Aidan was struck again. Stars swam before his eyes, and he let out a small involuntary groan.
“Tell me why I don’t have your abilities.” Dewhurst’s agitation was showing, a weakness that Aidan could exploit if only he could think through the pain and the alcohol.
When his vision cleared, Aidan was silent, trying to gain whatever control he could over the situation. But when Dewhurst flew at him a third time, he blurted out in frustration, “How on earth am I supposed to know?”
Dewhurst lowered his hand and studied Aidan. When he spoke, his voice was distant, as if he were thinking out loud and not actually speaking to his prisoner. “I was certain it had to be in your blood, and it is…just not as potent. You drank from a Goblet Immortal, the magic flows through your veins. What was she not telling me?”
She? Could the madman mean Larkin? Aidan thought it was likely, but if so, perhaps the seer had been forced to tell. He shuddered. What of her own abilities? Did Dewhurst not know what Larkin was?
“Perhaps I just need more practice,” Dewhurst was saying. With that, he reached out his hand again and Pulled Aidan’s cravat, which gave a weak tug and then lay still. With a gasp for breath, Dewhurst set his jaw and gave it another go. This time, the cravat obeyed Dewhurst to a greater degree, though it was not what the lord must have wanted. He gave out another great gasp for air and reached out until he grew red in the face. This time, the cravat listened to the enemy’s Calling, and choked Aidan until he could not draw breath.
Gray and black spots hazed Aidan’s vision until, with much huffing and puffing, Dewhurst Released the fabric. “Well.”
Aidan coughed and gagged. It felt like an invisible hand remained at his throat, a phantom presence that reminded Aidan that Dewhurst could and probably would do it again. He braced himself, ready to hold his breath in case he needed to pass out.
However, Dewhurst didn’t seem to be recovering from his gasping and panting. “That was impossible,” he sputtered. “Is it like that every time?”
Aidan did not know what he meant. Pulling, Pushing, Calling, Dismissing, Summoning, Releasing…it had no physical repercussions for Aidan. Perhaps each of the Blest has a different price to pay for their abilities. Yet as Dewhurst recovered, and Aidan thought on the matter more, the more it seemed that it might just be Dewhurst over-thinking things and putting too much physical strength into his process. Never in a million years of torture would Aidan ever advise the brute on this, lest he become more powerful. A shudder rippled through Aidan’s body, and he coughed several dry coughs.
Red in the face and trembling, Dewhurst approached Aidan again. He looked years older than he had moments before, sweat dribbling down his brow and cheeks. The man reeked of perspiration.
Aidan knew he was missing something vital, something that had to do with his blood. While Dewhurst had been choking him, Aidan hadn’t thought of fighting back. Why was that? He could have easily Dismissed the cravat and stopped the man. But a part of him had been focusing on what he imagined Dewhurst was thinking.
“You will tell me more later.” And with that, the man’s Pull retreated up the stairs.
Aidan closed his eyes and let himself drowse as the alcohol and fatigue at last won out.
Chapter Fifteen
As always, he’d gone fishing by the creek without permission. That is what happened in past reality and in his recurring dreams; and like in both reality and his dreams, Aidan made his way home after the screams had been taken up and gone at once silent. This is where the dream split off from reality. Instead of returning to find the barn ablaze and his uncle staring at it with a lost look, the old man was now smiling a sad yet sympathetic smile. He looked right through Aidan, to his very soul. “They’re dead, Aidan.” It wasn’t his uncle’s voice that spoke, though.
The voice was all at once familiar and alien. It sounded like…almost like his own. But the dream moved on and was again like the usual one he experienced. He ran into the barn, which should have collapsed on his head, but instead burst upward and outward as he experienced the Jolt. He could not control his powers for the first week he had them, and had slept in the woods for fear of discovery. As it was, his uncle had thought the barn’s explosion had been due to the fertilizer the family always kept stored in mounds. Aidan had run out of there before he could find out the truth that he, Aidan, was a freak and possibly a murderer.
His dream feet carried him down to the creek, where rocks pelted his arms and legs. He could not control their Pulls, and soon collapsed, sobbing for his mother, whom he believed he had blown up in the barn explosion. Everything tugged him in distinctly different directions. There were Pulls from humans, which only took him half a day to figure out, and there were Pulls from nature and animals. The inanimate Pulls, he realized on the second day of hiding, were the weakest, and without meaning to, he ended up Dismissing half of the rocks on the mucky banks.
