The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

“Then you know.”

She sighed. “Ain’t up to me to tell you.” Her stormy eyes met his for a moment, and then she stalked away, ripping a low growl from Aidan’s throat as if she were taking an unwitting and unwilling piece of him with her.

He looked down at the salve, searched its Pulls, and decided that it was quite without poison or irritant. He sniffed once, made a face, and slathered it onto his oozing hand.

To his surprise, the wound began to heal at once, and the pain all but melted away. It wasn’t until later, after he had set up a fire and found sustenance for Triumph and himself, that he heard shrieking and a whip crack. Aidan grimaced and decided to return the salve in secret that evening. Perhaps it wasn’t hers to give.

* * *

The remainder of the day found Aidan skirting around the elves and the Pull of the girl, who now flinched at the sight of him. He spent his time gathering common herbs, which he stored in his saddlebag, and brushing his steed and checking his shoes. Triumph was glad to lie down for some deep sleep. The poor creature had no idea what hard riding his master had in store that very night.

When the sun was setting, Aidan dined on a generous handful of mushrooms, which he roasted in his Summoned cooking patera with wild chives, beaver fat, and a few potatoes that he’d filched from Tristram’s overstocked kitchen when he’d first set foot inside his friend’s house. The elves might have guessed his abilities, had they been paying close attention to how much equipment he produced from nowhere. As it was, they seemed content to check on him infrequently. Suspicious, Aidan kept the goblet with him at all times.

After he’d consumed his supper and the contents of his third-to-last water bladder, Aidan watched as, one-by-one, the elves trotted off to bed. The moon retreated behind a bank of silvery-black clouds, leaving the flickering oranges and yellows of the fire to bathe the campers in dingy light. Soon, the elves snored unawares in their wagon under a thick pile of furs, grunting and farting and making all sorts of distasteful noises Aidan thought only men capable of.

He lay down by his fire and drew his cloak over himself. The goblet was near at hand, and he felt confident that he could defend it long enough to get away. Breaking his deal to talk in the morning, though, was not a feat he relished. He could not in good conscience give the elves what they wanted. But I need their information, he thought as a yawn ripped itself from his mouth.

As if in answer to Aidan’s silent frustration, the Pull between the elves’ serving wench and himself tightened. He squinted, just making out her lithe form prowling around in the shadows. What keeps you up so late? he wondered. Careful as not to disturb the elves and alert them to his quickly forming plan, Aidan eased himself to his feet, threw on his cloak, and grabbed the goblet sack.

The girl must have heard his movements, for she froze, the firelight glinting off her eyes in the semi-darkness. She had been humming, he realized, something he had mistaken for insects buzzing in the distance. The air grew tense, crackling with the electricity of an unrealized storm.

Aidan held up his hands, palms and sack revealed. When Slawva – or was it Slaíne? – hissed like a wild cat, a finger flew up to his lips and he shook his head. Then, feeling pathetic, he motioned for her to come closer. He would lure her over, and then…he would have to think on-the-move, for there went the servant farther into the bracken.

After a moment of indecision, he clenched his teeth and set out after her. Aidan moved as stealthily as he was able, but every footfall seemed to find a twig or an angry bullfrog. And the Pull…he wondered if she could feel it, too, and whether or not that would alert her to his exact position in his pursuit.

The Pull grew steadily stronger and stronger. He knew he was feet away. And yet he didn’t catch any sight of her. This is ridiculous, he thought, shaking his head. How would he keep her quiet long enough to kidnap her? Surely she would shriek bloody murder, drawing the elves’ attention to their whereabouts. Once the elves were involved…well, he might as well start running for his life right now.

Something sharp and cold poked him in the back. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. There was a sword at his back, and judging by the steadiness of her hand, Slaíne had wielded it before. But who would let a slave have a sword, let alone keep them unshackled at night? Arrogance, sheer arrogance on the elves’ part.

He made to turn around, but the sword – a thin, silver blade – flew up to his neck, as if to say Move and you’re dead.

Aidan explored the blade’s Pull and, satisfied that there was only one witness, he Dismissed it.

Aidan spun around, and the girl took a step back, eyes wide in the failing light. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but he Summoned the sword into his own hand, blade directed at her neck. “Move.”

The girl scowled but did as he said, leading the way back to camp. She seemed to do nothing to mute her footsteps, her feet cracking and breaking twigs, stirring up leaves. But when they got back to camp, the elves were snoring as loud as anything.

“Over there,” he whispered, jerking his head toward Triumph, who had risen and now stood dark and watchful.

The girl gave him a shrewd look before tramping over to Aidan’s steed, the blade still at her back.

“Pick that up.” When she looked back at him, he nodded to the sack, the one he had