The Goblin King (The Kings)

by Heather Killough-Walden

  The princes became the Sidhe Kings.

  Their real names were never spoken and rarely known, as names held great power in the fae kingdom. Damon’s name was not real either. These were closely guarded secrets for their kind.

  One of the fae kings went by the name Avery now, and his brother was called Caliban. Avery ruled the Seelie court, and Caliban the Unseelie. They’d reigned over the fae kingdom from these separate thrones for thousands upon thousands of years.

  Damon had no desire to return and attempt to retake his place in the Court. He’d been betrayed once, and once was all it took for him to understand the way of his kind. However, if he had wanted to return, he was actually uncertain whether he would be able to defeat either king on his own, much less combined. Together, their power would be insurmountable.

  And it mattered not anyway.

  Damon, Avery and Caliban now occupied three seats at the table of the 13 Kings. It was important for them to band together, now perhaps more than ever. The crimes of fae past had no place in the ticking clock of present day.

  The goblins needed a sovereign to keep them in line. The two facets of the fae realm needed their kings. Things had come to be as they were most likely meant to be.

  Damon opened his eyes. No woman will want to live out eternity in this wet hell, he thought to himself. It was nearly impossible for him to imagine a queen who would be willing to give herself over to him and to the responsibility he bore. She would have to bear it too.

  Lalura Chantelle may have foreseen 13 queens on that chessboard, but Damon was dubious at best.

  He rose from the couch and slipped back on his jacket and sword sheath. Then he made his way down one of his labyrinthine hallways to the weapons room. There was enough trouble in the world at the moment without having to babysit rogue goblins. It was time to deal with the Duqar once and for all.

  He waved the room open, not even bothering with the enormous latch that governed the massive wood and metal reinforced double doors. They creaked apart, revealing the long chamber beyond.

  It was lined with weapons of all kinds. Damon’s boots echoed on the cold, hard stone as he entered and perused the incredible, deadly collection. A shield he passed reflected a tall man, broad and very handsome with thick nearly black hair and green eyes tinged with both gold and orange as if they would burst into flame at any given moment. A strong chin defined his regal profile, darkened slightly by an oncoming need for a shave. A scar ran through his upper lip, hardening his expression, turning it slightly cruel.

  Damon stopped, his gaze narrowing on the scar. It had been given to him by a goblin on his first night as king.

  Goblins were a very hard breed to kill. They had always frightened the Fae Court, not because of their size or their sharp claws or sharp teeth or immense, incredible strength but because the magic flowing through their veins made them very nearly immortal.

  It lent power to their attack, power to their defenses, healed their wounds, made them immune to the elements, strengthened their resistance to dark magic such as mind control and weakness, and worst of all, it protected them from every kind of death but one. For a goblin to die, its head must leave its body.

  The problem was it was almost impossible to take a goblin’s head.

  Damon turned away from the shield and strode to an ornately carved, highly polished long sword that hung more or less alone on hooks against the far wall. It glinted as he approached, looking wickedly sharp. He could almost hear it ping.

  With a wry smile, the Goblin King grasped the weapon by its hilt and pulled it from the wall. He didn’t have to go through so much trouble to use the sword. It would answer his mental call at any time, in any place, appearing in his hand like Thor’s hammer. But it was a sword worthy of the ceremony, and Damon had time.

  It was weighted perfectly and felt light in his grasp. He lifted the sword over his head and turned it in the moonlight shafting through a window high on the wall. It gleamed, reflecting something that wasn’t there, not in this realm.

  There was only one way to take a goblin’s head. Damon had learned that lesson the hard way and had the scars to prove it. You needed a special sword to do it. A vorpal sword, in fact: the Atrox Ferrum.

  Damon smiled grimly, sheathed the Atrox, and left the weapons room, his long stride fast with purpose.

  Chapter Two

  Diana Piper peeked surreptitiously through the glass doors and windows of the front of her office. When it was clear no one was around, she flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed,” and made her way back down the hall to the kennel in the rear.