When he did return home, he was bruised and filthy, and his uncle had already established himself as head of the household. Dewhurst had been appointed lord of the land, and Aidan was nothing to anyone. He didn’t speak for weeks at a time, and eventually he realized his uncle’s true colors.
In the dream, his uncle looked down at Aidan, who swept the floors, his arms bone-tired from the day’s labor. Again the voice that was not his uncle’s spoke through the man’s body: “Let them go, Aidan. They’re dead.”
Aidan awoke from the dream. He was alone, sore, and hungover, but he was no longer chained to the iron slab. Now he lay on a makeshift mattress on the floor, his ankles in irons, but his hands were free. “Odd,” he muttered, then leaned over and threw up all over the floor. Again and again he retched until there was nothing left in his stomach, so he gagged for a solid five minutes.
Closing his eyes, Aidan lay back down on the mat. His head throbbed and he felt as though someone were clutching him by the throat; other than that, he seemed to be in all right shape…until he felt the throbbing in his right arm. Dewhurst had bled Aidan from his left arm, but now the right one was bandaged as well. I must have been out harder and longer than I first thought.
Slaíne’s Pull gave him a small jerk. It was on the move, and it was farther away than he knew it should be. The curse would surely take her. With a weak cry of panic, Aidan stumbled to his feet. It did no good. Before he could open his mouth to shout her name, he attempted to Call her. It worked for a moment. He felt her skid closer to where he was kept prisoner, but the iron was interfering, and he realized he might have given away a secret: that he could Call another living being. No doubt Dewhurst would be interested in learning how to do this. Aidan had no idea how he’d done it. Before Slaíne, he’d never managed to Call another living soul.
He was about to shout for her again, but it occurred to him that perhaps the curse had transferred ownership to Dewhurst. If that were the case, it created a whole array of new problems.
The Pull moved away, and the iron all but entirely muted her presence from his awareness. Bereft, Aidan let out a strangled gasp. He was alone. He’d never been so empty and alone in his life. There were human Pulls moving about overhead, but they were insubstantial, featherweights in comparison. Aidan was gutted. Unbidden tears formed in his eyes, and he fought them in vain for a brief moment before letting them spill.
While he cried, he thought about his next move, his dream from earlier forgotten for the time being. How was he to get out of this mess? “Not through weeping like a child,” he muttered as he rubbed the tears away with the backs of his hands. Once more he sniffed, and then he concentrated on Pulls.
The Pulls around him were nothing: the blankets, the straw, the pillow, a candle, and much to Aidan’s surprise, a plate of food and a chalice full of water. He cringed at the sight of the crust of bread and thigh of chicken. His stomach lurched, and he was afraid he would begin vomiting all over again. Aidan closed his eyes, and his nausea evaporated.
Yes, the Pulls were nothing he could do anything with. He reached beyond the repulsions from the iron, but there was nothing that could aid him, not above or below, and not in the inner workings of his bonds. Perhaps he could find something to pick the lock with, though he doubted it. Dewhurst was stupid, but his advisors were not. They would have interrogated Tristram for every detail he knew. Aidan snarled at the thought of his former friend. Tristram, the one person who knew the contents of his bag of tricks, the one who had betrayed him. The heat was not in Aidan’s anger, though, and soon he’d calmed enough to think clearly again.
Slaíne would be used as leverage, but to what extent, Aidan wasn’t sure. Dewhurst couldn’t know much of the girl’s curse, unless the girl herself had been forced to share that information. With the curse’s possible and probable transfer, she would be all right. However, if Dewhurst had an inkling of what power Slaíne’s Pull had over Aidan, it would be used. She would be killed…. No, worse things would be done, and Aidan knew that he would give in and that it didn’t have everything to do with her Pull. There was something else, something that Aidan did not wish to explore.
He would keep Slaíne out of his questions, out of his mind, and maybe there would be no need for him to give in to Dewhurst’s demands. As he thought of Dewhurst, footsteps thundered overhead, and half a dozen human Pulls approached, all bearing iron. On instinct, Aidan drew back against the wall, then forced himself to lie back down and feign unconsciousness. Perhaps he could observe Dewhurst and his men before they roused him, and thus gain some advantage.
