The Incantation Page #2

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I just need some privacy

to shower and get dressed.

Please, make haste.

You guide me

along the right path

for the sake of your name.

Even when I walk

through a dark valley,

I fear no harm,

for you are at my side.

Your rod and staff

give me courage.

You set a table before me

as I watch my enemies.

Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle?

Do you have some light?

Sorry, I don't smoke.

Of course you don't.

With a face like that, though,

I don't blame you.

You're not from around here,

are you?

Is it that obvious?

Uh, my name is Jean-Pierre.

You can call me J.P.

Bit more American style, no?

And they say

the French are rude.

Well, J.P., the devilishly

handsome gravedigger

at your service.

That's an actual job?

Round here,

quite a lucrative one, yeah.

Wait,

you knew I was American?

So it is that obvious.

Well, without the handgun

and the Freedom Fries,

it was extremely hard to tell.

I'm Lucy.

Lucy? Well, that's a name

you don't hear that often.

Well, my mom wanted

to call me Desi,

but I'm not a boy, so...

You certainly are not that.

Uh, Lucy Bellerose.

Bellerose.

Rose like the Count?

-Are you... ?

-Yeah, he's my uncle.

Sorry, he was my great-uncle.

Oh, I'm so sorry, Madame,

I didn't know.

No, please, it's okay.

He was always

just some blood relative

living an ocean away

in a castle.

To be honest, growing up,

I used to call him

Count Dracula.

Well, he was

the Blood Rose Count.

No, no, no-- Dracula,

like, uh...

um, Frankenstein

or Wolfman.

Never mind.

Oh, but you know

the story, right?

Of how the Count

got his namesake?

No, actually.

It is said

that a king of France

when he was

still a young prince,

fell in love with a rose

farmer's beautiful daughter,

his only child.

When the prince's grandmother,

the queen, found out,

rather than have

her lineage spoiled

with that of peasantry,

she ordered the girl

to be immediately killed.

In her grief,

the farmer's wife

also killed herself,

leaving the farmer

completely alone.

They were buried together

amongst the roses

of the French countryside.

Oh, my God.

Wait, it gets better.

It is said that

around their graves alone,

the roses turn a dark blood red,

instead of

their usual pastel colors.

When the grieving prince became

old enough to be the king,

he awarded the farmer

part of his kingdom

and the title

of Count Rose du Sang,

Count of the Blood Red Rose,

your very forefather.

Although grateful,

the farmer never did get over it

and vowed to avenge

his wife and daughter's death,

cursing your family forever.

Are you serious?

That's horrible.

Oh, my God,

you are so full of sh*t.

I'm sorry. Forgive me.

Uh, but-- but, wait.

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