Kiss of the Goblin Prince (19 page)

He looked at Fane and saw a warning of what his future would be like if he didn’t overcome his hate of Claudius. He would carry that with him. The weight of every year he lived pressed down and made breathing difficult. But knowing what he needed to address and being able to move on were two different things, otherwise he would’ve done it years ago.

“I can’t force you to do anything.” He gave the threads in the kid’s body a pluck to see if they would unravel with some help, but they were stuck fast. He couldn’t remove the red noose, or the Shadowlands threads, without unraveling the boy’s life. Whatever was wrong with him he had to fix himself, much like when Roan was cursed. He would do more harm than good by interfering with magic, but that didn’t stop him from offering advice.

“Only you can make the right choice. But if you don’t go to the police, you’ll find no peace. They’ll keep looking for you.” Dai didn’t add that until he faced the effect of the curse it would be bound to him. This kid would have no understanding of any of his previous lives.

“You gonna call them?” Was Flynn looking at him hopefully?

He could, but it would change nothing. He couldn’t unravel the mess Fane had made centuries ago. He wished he’d paid more attention, or done something back then. Maybe Fane would have faded, but the curse would’ve been completed and in death he would’ve been free. Instead he was stuck in limbo. The curse may have broken, but the damage lingered.

What did that mean for Anfri, Brac, and Meryn? Anfri and Meryn had given in and Brac had chosen to go down fighting. Would they be free of it or haunted by it in their next life? What damage was done to them that had to be undone? He had no way of knowing. Only that Roan and he had been lucky, very lucky. If they had taken their lives as they planned, they would’ve been forced to face the consequences of dodging the curse in the next life.

Dai shook his head. “You have to help yourself, Flynn.”

“You came ‘round to tell me that?”

“And to leave Amanda alone. Stay away from her house.” He gave the kid a friendly smile, and forced out the words. “Any chance I can have her ring back?”

“I can’t give it to you.”

“Trade?”

“Nah, can’t.” Flynn pulled his hood up. “I’ll be seein’ you, Amanda’s friend.”

“Dai.”

The kid stared at him for a moment too long. Did he recognize him? For a moment Dai saw the young warrior, a man old enough to swear rebellion, and then he was gone. Replaced by an uncertain kid who didn’t understand why he wanted gold more than life. Then Flynn turned and slipped out the back door and into the night.

Dai locked the door and stared out into the dark yard. Around his pale reflection was black, like an extra shadow. His chest ached as if the claws were sliding over bone and rubbing them raw. He pressed his hand to his chest where the talons should poke through, but it didn’t ease the pain.

The idea of having to repeat the life lessons made him sick. Despite all the knowledge he’d accumulated over the centuries, he had no idea how to break free and no idea how to help Fane. His forehead touched the cool glass. He didn’t want to carry his past through to his next life, yet at the same time, letting go didn’t feel right. He hated the four years he’d spent as a slave. He hated the fear, and the loathing that Claudius had created. He still hated Claudius. Forgiving him was like granting a mass murderer parole for good behavior. He closed his eyes. He knew he had to do something or he would be trapped like Fane, forever damned to repeat until he learned and changed the outcome.

***

Before the goblin could raise his horn, and summon help from the rest of his troop, an arrow pierced his throat. The goblin wrenched it out and removed a chunk of flesh at the same time. He had a moment to stare wide-eyed at the gore before he collapsed, his black blood staining the gray dirt.

Meryn crept over to the corpse with his eyes on the horizon, searching for other goblins. Goblins never traveled alone; there would be other scouts. He closed the goblin’s eyelids, then paused. The scar on the gray face was familiar, slashing down the cheek in a puckered line. His finger traced the scar. He knew this goblin. He’d made that scar in a fight. This goblin was a scout for the troop he’d been in before he’d turned human. Was his troop searching for him? Or was it an accidental run-in? He couldn’t be sure there had been recognition in the bright yellow orbs of the goblin’s eyes. Definitely shock. Had his life meant so little to the troop that he was already forgotten by his comrades?