  “I guess you’re staying with me for the night Gus,” she said as she entered the back room.

  A large yellow Labrador Retriever looked back at her with big, dark eyes. He sat on a padded table, breathing quietly. He tilted his head to one side and whined softly.

  “Well, I gave them an extra fifteen minutes,” she said sympathetically. But a noise from the front of her office drew her up short.

  Gus barked, just once.

  She looked back at him and then turned to the hall that led to the front of the office. “Stay here,” she said as she moved down the hall.

  Gus hopped down from the table and began following her.

  She stopped and turned to him. “What?” she asked reprimandingly. “I know you know what ‘stay here’ means.”

  But the dog simply gave her a long look and remained beside her.

  Diana sighed and turned back to the front office. The door was still closed, but the Open/Closed sign was swinging ever so slightly as if the door had been recently used. Which was strange, since the bell attached to the door hadn’t sounded.

  Diana frowned, her brow furrowing. She moved to the desk and perused the sign-in sheet, pen, open files, and pamphlets. The front office was relatively small, consisting only of a tall desk for receiving patients and a dozen chairs for “parents” who were coming to pick up their animal companions. The front of the office was lined with windows that had been shaded to keep out the heat of the sun. There were blinds as well. She’d forgotten to draw them.

  Just as she was moving around the desk to head for the windows, movement to her left brought her to a halt and had her spinning in her tracks.

  A very little girl stood in front of the desk, her head a good four inches shorter than the desk’s height. Her mocha colored skin was clear and healthy, her black hair fell in tight ringlets around her beautiful face and over her shoulders, and her big brown eyes were framed with the longest lashes Diana had ever seen. It made her jealous.

  The girl watched Diana with silent interest.

  “Kayla!” Diana exclaimed, more than a little surprised to find a human being in her office just then. Kayla Branson was the “almost five years old” owner of Gus the retriever, which Gus proved just then by trotting over to Kayla and nudging the back of her hand with his head.

  As he licked the tiny girl’s palm, Kayla stared up at Diana. “You fixed him,” she said.

  “Well,” said Diana cautiously, “he wasn’t very sick after all. He should be fine now; all he needed was some medicine.” Magic medicine, she added mentally.

  “Can I take him home?”

  “Absolutely. Is Nonna in the car?”

  Kayla Branson had lost both her parents in a building fire shortly after she’d been born and was now being raised by her great aunt, whom Kayla referred to as her “Nonna.” But her aunt was elderly, diabetic, and arthritic and had trouble even getting from the car to the front door of the office.

  “Yeah,” said Kayla.

  “Then I’ll help you get Gus settled. Sound good?”

  Kayla nodded, took Gus gently by his collar, and led the dog to the front door. Diana watched as the girl tried to pull the door open, but it was so heavy that she struggled. Diana took it from her and held it while they all exited the office.

  That explains the lack of a bell, thought Diana. Kayla had probably inched it open so slowly, the
bell couldn’t sound.

  The Branson car was parked right up at the front, and “Nonna” Branson was watching them both draw near, her eyes never wavering from where they rested on her niece. She rolled down her window as they came around to her side, and Diana leaned over so the woman wouldn’t have to strain.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late, Doc,” said Branson, her brown brow lined and beaded with sweat. Her features were pinched. Diana could detect the sickness around her – inside of her. She could almost feel the pain herself. It could have been a million things that had kept them from getting to the veterinary office before it had officially closed, but Diana was willing to bet that whatever it was, Branson’s sickness had played a heavy part.

  It would be so easy, Diana thought for the billionth time in her life. She could just reach over, slide her hand through the window, press it to Branson’s chest, and…. And that would be it. Either way, things would be different after that – for the both of them.

  And that was why she didn’t do it. That was why she never did it, not in public. Almost never, period. Not to humans. Humans talked, and when they did, they spoke a language other humans understood. And that was very, very dangerous.

