Cupid & The Cursed Cup (WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 20

"Wyn, it's alright. It's just Nan's vodka. N's eyes change colour when she drinks it. Amber's the best."

Wynonna shook her head. "I've spent the past few days hyping up the craziest story ever for a film and that wasn't as crazy as what is going on in your house right now. And, there were a lot of drugs at the launch party, I'm telling you."

"Nan, explain to my sister what's happening. Or, do something to make her understand."

Wynonna backed towards the door. "No one is touching me. And, I'm not drinking any of that...whatever that is that made your friend's eyes glow. You hear me."

Nan gathered up her knitting. "I can see you are worried for your sister and all that is going on. Tell me, what scares you the most?"

Wynonna stared at the old woman, half-minded to drag Waverly out of the house, go stay in a hotel until whatever drugs she was on had worn off. "I'm not losing her. She's all I have."

Nan nodded. "And, she feels the same about you. Waverly is not on drugs, you know that. Some things are hard to understand until our mind adjusts to a new reality. Come, sit with me. Let us get to know one another."

Waverly could feel the resistance in Wynonna's hand, not wanting to be dragged into whatever madness was going on right now in her sister's house, curious as to who this old woman was. She edged towards the bed, still holding onto Waverly's hand, eyeing Nicole suspiciously. "I'm sorry if I scared you," Nicole said, offering Wynonna the glass, she shaking her head. "This is all new to me too. I'm supposed to be in Rome."

+ + + +

A solitary figure made his way on foot along the narrow cobbled street beside St. Peter's Basilica, mingling with tourists, nuns and priests walking in long snaking lines come to hear the Pope speak that day to the gathering crowd. There was nothing exceptional about this person, male, mid-forties, smartly dressed if a little old fashioned, his one good hand soft, unblemished, the other encased in a black leather glove to hide its disfigurement. Had anyone taken the time to notice, or been curious, they might have wondered how a stonemason came to have such soft skin on his one good hand considering the type of work he supposedly performed. Then again, the incurious seldom do question others if they are convincing enough.

This lone male was all pretence, more a man of manuals and learning, than of manual labour. He hailed from a long line of academics, having spent years with teachers of the occult pouring over ancient scrolls and textbooks, extracting that which would benefit his quest to bring about a new world order. His family had been persecuted, abandoned by those they trusted, finding sanctuary in the quiet cloisters of academia, teaching theology to the ignorant, secretly laughing in the faces of their students. Behind closed doors they practised the old knowledge, carefully indoctrinating their eldest into their ways.

"Son, you are chosen," Robert's father would say to him, as he demonstrated their family's dark secret. "You will bring about the change that is needed in this world. Too many of us have had our throats slit for the words we chant. You, you my beloved son will bring us victory."

Robert's father would roll up his own sleeve, making a long incision, letting the blood drip into a cup the boy watching as the wound healed before his eyes. Standing by the wall of their cellar, his father would dip his finger into the cup etching out the words Robert would come to see over, and over.

RURSUS CLAVEM

Robert remembered the first time he had seen his father write those words on the wall, wondering what they meant, why his father had used his own blood. "My beloved son, you are the key to our salvation. My blood is a trumpet call to all those who can hear it, that you, you Robert, my first born will lead the army."