With a numb heart, he stripped the body. He’d never mourned the loss of a goblin before and he couldn’t start. Goblins didn’t feel loss. He had too much feeling. Like the surface of his skin had been removed and had left him raw and unhealed. His gray skin protected him from hurt like armor. Without it, he was naked and vulnerable.

Pink in a land of gray. Human in a land of goblins.

And he needed the supplies. He could use the goblin’s knife to make more arrowheads from the bones he found. He pulled the muck off his arrow and wiped it clean and checked it for damage. He grunted in satisfaction. He could re-use it. It was hard to find straight limbs on the twisted trees. A bowl made out of a bleached, white skull hung from the scout’s belt. It fitted neatly into the palm of his hand. He frowned. It was a child’s skull. He’d never seen a child in the Shadowlands.

How did he know what children were? Yet he knew. They were little people, little humans yet to grow up. His heart constricted in a loss he couldn’t define. There was no such thing as little goblins. The frown deepened. If humans made little humans, where did goblins come from?

He didn’t know the answer. And he didn’t like the thought that followed. If he couldn’t have been born goblin…had he once been human? His heart lurched against his ribs and the screaming in his head grew louder.

No. He couldn’t give in to such wonderings.

He snapped the string attaching the skull bowl to the goblin’s belt. He needed it more than the scout. He needed anything he could get his hands on since he no longer had the protection of being in a troop. A lone goblin was a dead goblin. Meryn tossed the skull onto the pile of clothes and weapons. He would go through the haul later when he’d run as far as he could.

Lastly he took the scout’s pouch of gold. There wasn’t much there. Not enough to give the Goblin King in payment for getting his gray skin back. He shook his head. He was prepared to give away gold to become goblin again. That didn’t make any sense; he should be doing everything in his power to get more gold. He blinked and looked at the few coins. The gold shone but didn’t beckon. It didn’t fill him with the joy and a desire for more. He didn’t want the gold. What kind of goblin didn’t lust for gold? The need that had filled him, warmed him, and kept him alive was gone. It was replaced by the knowledge of what he’d done to get gold. Fighting, killing, stealing.

All were activities he’d enjoyed at the time. He was good at fighting. The best warrior in the troop. He could’ve become a king, each goblin troop had their own, but he didn’t want that responsibility. He’d been happy keeping his troop safe, and making sure they won any battle they started. None of the others could think far enough ahead to run a campaign, but they followed orders well enough—until they saw gold. His shoulders sagged as a heavy sense of failure settled around him; he’d never been a good goblin. A good goblin would have fought and killed to become king and seize control.

He set his jaw and slammed the emotion away. Goblins didn’t have emotions. They had greed. Meryn snarled. He had to act goblin, even if he didn’t look like one, or he wouldn’t survive the Shadowlands. He hefted the bundle over his shoulder and ran. The next goblin he came across would meet the same fate. And the next one. And the one after that. He would kill them all if it meant he could lose the human heart that pounded in his once-still chest, and feel nothing.

Chapter 11

“Hope I’m not late.” All eyes turned at Dai’s silent entrance.

He was getting better at traveling. His accuracy was improving along with the distance he could cover. But translocation was a small trick compared to what he needed to fix Flynn. He risked a glance at Amanda. He’d been tempted to try and find the boy again that day and tell him the truth about the curse. But would that help or make it worse? He didn’t want to cause more damage to an already unstable kid. Without his books he was guessing.

Bloody Birch.

“Not at all. Besides, we couldn’t start without the guest of honor.” Eliza handed him a glass of wine. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip of wine but knew he wouldn’t be drinking much—not if he wanted to get home without giving himself a migraine.

His brother slapped him on the back. “It’s good to have birthdays again.”