  Animals were so much easier. While they most certainly had as much a language amongst themselves as did their bipedal “masters,” humans were too dense as of yet to understand it, so she was safe. Cat and dog rumors wouldn’t be bringing danger to her door any time soon. And helping them was at least something. It wasn’t enough most days, admittedly. The stress of knowing that she could be doing so much more, the pain of watching the world suffer around her while she possessed the means to end so much of it – little by little… it was killing her.

  She’d already lost two-thirds of her hair. It was a good thing she’d had a fair amount to begin with. The balding was only barely beginning to be noticeable now, and she wore it parted heavily to the side to hide much of it. She’d had a cortisone shot that was supposed to help too, but it hadn’t seemed to stop her from pulling a tribble out of her hair in the shower that morning.

  She’d never been good at handling stress. When she was younger, she’d put on weight because of it. Then there had been the endless stomach aches that took the weight right back off again. And now she was channeling it into her hair follicles, which just kind of chewed monkey dicks.

  “It’s no problem at all, Mrs. Branson,” Diana assured the old woman. “I’m here late most days catching up on work anyway. Gus is all set. I gave him a fast acting antibiotic, and that seemed to do the trick.”

  Mrs. Branson’s brows raised a bit. “I didn’t even know there was such a thing!”

  “Oh I’ve got all kinds of tricks up my sleeves,” Diana joked. “I’m magic.” She smiled an award-winning smile and winked. Nothing like telling the truth about something supernatural to make people not believe in it.

  Branson laughed and strained to look over the head rest at her niece in the back, who was just buckling into her child’s car seat. Gus sat beside her, patient and silent, breathing happily along as if he hadn’t been at death’s door that morning.

  What he didn’t know, what none of them knew, was that there was no medicine on Earth that could have saved him that day. If he hadn’t been brought to specifically to Diana, little Kayla Branson would be crying right now rather than kicking her feet in pleased impatience as she waited to get back home and play Skylanders with Gus sitting beside her on the couch.

  Gus was one lucky dog.

  And Kayla one lucky little girl.

  “What do I owe you, Doc?” Branson asked as she reached for her purse.

  “Not a thing, Mrs. Branson. Just promise me you’ll bring Gus back by in three weeks for a check-up and we’ll call it even.”

  Branson shook her head and unzipped her handbag, but Diana placed her hand over the old woman’s and squeezed gently. “I mean it,” she insisted. “Bring him back by.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “And get some rest yourself. Okay?”

  Mrs. Branson’s eyes met hers, and Diana could feel the woman’s spirit brush her own. After a few quiet moments, the old woman nodded and put her purse back in the passenger seat. “Thank you, angel,” she said. “You’re a good one.”

  “It’s all an act,” Diana teased, grinning broadly. She straightened and tapped the top of the car. “I’ll see you in three weeks.” She turned to Kayla, who was already waving goodbye. “Take good care of him, Kayla, and not too many treats!”

  The Branson’s drove away, leaving Doctor Diana Piper standing alone in the parking lot. She stared out after them, realizing eventually that she was the last person in the strip mall; all of the other shop owners had left for the night. Diana’s blue Toyota FJ Cruiser was the last vehicle left in the lot. It sat alone under a flickering street light.

  Diana thought of Mrs. Branson and the pain she endured every day. She thought of the people with critical diseases in hospitals who would probably die that night. She thought of the injured, the raped, the bleeding and alone in the darkness of alleys and unclean bathrooms and at the ends of hallways that had no windows.

  She closed her eyes and ran a hand through her hair.

  Long strawberry blonde strands wrapped around her fingers like the fine filaments of a spider’s web. Diana sighed softly and flicked her hand as she always did, allowing the golden strands to cascade to the ground.

  The light above her car buzzed loudly and finally popped, leaving her in darkness. Diana hugged herself, went back into the office to grab her handbag and keys, and finally locked up to go home.

