The Queen Is Dead (The Immortal Empire) (3 page)

I closed the door, armed the alarm and went back to the bar. This time I poured something a mite stronger than tea. My hea
rt was heavy but my eyes were blessedly dry.

There are only a handful of ways for humans to access the underside–one of them being the Metropolitan train service, the Met for short. There were barriers set up at the end of the platforms to discourage anyone who might think to follow the tracks into the dark. Of course, there was always the odd human who thought jumping the barriers was a sound idea. The lucky ones made it back to the lit areas, or maybe the surface, screaming. The unlucky ones didn’t make it out at all. I’ve heard people talk about hearing blood-curdling screams while waiting for their train.

There’s more beneath London than old train lines, catacombs, plague pits and tunnels. It’s not so much the long-forgotten rooms and caverns that a body need worry about; it’s the things living in them. I once heard that there’s a species of mosquito that is found only in the dank dark beneath my fair city. Some stupid sod actually risked his fool life to go beneath and find the bloody thing.

If you willingly wander into goblin territory, you’re considered fair game.

Since I was no longer RG, I was unable to come and go as I pleased in the walled neighbourhood of Mayfair, where the main entrance to the goblin–or “plague”–den was located. You either had to be a resident of the community, a registered visitor, or an employee of one of the three agencies given permission to enter–the Royal Guard, the Peerage Protectorate, and Special Branch. I was none of those things.

So I had to be a bit more creative in regard to gaining entry. I slipped goggles over my eyes and roared across town on my Butler motorrad, weaving in and out of traffic that thinned as I approached the West End. Not as many motor carriages where I was going. A lot of aristos preferred horse and carriage to anything with an engine. I thought it archaic, but my opinion didn’t matter. Thank God Vex shared my sentiment.

He should be back soon, my alpha wolf boyfriend, but for now I was on my own in finding out not only which vamp paidsed my rat-killer, but just what Val was up to that was so important he hadn’t told Avery or Penny.

I didn’t want to go to the goblin prince. Every favour I asked dug me deeper into their culture, made it harder for me to put off accepting their crown. Part of me fought being a monster while another relished the opportunity. The part that wanted it frightened me, if I was truthful.

And if I became their queen, I would have to finally admit to being one of them. It was one thing for me to say I was a goblin; it was quite another to embrace it. No denying being a monster then.

I drove past Green Park on the A4, skirting my old neighbourhood of the Wellington district and the barbed gates of
Buck House–as the palace was sometimes called by old-timer aristos. One benefit to avoiding the Mayfair gates was that there’d be no record of my visit, and Queen V wouldn’t know I’d been round. A decided disadvantage was trying to find a place to park. This area really came to life at dusk.

I found a place to stash the Butler not far from Hyde Park Corner. I checked for traffic and sprinted across the street, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Routemaster omnibus. Then I jogged down the stairs to the entrance of the Met station.

Most of the residents of this part of town didn’t use the train, but the station was still fairly busy. Many humans and halvies worked in the West End in establishments that catered to aristos. Recently I’d learned that humans, like goblins, weren’t quite as evil as I’d been taught. Still, they had tried to overthrow the aristocracy in 1932, and laid waste to much of Mayfair and its inhabitants. I’d been attacked by humans several times in the course of my life. That fear and prejudice was hard to put aside.

Hopefully the humans would never find out that we were as scared of them as they were of us, “we” being those of plagued blood.

A few of those waiting on the platform glanced in my direction, but halvies and aristos were a regular sight here, and I looked just like any other halvie. I had my lonsdaelite dagger sheathed in my corset and a pistol holstered in my bustle just in case someone decided to make a closer inspection of my person. The RGs had taken my Bulldog away from me after giving me the boot, so now I carried a smaller weapon–a pearl-handled revolver that fired bullets that fragmented inside their target, scattering shards of silver. It was almost as
effective against aristos as it was against humans, which was why I carried it.

Across the tracks, pasted on the tiles, was a faded poster, the original slogan of which had been altered to read:
KEEP CALM AND PRAY FOR DAWN
. It was from after the Great Insurrection, when security protocols had first been implemented underside. Now, it was a reminder of just what humans thought of us.

The platform beneath my feet–scuffed and worn despite an attempt to keep it polished–vibrated as the rumbling down the track grew louder. A warm breeze brushed my cheek, filling my nostrils with the smell of hot metal, dirt and grease as the train pulled into the station. It dulled the scent of human that seemed to forever linger, teasingly, on the air.

I eyed the UV cannons set up at either end of the platform warily. If someone decided to smash the glass case and turn the light from one of those on me, how long would I last? I could still go out in the sun like I always could, but I was more sensitive to it than before, and these cannons were heavy-duty shit. They were most effective against “normal” goblins and aristos. I’d never seen one used, and hopefully I never would. They were there to give the human beve the s a feeling of safety, but if someone were to go for the glass right now, I’d have their throat out before the last shards hit the ground.

The train doors opened–bodies out, bodies in. I stepped closer to the edge as a disembodied voice warned passengers to mind the gap between carriage and platform. A few people glanced at me, curious as to why I wasn’t joining them, but they soon lost interest.

The train began to move and I tensed, waiting. My weight shifted to the balls of my feet, heart pounding out a count-down.
As the end of the long, wood-panelled train sped past, I reached out and jumped.

