying you needed my help cleaning up vampire business, which I hate, to help your sister, who I hate, maintain stability, which I like enough to balance out the two prior hates. That's gotten me this far, but if I'm going to get myself beaten half to death, I want more details." Of course, there was another reason I had come, one far more important than keeping Lara Raith on her hidden throne. Thomas was family. For someone like me, who had spent most of his life without a family, that reason alone was enough to get me to go across the country. Letting some of the sarcasm out of my tone, I lowered my voice a little and added, "Thomas, we're family. I'm not going to leave you high and dry. You can trust me."
It was rare that my brother let anyone see through the mask of easy going obnoxious playboy that he broadcast for all the world to see. I didn't know much about Thomas's early years, but growing up as the only surviving son of the king of the White Court couldn't have been easy, and it's likely the only reason Thomas made it out of his childhood alive was because he convinced everyone around him he wasn't a threat. The mask had become a survival instinct, something he pulled on so easily that he didn't even have to think about it anymore. Still, there were depths underneath his carefully constructed armor that ran deeper than even I really understood, and in moments like this, when the amusement in his eyes softened and the sharpness of his smirk faded, that I got a glimpse of who my brother really was.
He was silent for a moment, his chiseled marble features showing a very human uncertainty, before he seemed to reach a decision. Looking me in the eye without fear of a soulgaze, he nodded to himself and opened his mouth to speak.
That exact moment was when one of the walls exploded inward in a frenzy of violence.
Typical.