"GRAYSON, STOP!" Mailah cried out.
Grayson's hand was clamped onto the man's shoulder, his knuckles white. His other hand was pulled back, fingers curled into a fist that shimmered with a dark, oily light.
The man on the floor didn't look like a threat.
He was old, his hair a thin halo of white. He wore a thick, moth-eaten sweater and trousers that had seen better decades. Most notably, his eyes were clouded with the milky film of cataracts. He was entirely blind.
"Lord Ashford," the old man wheezed. He didn't sound scared. He sounded annoyed. "If you intend to crush my windpipe, please do it quickly. I have tea steeping, and it shouldn't sit for more than five minutes."
Grayson's eyes, still black and bottomless, narrowed. He didn't let go. "Who sent you? How did you bypass the wards?"
