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?”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“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.”
There was only a moment of hesitation before the Glutton cook took the strong grip in his own long and dangerously sharp fingers. “Good to see you return, Mick,” the Glutton agreed softly. They shook once, and parted, the cook off to get him a proper meal.
-------
There was something of a ceremony to these things. Old Man Kregor and the two Blooded talked about nothing of substance, although the events of night prior were on everyone’s tongues, and if there rather quickly were an inordinate number of folk listening in from outside the open doors, none of them mentioned anything.
“Edmund Percival Shellyback!” The Mick stated when the Bones-man stepped into the room, meeting the sunken white eyes and rising to his feet.
The Bones-man took the package he was carrying and set it on a side table. “The cloak is ready, Mick,” he said, an odd note in his voice.
The Mick nodded as he extended his hand to the tailor. “Were that your fair daughter I be seein’ earlier? Her stitchwork be nigh as fine as your own, but I think she be using some of that northern style.”
The skeletal man took the Mick’s hand and shook it firmly, waving the words away. “She can do the auld stuff right enough, but she has a better eye for current work than her old man. Everyone is looking at the Nordic style, what with the Fair Folk up there.” He looked The Mick up and down. “The suit still fits, I see.”
“Like a glove, no thanks to me waistline,” The Mick agreed, patting his chest, and waving the tailor to a seat. “Who else be coming?”
“Maugh an’ Tobias be on their way, and there be a new lad, Hogambe. After the splash ye made last night, and in the vids over these months, they were just waitin’ for ye,” Edmund replied, sliding into the chair with only a little rattling. “When ye called for anyone wanting t’ advance their Bloodline, that were something of a bell going off, Mick.”
The Mick nodded shortly, sitting down himself. “We’ll wait for the Wrapped and the Jujun an’ the food. I be sure Chauncel will not let us down on the tripe, aye?”
They all assured him that the Glutton would definitely not disappoint, and talks soon veered into vintages of various kinds, politicians, the moves that were being made by the powers-that-be as news of the things Outside the Shroud spread, and how the world would change. The Mick asked about old names and new blood, and the tales and travails of things that had gone on since.
The matriarch of the Peats Clan, wrapped as all her ilk were in scented cloth, deceptively fast despite her stiff limbs, arrived with the sunken-eyed Jujun, dressed in the attire of a warehouser foreman. With them came a newcomer who was not Tomb Clan, but didn’t look much out of place with his dark purple skin and red eyes, for he was a Higob. There was a significant population of them come out of Africa these years, finding their own place in the clannish land, and if they were a bit shunned by normal folks, that only made them fit in among the Tomb Clans more easily.
The goblin was introduced to The Mick warmly and with confidence by all those about, and The Mick returned the sincerity. They barely filled their mugs when Chauncel swept in with the food, and set the first plate of Maggot-Ridden Tripe before The Mick, nearly making him swoon at seeing the fat grubs there, the bloody sauce, and the smell of fresh earth...
“Damnation,” he near cried, and dove right into the mess, as did everyone else there. Chauncel served everyone, and then joined the table himself, indulging with everyone else, and served the later courses in an ersatz manner.
There was a lot of pickling involved in Tomb Clan food, and ingredients humans found rather disgusting. To those assembled, it was all perfectly healthy and very traditional, and it was done with a Master’s touch.
The higob hadn’t had quite a traditional Tomb meal like this before, and those present were happy to list out the ingredients and preparation as he ate it up, nodding along without the slightest hesitation. “I’ll get me woman to try out this tripe. Ye ever fix it with locusts?” the higob asked Chauncel, who got a thoughtful look on his face.
“Getting’ ‘em proper and fresh is the key to good tripe,” the Glutton said. “I hae done heard o’ some big feasts by the Wrapped down across the Channel of big feasts when the ‘hoppers are swarming, an’ always wanted to try them out.”
“Aye, gotta use magic to preserve them if they get shipped up here. These be fine grubs, but a good desert locust is like honey on the tongue.”
The Glutton nodded, and indicated it was something for later.
When the plate of steaming, popping Blood Sausage was set down, everyone there inhaled, and began to salivate, eyes popping colors. The Mick held up a hand for a moment, and drew something out from inside his jacket, and set it slowly on the table.
The crimson-gold-black hue of what was inside drew everyone’s eyes.
“Be that-?” Old Man Kregor asked, looking to Chauncel, who just nodded.
“Recognized the name of the place, not th’ owner,” The Mick said softly. There was a clink as he spread his fingers, and eight crystalline shot glasses tinked down together on the table. He popped the seal on the bottle, tilted it, and eight streams separated as one, pouring gleaming and ruby into the glasses together.
He resealed the bottle and set it aside, a flick of his hand sending the shots into eager hands. The Mick raised his and toasted them, “To a fine Irish meal!”
“Cheers!” came back to them, and they tossed the shots of Cultivator Blood back together.
The Tomb Clanners closed their eyes to savor the vintage, while the higob merely looked intrigued at the taste. He could see that his associates were clearly enjoying it, however, so he merely looked amused. He had a personal fondness for peanut butter, which they all decried as brown slime, so there were differences between them, after all.
The shots came down in chimes of pleasure, and Old Man Kregor mused in satisfaction, “Steal a few more apples from me, brat. Ye can pay me back with a few more tipples o’ this ambrosia of the gods.” He smacked his lips, and his pale eyes fixed on the sausage. “Ye made that with this, did ye not, young Chauncel?”
“Aye, dusty fart.” Forks snapped to hands, and the general lunge commenced. They had already finished the Crimson Borscht and slathered over the White Bread, the vivic ash so new to them giving the bread a splendid grit, feel, and taste that mere ground bone could not emulate. Even the Corpse Butter was not something to set aside. Goat milk from a herd of bleaters grazing at the cemeteries was not easy to come by, after all.