  Chapter Three

  It was a decidedly uncomfortable sensation, especially given recent circumstances. Something was wrong – and Roman could not for the life of him put his finger on what it was.

  His stride was long as he made his way back to his quarters. He’d just finished speaking with Lalura, and the old witch had returned to her cottage. Roman wanted to quickly touch bases with his men and then transport to the cave and check on Evie. She’d seemed so stricken after the battle at the meeting….

  Roman stopped in his tracks as the sensation that something was amiss deepened greatly. Rather than return to his quarters to speak with the guards, he conjured up the transportation spell then and there.

  The hall warped around him, shimmering slightly as he was sent through space and time. A moment later, the world darkened and solidified around him, and he felt the cold stone beneath the leather soles of his shoes. The distant rush of the waterfall filled the massive underground space with a gentle static noise, and the trickle of the various rock-cut streams lent the cave a cozy feel. The gas lights of the wooden bridges spanning the streams flickered warmly, their combined light aided by the glow of the multi-colored moss and lichen that clung to the ceiling a hundred feet above.

  Smoke curled as usual from the cottage chimney, inviting and picturesque.

  But all was too still.

  Something is wrong.

  Roman blurred into motion, entering the cottage within nanoseconds, a cold wind following his movement.

  There was no sign of Evie. In fact, now that Roman took heed of his surroundings, noticing the steadily burning fire in the hearth, the uneaten food on the table, the steaming pot of tea that yet remained un-poured, Roman realized that he didn’t even smell her.

  And that had been what was wrong all along.

  Like all beings, Evie had a scent. It was cherry blossoms – and the sweetest blood on the planet. It was a heady scent for a vampire, dizzyingly intoxicating, and one that called to him like a siren song even as he lay in his deepest slumber.

  But at the meeting, just after the battle… there had been no scent. Evie had not only appeared empty and hollow to the eyes – she had been that way to every sense.

  He’d been fooled.

  That had not been his wife.

  A single, small piece of paper on the table rustled in a left-over breeze, drawing Roman’s attention. The breeze died down and
the fire crackled loudly. Roman moved to the table and lifted the sheet, reading the three words that had been so cruelly, so beautifully penned across it.

  Made you blink.

  *****

  Lily Kane looked up at the swirling mass of dark, terrible storm clouds and shot an uncertain glance toward her companion. “I didn’t know vampires could control the weather,” she said.

  “Normally, they can’t,” replied Dannai Caige, a practiced witch and werewolf. “Or at least, they choose not to. But remember Roman D’Angelo is also a magic user, part Akyri and part warlock.” Dannai ducked down as lightning split the sky nearby and thunder crashed hard into the earth after it. Once the cacophony rolled over and away, she added with a touch more volume, “There are spells for this kind of thing, for those strong enough to wield them.”

  “And he’s strong enough,” Lily said.

  “That’s a massive understatement,” said Dannai. “In fact, whatever D’Angelo is doing, in this case, he’s not even doing it on purpose.” She looked up as the sky boiled. “This here,” she said, “is just a reflection of his mood.”

  Dannai could tell that Lily really wanted to mutter a curse right then. If she felt anything like Dannai, her insides were freezing up and squirming around at the same time. She personally felt a little sick.

  “Evie writes about angels who can control the weather,” Lily said as she placed her hand to her throat in an unconscious gesture. “I wonder if this is where she got the idea.”

  Angels? Dannai thought. Not even close. She couldn’t help but picture a great big blood sucking demon speeding like quick silver through the dark nights of countless eons. “I’ve got news for you,” she said. “The fact that something has wings doesn’t make it an angel.”

  Roman D’Angelo was a complicated, dangerous man. He certainly looked like an angel. He sounded like an angel and even carried himself like an angel. But he was a master vampire unlike any other. He sat at the head of the table of the 13 Kings and more than possessed the power to keep that position.

  Someone had taken D’Angelo’s wife, Evelynne. Evie to her friends.