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

sorts of questions, but his advisers weren’t. One of them, a tall man nearest the steps, spoke up. “If she belongs to Lord Dewhurst now—” He gave an acknowledging bow to his master. “what are the terms of the curse?”

For a moment, Aidan hesitated before speaking. “I don’t know that she’s Dewhurst’s. I am almost as in the dark about the terms as you are.”

“Enough,” Dewhurst cried, breaking from his smug façade. “I need to know more about the Blest. How does this all work?”

“Milord,” said two of the advisers, their tones warning him to be careful.

Lord Dewhurst waved their concerns aside. “Why should we be talking about curses when time is pressing? I need answers, and I need them now.” He stamped his foot, making Aidan think of a petulant child.

“Milord,” said the tall adviser again, “might I have a word?”

Rage flickered across Dewhurst’s reddened face, but he consented to be led aside and talked to.

The three advisers spoke to him in low, urgent tones, but Aidan could not make out more than a word here and there.

Dewhurst was impatient, but why? The more Aidan strained to hear, the more he got the feeling that Dewhurst was terrified yet full of power-lust.

It would seem that the advisers were done talking to their master, who seemed unable to remain still for long. The four of them turned back to Aidan.

“Bring the girl down here,” Dewhurst barked at one of the guards. He took to pacing as his orders were carried out.

Aidan tried to keep his expression blank. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what they were going to do, and it would be all his fault. My fault. The mantra repeated itself in his mind. Hadn’t he already done enough damage? Slaíne, just collateral damage. Aidan felt sick, but he didn’t know what else he could have done.

He observed Slaíne’s Pull as someone carried her down the stairs. There was no decrease in the Pull’s strength, though it had definitely gained a different quality. It took him a moment, but soon he picked up on what had changed: the curse’s ownership had transferred to Dewhurst. Aidan was no longer in control.

Slaíne was as limp as a ragdoll, though the occasional tremor would cause the man carrying her to nearly lose his grip and drop her. The guard lowered her to the ground at Dewhurst’s feet, and the seizures stopped, but her eyes did not open and her breathing didn’t slow.

Dewhurst observed her with disdain. “So, you’re cursed, eh?” he said to her. “Well? Speak.”

“I don’t think she can hear you,” Aidan cut in before he could strike her.

“I didn’t ask you.” Dewhurst turned and spoke in low tones to who Aidan decided must be his head adviser.

The man tugged at his salt-and-pepper beard and nodded as Dewhurst spoke. “That very well could be, milord. Excellent deduction.”

This wouldn’t do. Aidan needed to hear what they were saying and what they intended to do. Still keeping his eyes off Slaíne – he knew that one look at her could ruin his focus – Aidan tried inching closer to where the men were talking.

The adviser said something about ‘maps’ and ‘interrogate’. Dewhurst cleared his throat and countered with something that sounded like, “She can’t know,” and shuddered.

Aidan moved closer still, mindful of Pulls and appearances. No one was paying him much mind, which was a relief and at the same time suspicious; perhaps they did not view him as a threat.

As if in response to Aidan’s unspoken thoughts, Dewhurst looked right at him and smirked. His advisers left the room with a look at their master, and Aidan was left alone with Dewhurst and two of the guards.

“Let’s not play these games, Ingledark.” He snapped his fingers, and one of his guards brought over a stool, which he flopped down on with an ominous groan. “You took something of mine which is valuable beyond measure, and I would like it back. If you don’t give it back, well, there’s no saying what I will do to your traveling companion.” He laughed at the last two words, as if to imply there was something more to her than that.

Aidan affected a bored expression. “Not one for originality, as always.”

Dewhurst snorted. “We checked your person, and you’re obviously not carrying the household’s treasury of papers and oilskins. You sent them away. Bring them back. Now.” Dewhurst drew an iron dagger from the sheath at his ankle and handed it to one of the guards.

The guard gave his master a confused look for a moment, but realization dawned on him as Dewhurst gestured to Slaíne’s prone form. She looked so helpless and pale lying there. They could do anything to her, and he would be powerless to stop them…unless he played his cards very carefully.

“Enough with the dramatics, Dewhurst. Here are your papers. Now, be a good tyrant and tell your man to stand down.” With a blink, Aidan released all the papers and oilskins that he’d been keeping in Nothingness, being careful not to Summon anything else. He felt the silver sword’s comforting presence in his stores, and it gave him some reassurance that they were not entirely at this man’s mercy.

Apparently Dewhurst had thought Aidan would need more persuasion than that, as he blinked with surprise and let out a low, “Oh.”

The man with the iron dagger awaited Dewhurst’s directions, the blade raised.

Dewhurst snapped his fingers twice, and the man stood down, lowering the weapon. “Well, we’ll see if everything is in order. You, Philip, or whatever it is your mother calls you.”

“Milord?”

“Take these papers upstairs and have Rumpolt and Stearns sort through them. Tell them to pay particular attention to the oilskins, and I don’t want to see any forgeries. Everything will need to be checked for accuracy.”

“Yes, milord.” And with that, the guard began scooping up mounds of paper and dividing them into piles he could carry.

Dewhurst paid the guard no mind, his attention still on Aidan. Despite having all of his dratted