by Jaye Wells
I pushed through the crowd, moving deeper into the lair despite every instinct I possessed telling me to run. I was looking for one goblin in particular and I was not going to leave without seeing him. Besides, running would get me chased. Chased would get me eaten.
As I walked, I tried not to pay too much attention to what was going on in the shadows around me. I’d seen a lot of horrible things in my two and twenty years, but the sight of hueys—humans—gorging themselves on fruit, seeds and pulp in their hair and smeared over their dirty, naked skin, shook me. Maybe it was the fact that pomegranate flesh looked just like that—flesh—between stained teeth. Or maybe it was the wild delirium in their eyes as goblins ran greedy hands over their sticky bodies.
It was like a scene out of Christina Rossetti’s poem, but nothing so lyrical. Mothers knew to keep their children at home after dark, lest they go missing, fated to end up as goblin food—or worse, a goblin’s slave.
A sweet, earthy smoke hung heavy in the air, reminding me of decaying flowers. It brushed pleasantly against my mind, but was burned away by my metabolism before it could have any real effect. I brushed a platter of cherries, held by strong paw-like hands, aside despite the watering of my mouth. I knew they’d split between my teeth with a firm, juicy pop, spilling tart, delicious juice down my dry throat. Accepting hospitality might mean I’d be expected to pay for it later, and I wasn’t about to end up in the plague’s debt. Thankfully I quickly spotted the goblin I was looking for. He sat on a dais near the back of the hall, on a throne made entirely from human bones. If I had to guess, I’d say this is what happened to several of the humans who braved this place during the Great Insurrection. Skulls served as finials high on either side of his head. Another set formed armrests over which each of his furry hands curved.
But this goblin would have stood out without the throne, and the obvious deference with which the other freaks treated him. He was tall for a gob—probably my height when standing—and his shoulders were broad, his canine teeth large and sharp. The firelight made his fur look like warm caramel spotted with chocolate. One of his dog-like ears was torn and chewed-looking, the edges scarred. He was missing an eye as well, the thin line of the closed lid almost indistinguishable in the fur of his face. Hard to believe there was anything aristocratic about him, yet he could be the son of a duke, or even the Prince of Wales. His mother would have to be of rank as well. Did they ever wonder what had become of their monstrous child?
While thousands of humans died with every incarnation of the plague—which loves this country like a mother loves her child—aristocrats survived. Not only survived, they evolved. In England the plague-born Prometheus Protein led to vampirism, in Scotland it caused lycanthropy.
It also occasionally affected someone who wasn’t considered upper class. Historically, members of the aristocracy had never been very good at keeping it in their pants. Indiscretions with human carriers resulted in the first halvie births, and launched the careers of generations of breeding courtesans. Occasionally some seemingly normal human woman gave birth to a half or fully plagued infant. These children were often murdered by their parents, or shipped off to orphanages where they were shunned and mistreated. That was prior to 1932’s rebellion. Now, such cruelties were prevented by the Pax—Pax Yersinia, which dictated that each human donated a sample of DNA at birth. This could help prevent human carriers from intermarrying. It also provided families and special housing for unwanted plagued children.
By the time Victoria, our first fully plagued monarch—King George III had shown vampiric traits—ascended the throne, other aristocrats across Britain and Europe had revealed their true natures as well. Vampires thrived in the more temperate climes like France and Spain, weres in Russia and other eastern countries. Some places had a mix of the two, as did Asia and Australia. Those who remained in Canada and the Americas had gone on to become socialites and film stars.
But they were never safe, no matter where they were. Humans accounted for ninety-two per cent of aristocratic and halvie deaths. Haemophilia, suicide and accidents made up for the remaining eight.
There were no recorded goblin deaths at human hands—not even during the Insurrection.
I approached the battle-scarred goblin with caution. The flickering torches made it hard to tell, but I think recognition flashed in his one yellow eye. He sniffed the air as I approached. I curtsied, playing to his vanity.
