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

a frown for Aidan. “Why do she keep calling you ‘milord’? And who did you hit with a dagger?”

Aidan’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“Pardon my tenses. You will run the girl through with the dagger if you attempt anything. She’ll die in a pool of her own red blood, and you, Lord Ingledark, will have to live with yet another noose around your neck.”

Aidan glared. “Did you see it happen?”

The woman said simply, “I am the seer.”

What choice did he have? The woman might be telling the truth, and as irritating as the girl was, he did not want to run Slaíne through with a dagger. Without another thought, he Dismissed the smaller weapon, and lowered the sword to his side. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? That is a rather complicated question. I think the real question here is what do you want, milord?”

“Excuse me?”

At last Slaíne stepped to the side of the alley, her expression troubled. Now was Aidan’s chance. All he had to do was Dismiss the blade, and Summon it long enough to deal a deathblow to the witch of a woman. But slaying goblins and nymphs was one thing; killing a human, no matter how much he questioned their humanity, was a whole other thing.

“You’re a good man.” She said it a second before Aidan Dismissed his blade, making Aidan believe that she knew what he’d been planning. “Now, can we please take this somewhere more comfortable and – less confined?” She sniffed and made a face. “And, no offense, but the pair of you stink to high heaven. You’ll be wanting to freshen up first, I think.” She turned from the pair and led the way into the open market.

Slaíne looked back at Aidan, waiting for his lead.

As tempting as it was to take Slaíne and flee in the opposite direction of the seer, Aidan decided that he was simply too fatigued to run very far very fast. Besides, he reasoned with himself, it would be good to know what Lord Dewhurst was doing and where he was at the moment. If anyone could answer that, it would be his slave. And a seer. Convenient. He only hoped that he would not be drawn into another trap. “Fool me once,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

He shook her question off. “Come on.” They followed the woman out into the middle of the square, where she was looking at some frost-bitten rosebuds.

“Ah, what a shame. Some young things aren’t meant to last, are they?”

Aidan wondered if she was perhaps using a metaphor. He hated metaphors. They made him think of his uncle.

The woman startled Aidan out of his darker thoughts by gasping. “But look at this. One bud looks like it’s going to make it.” She prodded the red tissue with her dry fingers. “Yes. Very lovely. This one will bloom into something beautiful.” She looked once at Slaíne, then threw a wink in Aidan’s direction.

The wink, whatever it meant, was missed entirely by the girl, who was frowning at the bush. “Never really liked flowers. They never last. An’ they only look pretty. They’re feisty buggers, certainly.”

“Everyone has their thorns, young miss. Even you, I reckon.”

That caused Slaíne to look up with a frown. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Not here, not here. We’ll go to that inn that beautiful young woman recommended to Mr. Powell. What do you think?”

Aidan was only half-listening; he was busy feeling for Pulls. What if this town was full of iron? Maybe his enemies were in hiding, their Pulls disguised by the repulsive metal.

“Mr. Powell, I said why don’t we get indoors? It’s not safe being outside at nighttime. We’d be ambushed by robbers, you mark my word.”

“Not with you on our side, I am sure,” Aidan added dryly.

That made the old woman laugh. “Enough of this gabbing. There is work to be done.”

Though he knew he couldn’t trust her, Aidan followed, now searching for empty places, the repulsion of iron. Yet as they walked and he felt, he found nothing. Only Pulls. Pulls from buildings, the steady anchors that were not strong enough to hold him in place. Pulls from smaller things, such as supplies and furniture inside the buildings. And there were, of course, Pulls from people, the only real anchors that he would have to let go of if he needed to Dismiss himself.

He walked past all of these, feeling his way without seeing much. Aidan could’ve closed his eyes if he wished, but it was dangerous relying on the feeling of Pulls; he’d tried it as a younger man, walking with his eyes closed. He had wound up walking straight into a giant puddle that turned out to be quicksand. It was Isaac the beggar – now Isaac the Roma, Aidan recalled – who had helped him out of that mess.

The memory of Isaac made him think of the Goblet that he’d held in his possession for a brief moment. The man had said that he’d liberated the magical vessel from Aidan’s uncle. Isaac could not have known what it was; otherwise he wouldn’t have parted with it so casually. But why give it to Aidan? It was magical, true, and so was Aidan. He hadn’t realized that the thought had been bothering him since their encounter with the elves. He hadn’t had time to think. Too much had happened between then and now.

“Is this our stop? Mr. Aidan?” Slaíne was staring at him funny. “Your shoulder hurtin’ again?”

“Hmm?” It was then that he realized he’d been rubbing the spot where the nymph’s blade had pierced him.

The seer gave him a look that Aidan didn’t know what to make of, and ushered them inside the inn he’d been directed to. The woman wasted no time in ordering a private room, a full supper, and a round of something strong to drink – “Not too strong, mind” – and managed the small staff something dreadful.

Slaíne looked at him and smirked. “Must be used to gettin’ her own way.”

Aidan