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

they remained hidden made him certain their intent was malevolent.

“What you keep lookin’ at?” Slaíne asked.

Aidan started and looked over at the girl. She was keeping pace with him, her jaw tense and her eyes set ahead. “It’s nothing,” he reassured her.

“Ain’t nothin’,” she said in a lower voice. “Someone’s out there, ain’t they?”

So much for not worrying Slaíne. “It’s probably just a stray dog or something, thinks we have hand-outs.” She didn’t buy a word of it, he could tell, but she said nothing on that score.

Though they were both tired and hot and getting somewhat winded, Slaíne picked up her pace by a measure, and Aidan matched it. “Not so quickly,” he said below his breath. “The town’s just up ahead. Besides, the Pull out in the woods is getting weaker.” A lie, but she seemed to latch on to it, as her pace slowed back to a brisk walk and less of the beginnings of a jog.

Ten minutes later, somewhere in the late afternoon, they walked into the bustling village, dodging horse traffic and ignoring the stares that were directed their way. They must look something dreadful after having been in the woods for a day, and during their journeys before that.

Aidan reached into his pocket, where he Summoned a few coins. “Take these and find us a place to stay the night,” he said to Slaíne, handing her the money.

“I can nay, sir. The curse—”

Right. That. He needed to be away from her for a while, so he told her to purchase something sweet from the stand out front of the nearest store, close enough to prevent the curse from attacking – her Pull would warn him – and far enough to clear his thoughts.

There was that scandalized look again, like he’d suggested she strip stark naked or hang upside down from a branch. “I ain’t a child.”

Aidan continued to hold out the money, waiting.

The girl hesitated at first, and then snatched it up as if wanting to have as little physical contact as possible. He did not blame her. He felt the same way.

After enduring one final withering glance, Aidan walked into the first shop he saw: a bakery, where he was greeted with odd stares and some whispers. Aidan tried to ignore the unwanted attention and ordered some pasties from an ample woman with a crooked nose. He couldn’t be familiar, surely. It had been going on fifteen years since his last visit. Nonetheless, he remained on the receiving end of some strange looks.

“Are you related to the Wentworths?” the baker asked as she wrapped his wares in grease paper.

“No, ma’am. I am not from these parts.” He held out a hand for his change and his purchases. It was a temptation to lower his gaze and hide his face, but he knew that would only make him stick out all the more. Aidan watched as she sorted through her drawer, holding every other coin she handled up to a small gas lamp.

The baker, it would seem, was in no hurry to release him. “Could’ve sworn you bore a resemblance to their son…what was his name? Jervis?”

“Aye,” said a young woman who stood near the counter. She flushed and grinned when she met Aidan’s eye. “Jervis, it was.”

Aidan shook his head and looked away from the girl. He tried not to show his relief at being mistaken for someone else, but the hints of a smile tugged at his lips. “I am sorry I am not acquainted with the family.”

“Mm,” said the old wench, handing him the parcel of pasties. “They were a good family. High blood— But all of them was murdered in their beds.”

“Aye,” said the young woman by the counter. “’Twas quite the scandal, that.”

“Sorry to hear it,” he said, trying to hide his impatience. He hadn’t dealt with many women in the last ten years; he’d forgotten how chatty some of them could be.

“Will there be anything else for you, sir?” The woman bit down on one of the coins he’d handed her minutes before. Once apparently satisfied that they were in fact real, she counted out smaller coins for his change.

“That will be all, thank you.”

“Have you any notion how long you’ll be in these parts, m’lad?” asked a plump man by the over-iced cakes.

Aidan forced a smile as he accepted his change from the woman behind the counter. “I am just passing through.”

The man coughed. “Not one for words, are you?”

“Sir?”

The young woman giggled, her skirt brushing the air next to Aidan as she took her turn at the counter. “Don’t mind old Jon. He’s into his customs.”

Aidan looked at this Jon, feigning curiosity when all he could think about was escape and sleep. “Customs, sir? Have I done something amiss?”

It was the baker behind the counter who spoke. “Didn’t give us your name, didn’t tell us where you were from, didn’t share anything personal about yourself. You see, young sir, we’re a nosy folk in this village. We do need our gossip.”

Big talk rolled in a wrapper of chit-chat. If only he could simply run out of there and eat a pasty in peace, even if it meant more coldness from Slaíne. Adult manners, however, dictated that he must stand and take whatever petty nonsense they could throw at him. They were waiting for his answer. “Aidan Powell, at your service.”

The fat man’s ears perked up. “Powell? Hmm, Powell. Now there’s a name worth noting. Any relation to the Powells of Fairbrooke?”

How his mother’s obscure name had reached this far south was beyond his comprehension. He hid his unease, despite his rising panic, and replied, “Distant relatives, I believe. I come from farther east than Fairbrooke. Small village, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” laughed the woman behind the counter as she finished serving the girl in the overlarge skirts. “Small towns is our business here.”

Aidan forced a laugh. Powers that be, get me out of here without dying of boredom or giving myself