A heavy door creaked on its hinges, and iron-tipped boots thundered down into the iron dungeon. Aidan kept his eyes lightly closed and his breathing slow and even. Yes, there were six human Pulls, one of them Dewhurst’s, which had changed since he had last sensed it. He’s frustrated, but he’s going to act triumphant. Aidan didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain that Dewhurst was going to try to trick him into believing he’d made progress with his stolen blood and the abilities they afforded him. It was all Aidan could do not to gag at the thought of his blood being drained for this wretch.
Soft words were spoken between Dewhurst and one of his men, whose clothing’s Pulls felt more expensive than a servant’s, and Dewhurst’s peculiar Pull approached him. Another moment of silence passed, and an iron boot tip tapped into his thigh.
Aidan jerked awake and glared up at Dewhurst, something he knew that the man expected of him. As predicted, Dewhurst wore a smug smile and showed no signs of discouragement. Perhaps he had made progress, and Aidan had been wishful in his thinking.
“You’ve slept long enough.” Dewhurst turned his back to Aidan and took a few steps toward the stairs. He turned again, and opened his mouth to say something haughty, when a scream was taken up overhead. Whatever Dewhurst’s plans had been, he looked rather put out. “What is this ruckus? Guard.”
One of his men stepped forward. “Yes, milord?”
“Go and see what that was about.”
The man saluted and then ran upstairs as more voices were raised in the distance.
Dewhurst turned his attention back to Aidan. “I trust that you rested well? No? Well.” He chuckled. “You’re probably wondering how long you’ve been out.”
Aidan was only half-listening. With a jerk he realized that Slaíne’s Pull had returned, and he could tell at once that something was wrong. The Pull was as strong and distracting as ever, but something was different. Confused voices shouted over each other as Dewhurst attempted to drone on. Something hit the floor above them with a sickening thud. Someone swore and called for a doctor.
At last Dewhurst gave up all pretenses and called to one of his advisors, “Find out what the devil is going on and report back.”
The man nodded and ran up the stairs himself.
Aidan could no longer contain himself. He had to know, precautions be hanged. “You do realize,” he began, his tone frosty, “that my traveling companion is cursed.”
Dewhurst’s eyebrows shot heavenward for a moment, but he quickly reassembled them to carry an air of indifference. “Is that so?”
Aidan was prepared to say more, but decided against it. Why had Slaíne failed to mention this fact to Dewhurst? Was she trying to get herself killed? He no doubt had sent her on some errand about the household, far from this iron cage where they both now waited, and the curse had been called into effect. Had Slaíne even tried resisting orders? If not, why not?
Fortunately for Aidan, Dewhurst was distracted by two sets of footsteps thundering back down the stairs. “What is going on?” Dewhurst demanded.
The guard spoke before the adviser could. “That girl, she escaped her bonds and—”
“What? How? You were supposed to be escorting her to—” Dewhurst cut himself off and gave Aidan an appraising look.
The guard shifted his weight from foot to foot, before his master turned back and struck him across the face, as if he had been present for the escape attempt. Blood poured from the man’s open mouth, and he stumbled backward a step before righting himself. No one came to his aid.
“Speak up, man.”
“She tried returning inside, milord.”
Dewhurst let out a small laugh before turning back to Aidan. “Why would she do that? You mentioned a curse.”
Aidan just shrugged. He had said too much, and now it would be used against him. Why was he so stupid? He’d like to blame it on the lingering hangover and mental exhaustion from yesterday, but he would not be generous with himself. Instead, he kept his face clear of all tells and emotion and waited to see what Dewhurst would do or say next.
“Never mind, Ingledark. I shall get to the bottom of this mystery myself.”
“If you please, milord….” said the adviser.
Dewhurst looked distracted. “What? Yes, go on.”
“Captain caught her again, but before they could make much progress, she fell over and started convulsing.”
Why hadn’t Slaíne warned them? Dewhurst was her master now; he’d need to know this sort of thing in order to avoid hurting her by accident. On the other hand, if he found out, she would be used as leverage somehow. There was no winning this. He must speak. “Her curse is bound to me.”
The men stopped talking and looked over at Aidan. Dewhurst turned last, his face wrinkled with confusion and distaste. “Oh? Interesting. Did you curse her yourself?”
Aidan translated it as: “Will I be able to as well, now that I’m drinking your blood?” Aidan decided he’d better not give that impression.
“No, it was not me, it was someone else. The curse transfers from master to master.” He hated himself, but it needed to be said. He wondered what Slaíne would have wanted him to say on the matter.
Dewhurst seemed finished with those 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.
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