My fingers closed around the bars and my boots landed on the ledge. Clinging to the back of the carriage, I whipped past the rest of the platform, into the semi-darkness of the next tunnel.

I wasn’t on for long. As soon as I caught a glimpse of the ruin that used to be Down Street station, I leaned my body out, and when I spied the platform a track-width away, I leaped.

One brilliant bit about being a goblin was the reflexes, not to mention increased speed and grace. One second I was hanging off the back of a train, and the next I’d landed in a crouch on the dusty, debris-strewn platform of a station closed for eighty years.

Down Street had many names, depending on whether you were goblin, aristo, halvie or human. To some, its crumbling cream and maroon tiles and grimy platform were a monument to the duplicity of humans. To others, it was a giant tomb. To the goblins, it was home.

Some brave–or stupid–human crew had come down here after the Insurrection in the hope of clearing out the dead, but only a handful of bodies were recovered–the rest had been dragged even deeper below the city, into the plague den.

Halvies had been sent down to board the station up, but not before a treaty of some kind was in place to make sure they didn’t suffer the same fate the humans had.

Despite the stories, the warnings and the precautions, there were always a stupid few who thought they were too cool to be goblin chow and risked sneaking in.

There weren’t any lights here–the amount of dusty glass fragments that littered the platform, some cupped in the bones of a human hand, provided ample explanation. New bulbs were immediately broken. This was goblin territory, and light was not welcome. As it was, the ambient light from both the Hyde Park Corner and Dover Street stations would be hard on the average gob’s sensitive eyes.

I was the exception, because I hadn’t spent my life underground. However, I could see very well in the dark.
Very
well.

I followed the tracks for a little bit–maybe twenty or thirty feet–until I came to the hole in the wall that was the entrance to the den. Unlike my first visit, I didn’t proceed with caution. I slipped through the hole and jogged down the rough-hewn stairs, deeper into under-London. Frescoes painted in blood decorated the walls, but I didn’t stop to admire their macabre beauty. I heard the sound of music and I walked towards it, heart hammering even though I had no reason to be afraid. Old habits and all that.

The goblin den was a maze of crypts and tunnels and ruins running beneath the city, with this location at its heart. The entire underground was their kingdom, and all the treasures that came with it, such as Roman gold, and artefacts from the time before this city had a name.

I entered the great hall. Two goblins were playing piano and cello for the entertainment of what appeared to be the entire plague–give or take. Fortunately for London, goblins were few in number and had a low birth rate even for aristos. Unfortunately, one goblin was more than a match for two aristos–except maybe for a few of Vex’s wolves–four halvies or a dozen humans.

The moment the performers spied me, the music ceased.
They fell to all fours, dropping their heads in supplication. The audience turned and did the same. It was like being bowed to by a very large pack of mangy dogs wearing accessories.

A few of them, I noticed, did not bow. In fact they didn’t look very impressed by me at all.

“Xandra lady,” came a low, familiar rasp. Goblin voices always sounded like they were on the verge of a growl.

I smiled as the prince approached me. He was tall for a goblin–about my height–and he wore a leather patch over one amber eye. He also wore a shabby dark blue Chinese silk jacket with a hole in the shoulder seam and frayed cuffs. Probably not many tailors that catered to gobs in the city.

The prince sketched a bow, and I let him, because this sort of behaviour meant something to him. Once he’d straightened, I asked the others to rise as well. It gave me the creeps to see them like that.

“Your prince hoped you might come,” he said, taking my hand in his more paw-like one. It didn’t bother me any more. In fact, it felt comforting. Other than Vex, I’d been sadly lacking in physical contact.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been down for a bit. I’m…” I didn’t want to lie to him. “I’m still trying to sort things out.”

He nodded sagely. “Big changes require little steps, yes.” He escorted me towards the only chairs in the room. One was his throne and the other was mine, and they were both made of bone. Human bone. Although that fanged skull on the top of mine was certainly not human. I swallowed.

It was Church. I just knew it.

For a moment, I thought I might cast up my accounts all over the toes of my boots, but then came a flash of Dede, in my arms, dying from a gunshot wound inflicted by that bastard.

I sat down. The velvet cushioning on the seat and back made the throne surprisingly comfortable. I could get used to it.

And there was the rub. I wasn’t sure about being the goblin queen, but the idea of being any other sort of queen was freaking brilliant.

“What brings the lady underside?” asked the prince, gesturing for the music to resume.

“My brother, Val. He’s on a case and my sister can’t find him. I thought maybe you might know what he’s up to.” It seemed like an odd question, but goblins appeared to know everything that happened in London.

Furry brows drew together. “Many you love get lost, my lady.”

“The story of my life,” I replied lightly. Were that it was actually a joke.

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet. Goblins normally went about barefoot, as they had fur and tough leathery pads to prevent injury. The prince, however, sometimes wore boots. Tonight he was sporting a pair of highly polished but well-worn hessians.

“I’m sorry; am I interrupting something?” If incredulity had a taste, my tongue would be dripping with it. Music and entertainment happened all the time down here. Didn’t it? n’t iont>

He ran a paw down one lapel–an oddly self-conscious gesture. “Dress accordingly, do gentlemen of rank.” His gaze flitted away from mine, and I followed it to another familiar gob face. It was Elsbeth, a female goblin I’d met during the mess with Dede.