"Again? Mr. Rogers lost the damn Sword again?" I shouted as I grabbed the pan and punched the rest of the Krispies.
Why the Hell my father let Mr. Rogers guard the Sword was beyond me. Mr. Rogers was the former host of a mortal freakin’ children's show.
"It was never lost the first time," Grandpa reminded me. "That was a test for your cousin Astrid. Fred Rogers is a formidable warrior and is one of the few men I know who can pull off a cardigan sweater."
I bit back my retort about asking if it disappeared while he was changing his tennis shoes and I began to eat the crushed mess on the table.
“Oookay, that seems like a bit of a problem.”
“Oh yes,” he agreed and pilfered some of my snack.
I picked at the marshmallow goo on my hands and debated asking any more questions. Curiosity won out. “Do you know who stole it?”
“Possibly.” He leaned forward and licked the table. What in the Hell was he doing? His manners were disgusting. I wondered if he got away with this at my grandma's.
“You're not going to tell me."
“Correct,” he smiled ruefully. “You are correct. Do you have any milk?" I nodded and got him the jug. I didn't bother with a glass—he wouldn't use it anyway. "Let’s get back to your lesson.”
"Can I guess who stole it?"
"Of course, but if you listen closely the answers are always there."
I watched him gulp from the container and grinned. How did he make disgusting etiquette look cute? I waited for more. More would certainly come, it just might not make any sense.
“So, where was I?” he inquired as he wiped his mouth with the edge of the tablecloth.
“Let me see. . .Mr. Rogers is a sucky guard, True Immortals can bite it if a date goes bad and the freakin’ Sword of Death got ripped off."
His mouth quirked with humor, “Yes, yes, of course. How many True Immortals are there?"
"It's undefined."
"So very smart." He chuckled and brushed all the crumbs to the floor. "There are eight established Immortals at the moment, but there are more in our midst."
“Grandpa, I’m sure you're not telling me this for my health.”
“Actually, I am.”
We sat in silence while I waited for him to continue. It was clear I was going to be waiting a long time and I didn't want him licking any more surfaces.
“Fine. Satan, you, God, Angel of Death, Angel of Light, Mother Nature, Astrid and. . .” I paused. Who was the other one?
“So far, so good.”
“Oh. . .” I was stuck. Who in the Hell was the other True Immortal?
"I hear you did the nasty with the Angel of Death."
"I did not do the nasty," I snapped. Was nothing sacred?
“Touché, and you're a terrible liar.” He grinned and shrugged. “Your mother is a True Immortal.”
“My mother is alive?” My sex life was suddenly forgotten.
“As far as I know, my sweet. I’m sure I would have heard if she bit the big one. Although if you ask me, she may as well be dead considering how she’s neglected her duties and the mess she’s made.”
“Would you like to expound on that?” He was excellent at avoidance, but he was not avoiding this.
"Nope."
I deflated like a flat tire and sagged in my chair. My head fell to my hands and I gave in to the impulse that had been clawing at me for days. I cried. Hard.
“Oh my baby.” Grandpa took me into his little arms and rocked me in the same manner most Demons couldn’t resist rocking him. He gently wiped my tears, gasped and jerked his hand back.
“What?” I choked out, alarmed by his reaction.
“Your tears.” Grandpa looked at his burnt finger with amazement. “They burned me.”
“I’m so sorry.” I was so confused. I touched the residual tears on my face to see if they burned me.
Nothing.
“Don’t be sorry, lovey.” He smiled. “It’s not your fault. One who has the strength to cry is often the strongest of all. You’re more like your mother than I realized.”
“About that,” I started.
“Don’t ask,” he cut me off. “Because I can’t tell. I can get away with a lot, but not even I can go there.”
“What in the Hell is wrong with everybody? What could be so awful? Is she a farm animal or something?” Tired of this didn’t even begin to touch on the frustration with the mom subject, but I knew a closed door when I saw one. Furthermore, he was laughing too hard at my farm animal or something question to be of much use to me. “Fine,” I said, changing the subject, “what are you doing here? I thought all of you were forbidden to communicate with me for a month.” If that turned out to be false, Hayden, my own personal Angel of Death’s ass was grass.