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

as she always did, making certain he didn’t squirrel away any scraps of food anywhere. When he finished, she took the tray, and he thanked her as was his habit.

The maid paused on her way back to the steps, and for the first time, he heard her speak. “You know,” she said, “you’re the only one in this household that thanks me for anything. Why?”

Aidan didn’t answer, but shrugged.

She laughed but grew silent and thoughtful a moment before speaking again. “I could get whipped for this, but I have a feeling you won’t tell.”

Aidan tried not to look too eager, but nodded all the same.

With a sigh, the maid crept back over and said in a lowered voice, “Not everyone here likes his lordship. You might find some allies in the village.” She made a face as she said this, probably realizing that he had no way of getting in touch with anyone outside of that room. Or perhaps she’d caught a whiff of his stink, as he’d been down there long enough without a bath to be offensive.

“Thank you,” he said again, drawing a smile from the maid.

She seemed torn for a moment, obviously weighing her words before committing them to the air. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know – and don’t you thank me again just now.” They shared a laugh, though Aidan’s was more relieved than amused. Manners had never come easy to him.

Aidan felt a human Pull pause overhead and he pointed at the ceiling and mouthed, “Listening.”

She nodded and shouted for the listener’s benefit, “And there’s more where that came from,” perhaps a bit too dramatically, before winking and then fake-storming up the stairs.

When she left, Aidan sat back, his thoughts more scattered than before.

Chapter Sixteen

Aidan was asleep when they came for him that evening. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it wasn’t a surprise, considering all his body was putting up with. The men wore masks, and the atmosphere around them was charged and excited as the first fist connected with his jaw.

Aidan rubbed where the knuckles had struck, knowing it had been a practice tap, to see how he would react. “What do you want?” he asked, rising to a sitting position as the figures retreated a few steps.

No one responded at first, but brown and blue eyes stared at him from beneath the masks, four sets, all jittery and drunk on some emotion.

“Is there a leader among you?” Aidan studied their appearances as well as their Pulls. Three Pulls belonged to Dewhurst’s soldiers, and one was a servant’s. He stared straight into those eyes and saw no wavering and no pity there. “If you’re going to beat me senseless, I’d at least like to know there’s some order behind it.”

“Y-you dare speak to us, you fey scum,” the servant, the tallest among them, demanded.

Aidan laughed without mirth. “So, that’s what Dewhurst is telling you I am?”

“Don’t contradict your master,” the same man spat.

“Are we going to do this or not?” whined one of the guards, coming at Aidan. He made to kick him, but Aidan grabbed his leg and twisted it, causing the man to fall to the ground. The first thing he had learned from his uncle: never underestimate someone who looks feeble and beaten. But he knew they would not make that mistake again.

Aidan hadn’t a moment’s respite before the others sprang at him. He was strong, but did not possess the strength of four men even when he wasn’t half-starved and bled, so they managed to pin him down.

“Oh, this is fair,” Aidan snapped. “Four against one? Cowards.”

That earned him a real punch to the eye this time. The man on his chest raised his fist again, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. “Let go, J—” The servant stopped himself from finishing the name.

Aidan grunted. “You’re not here on Dewhurst’s orders?” His eye throbbed painfully and was already starting to swell shut.

“You breathe a word of this to anyone, and we’ll kill your sweetheart.” The servant and the younger guard laughed, before the other two hissed at them to shut up. “All right, all right,” said the servant, lowering his voice as the young guard snickered. “You tell anyone, fey, or make a sound as we proceed, and your redheaded witch’ll find herself hanging.”

Before Aidan could reason with them, they started in. They beat him with fists, making sure to keep his face untouched besides the lone bruised eye, evidence of their handiwork. Aidan struggled against them in vain. But they were not long into the beating when Aidan felt a tug in his gut that had little to do with the wind being knocked out of him. Slaíne. He groaned silently. Stay with your new master. What was she thinking, risking the curse’s wrath?

His shoulder burned with icy pain before Slaíne even made it to the first step. With strength that could not be his own, he threw the four men from his prone form, and they lay scattered and bewildered. Just as quickly as the burst of power had come over him, it left.

Slaíne hadn’t paused in her approach, a frying pan brandished high. The sight would have made Aidan laugh, had she not brought it down with force on one of the men’s shoulders. There was a resounding crack, and Aidan knew she had shattered the man’s bones. “Out,” she barked over the injured man’s cries.

One stood up to her, reaching for a dirk, but his comrade put a hand on his arm and spoke to him in a low voice as another guard came to the injured servant’s aid. Without another word, the four fled up the stairs, not bothering to muffle their footsteps.

Slaíne’s wild eyes took in Aidan, and she dropped the pan but did not move, as if frightened of him. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry I could nay get here sooner.”

“How did you know anything about this?” Aidan managed to grind out. His