Roan’s voice was low enough that the others didn’t hear. Roan would have to wait another six months before he got to celebrate a human birthday again. He was doing everything in his power to be human and belong, and that meant dragging Dai along for the ride. How much of this was Roan doing for himself as a reminder that they were free? And how much was to celebrate Dai being another year older? Like he needed reminding.

“We’ve had too many,” Dai said with a smile for the benefit of those watching their conversation.

Knowing too much about someone didn’t always bring them closer. A little distance was a good thing. A man was entitled to secrets, but since becoming human, Dai was itching to shed the heavy cloak he’d worn for so long. He glanced at the people in the room. Eliza, who knew more than enough about goblins, Roan, who wouldn’t be able to stomach any further revelations, Amanda, who he didn’t want to know anything about his past in case she stopped looking at him like she was waiting for a chance to get him alone, and Brigit, who looked too much like his murdered sister for him to feel truly comfortable in her presence.

He couldn’t tell any of them. He would have to keep his silence the way he always had. Be more like Roan, and act like it never happened.

Roan handed him a small package wrapped in gold paper. Not that long ago they would have been fighting over the paper simply because of its color.

“I’ve had it for a while.” Roan’s words were weighted. A while, meaning decades or longer.

Dai carefully opened up the present. A real gift. On his birthday. His throat closed as he looked at the book.
A
Christmas
Carol
by Charles Dickens. An old copy, but unused. The pages were crisp and the spine unbent. He opened the cover. The pages smelled of ink and glue. He scanned the inside cover; the book was a first edition. And it had been signed, by Mr. Dickens, but it was addressed to Dai. The book had been in the Shadowlands since it was signed.

“How did you get this?” It was a gift Roan had prepared for when they were free, or maybe for their death. Either way Roan had put more thought into this one gift than anyone had ever bothered over his whole life.

“A friend owed me a favor.”

And it was a story for another time. His brother still had his own secrets. “Thank you.”

“Me next!” Brigit rushed forward with a scroll trussed up in multiple ribbons. “Open it.”

Dai dutifully untied each ribbon while Brigit hovered. He unrolled it with a flourish that would make a town crier proud and revealed his gift to everyone. It was a picture of a fairy prince, complete with wings, crown, and wand. The only fairies he knew were the ones best avoided unless he was willing to bargain with his soul. His had been spoken for by the curse, so the fairies weren’t interested in helping or hindering his search for a cure.

“It’s lovely. I’ll stick it to the fridge.” In the same way Eliza had kiddie pictures stuck to hers. That seemed to be the way these gifts were displayed.

Brigit beamed and fished out a much smaller present from her little handbag and handed it to him. He unfolded the paper, aware Amanda was watching every move he made. He lifted his gaze and gave her a small smile, which she returned, her eyes wide as if he’d caught her off guard. He didn’t need his magical sight to feel the threads of attraction thickening between them. He promised himself he wasn’t going to fight it; he was going to see what happened. Claudius was dead, so indulging in a little desire wouldn’t get him killed no matter how unnatural it felt, or how many memories tried to spoil it.

He glanced back at the present. Tucked inside the paper was a tiny sun with a smiley face. He frowned, not sure what it was.

“It’s a magnet so you can stick the picture up.” Brigit took the magnet and drawing and stuck them to Eliza’s fridge to prove the point.

“Excellent.” This was obviously how people accumulated stuff in the Fixed Realm; they were given it for their birthdays. And it beat the hell out of stealing.

Amanda stepped forward and handed him a chunky parcel that felt like a book. “I took a guess. I hope you like it.”

Their fingers touched for half a second, but the contact shimmered over his skin like a wave of heat. The look in her eyes was one he wouldn’t forget, naked desire. One of them had to make the next move…it should be him. But he was enjoying the slow dance; there was no risk of failure, only the promise of what could be.

“
Viking
Gold
.” A golden dragon longship, decorated the cover. For a moment, all he could do was stare. The last longship he’d seen was Brac’s funeral pyre. Of all the books she could’ve bought, she picked one too close to truth.