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

He’d taken enough time. Slaíne would be getting worried. Aidan did not bother Summoning the floorboards or the rug; he might drop them by accident, thus making enough noise to draw unwanted attention. So he crept out of the room, shut the door, mindful of human Pulls, and returned to the servants’ side of the upstairs. They might have to run fast and hard, but somehow Aidan thought not. Everything was going well.

He was on the second stairway leading down when he felt human Pulls fast approaching. He could retreat back up the stairs and hide behind a curtain, but if he were caught hiding, that would for certain raise the alarm. If only he could think straight! He could not Dismiss himself, lest he risk the wrath of the curse that bound Slaíne to himself, could not Summon the silver sword lest…. It was too late. The two women were upon him. They were the servants he had seen gossiping earlier, and this time they regarded him with a wary eye.

“Whatchoo doin’ up this ’igh?”

“I got lost,” Aidan said, remembering on the second word to keep up the lower class accent.

The two women looked at each other. “Well,” said the second, smaller woman, “don’t let mistress know you was lost. She’ll think you was stealing stuff.”

Aidan shook his head. “Thank you much.” And with that reprimanding, he trotted down the remainder of the staircase, wound round the corner, and took the one returning to the kitchen. Too late did he notice the iron repelling him, marring and twisting Slaíne’s Pull. He looked up with a start.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she sobbed before Lady Dewhurst could stop her, the dagger pressing against Slaíne’s throat.

Chapter Fourteen

For one calculating moment, Aidan stood there, keenly aware that he needed to do something and fast. But his thoughts were so muddied, his mind was so tired, that the only thing he could think to do was Dismiss more. Nothing he could Dismiss, however, would do them one lick of good. Lady Dewhurst could not be Dismissed, neither could Slaíne nor the iron blade digging into her porcelain throat. He could Dismiss the chair Slaíne sat in, giving her captor a surprise that might work in his favor…if not for the blasted blade! Any surprise movement could cause the instrument to dig deeper into her flesh, causing damage that Aidan did not want to think about.

“Think carefully, Mr. Ingledark. This blade is sharp, and her skin is only so thick just there.”

He glared at the odious woman. And it occurred to him, a cruel, ugly thought: he could dash out of there right that moment, leaving Slaíne to her fate. Did he really owe her anything? Yet as soon as the idea formed in his mind, it died and vanished. He could not leave her. As an alarm was taken up by Lady Dewhurst and he remained where he stood, unflinching and unmoving, he flattered himself that it was Slaíne’s stupid Pull that rooted him to the spot. He could not be honest with himself; he would not.

As the house was surrounded with human Pulls armed with iron, and shouts were taken up, and the pig on the spit was allowed to burn and perfume the air with its acridity, something that had been wriggling loose inside Aidan gave way entirely. Whatever control he possessed over his ability was gone. Blood pounding in his head, Aidan Dismissed. Aidan Dismissed the table at which Slaíne sat, her face a blur from behind the film over his glazed eyes. The pig vanished, then rematerialized on the counter, splattering boiling hot juices and fat onto those standing too close. A scream, feral, primal filled the room. Every last piece of non-iron cutlery vanished. A dozen kitchen knives were Called, soared across the room inches from Aidan’s breast before shooting out from him and planting themselves in several different human Pulls that he could find. The scream became a roar of rage, as the Pulls lessened in vitality. Someone was openly weeping, and clarity returned at last to Aidan. The screaming ceased.

The film cleared from his eyes. Slaíne was the one crying, her eyes full of remorse and…. Goodness, she was terrified of him. And that was the last impression he had before something repulsive and hard hit him over the head. The rest was stars and darkness.

* * *

“This ain’t goin’ so well,” said a familiar voice. Aidan knew he was in the dream world because he found himself back on his former estate and the barn was whole and not an ash heap. He blinked his mind’s eye and beheld four stooped forms covered in rags. Aidan groaned.

“Not you four.”

“Least he hasn’t lost the whole of his mind.”

“Quiet, Reek,” said the elf who called herself Treevain.

“What are you doing in my head?” Aidan demanded. “How did you get here?”

The four exchanged crafty looks before the fattest one said, “We’re dead, that’s why we’re here. What is you doin’ here?”

“That question was of a rhetorical nature,” said the tall one helpfully.

Aidan sighed. “It’s my head.”

The four elves’ heads bobbed as if he were very smart and wise to have realized this obvious fact.

Shoulder prickling and cold, Aidan shook himself. He needed to wake up; something told him that he was in dire straits in the conscious realm.

Reek seemed to realize he was trying to rouse himself, because she shook her head and put her hands on his arms to keep him from jerking around. “Wait. Wait! We’ve been trying to reach yous.”

“You’ve got what is ourn!”

“Aye,” shouted two of the four.

Treevain told them to do something rather rude, and they quieted. “Do not give Meraude the Goblets, Aidan Ingledark. She’s got the Warring Goblet now and will soon try to possess more. Give her nothing she requires.”

Aidan sighed. “Why should I listen to anything you four say? You tried to kill me, for the love of all that is—”

“All’s fair when you