The Blinding Knife

Chapter 14

The only thing this place needs to make it creepier is cobwebs blowing in the wind. Kip stared into the pitch black of Lord Andross Guile’s room with something less than glee.

“You’re letting in light,” Grinwoody said. “Are you trying to kill my lord?”

“No, no, I’m-” I’m always apologizing. “I’m coming in.” He stepped forward, through several layers of heavy tapestries that blocked light from the room.

The air inside the room was stale, still, hot. It reeked of old man. And it was impossibly dark. Kip began sweating instantly.

“Come here,” a raspy voice said. It was low, gravelly, like Lord Guile hadn’t spoken all day.

Kip moved forward with little steps, sure he’d trip and disgrace himself. It was like a dragon’s den.

Something touched his face. He flinched. Not a cobweb, a feathery light touch. Kip stopped. He had somehow expected Andross Guile to be an invalid, seated in a wheeled chair perhaps, like a dark mirror of the White. But this man was standing.

The hand was firm, though with few calluses. It traced Kip’s chubby face, felt the texture of his hair, the curve of his nose, pressed his lips, went against the grain of Kip’s incipient beard. Kip winced, terribly aware of the pimples he had where his beard was coming in.

“So you’re the bastard,” Andross Guile said.

“Yes, my lord.”

Out of nowhere, something nearly tore Kip’s head off. He crashed into the wall so hard he would have broken something if it hadn’t been covered in layers of tapestries, too. He fell to the carpeted floor, his cheek burning, ears ringing.

“That was for existing. Never shame this family again.”

Kip stood unsteadily, too surprised to even be angry. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but a blow out of the darkness hadn’t been it. “My apologies for being born, my lord.”

“You have no idea.”

There was silence. The darkness was oppressive. Whatever you do, Gavin had said, don’t make him an enemy. Could it get any hotter in here?

“Get out,” Andross Guile said finally. “Get out now.”

Kip left, having the distinct feeling that he’d failed.