“A Vardan get,” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly low and articulate for a goblin. “Here on the official?”
Half-bloods took the title of their sire as their surname. The Duke of Vardan was my father. “Nothing official, my lord. I’m here because the goblin prince knows everything that happens in London.”
“True,” he replied with a slow nod. Despite my flattery he was still looking at me like he expected me to do or say something. “But there is a price. What do you offer your prince, pretty get?”
The only prince I claimed was Albert, God rest his soul, and perhaps Bertie, the Prince of Wales. This mangy monster was not my prince. Was I stupid enough to tell him that? Hell, no.
I reached into the leather satchel I’d brought with me, pulled out the clear plastic bag with a lump of blood-soaked butcher’s paper inside and offered it to the goblin. He snatched it from me with eager hands that were just a titch too long and dexterous to be paws, tossed the plastic on the floor and tore open the paper. A whine of delight slipped from his throat when he saw what I’d brought. Around us other goblins raised their muzzles and made similar noises, but no one dared approach.
I looked away as the prince brought the gory mass to his muzzle and took an enthusiastic bite. I made my mind blank, refusing to think of what the meat was, what it had been. My only solace was that it had already been dead when I bought it. The blood might smell good, but I couldn’t imagine eating anything that… awful… terrible… raw.
The goblin gave a little shudder of delight as he chewed and rewrapped his treat for later. A long pink tongue slipped out to lick his muzzle clean. “Proper tribute. Honours her prince. I will tell the lady what I know. Ask, pretty, ask.”
The rest of the goblins drifted away from us, save for one little gob who came and sat at the prince’s furry feet and stared at me with open curiosity. I was very much aware that every goblin who wasn’t preoccupied with human playthings watched me closely. I was relatively safe now, having paid my tribute to their prince. So long as I behaved myself and didn’t offend anyone, I’d make it out of here alive. Probably.
“I want to know the whereabouts of Drusilla Vardan,” I said quietly, even though I knew most of the goblins had keen enough hearing to eavesdrop without trying. Their sensitivity to sound, as well as light, kept them deep underside.
The prince raised his canine gaze to mine. It was unnerving looking into that one bright eye, seeing intelligence there while he had yet to clean all the blood from his muzzle. “The youngest?”
I nodded. My father had gone through something of a mid-immortality crisis about two and a half decades ago and done his damnedest to impregnate every breeding courtesan he could find. The first attempt had resulted in my brother Val, the second in me and the third and fourth in Avery and Dede. Four live births out of nine pregnancies over a five-year period—pretty potent for a vampire.
“She’s missing.” He didn’t need to know the particulars—like how she had last been seen at her favourite pub. “I want to know what happened to her.”
“Nay, you do not,” the prince replied cheerfully. “Pretty wants to know where her sibling is. The prince knows.” He petted the little goblin on the head as he bared his teeth at me—a smile.
Sweet baby Jesus. Even my spleen trembled at that awful sight.
Trying to hide my fear was futile, as he could surely smell it. Still, I had to give it a go. “Would you be so kind as to share my sister’s whereabouts, my lord? Please? I am concerned about her.”
If there was one thing goblins underst
ood it was blood—both as sustenance and connection. Offspring happened rarely because of their degree of mutation, and were treasured. No decent goblin—and I use “decent” as loosely as it can possibly be construed—would turn down a request that involved family.
“New Bethlehem,” he replied in a grave growl.
I pressed a hand against the boned front of my corset, and closed my fingers into a fist. I would not show weakness here, no matter how much the prince might sympathise with my plight—he was still a goddam goblin. “Bedlam?” I rasped.
The prince nodded. “She was taken in two nights ago, in shackles.”
Albert’s fangs. I blasphemed the Queen’s late consort to myself alone. My mind could scarcely grasp the reality of it. “You’re wrong,” I whispered. “You have to be wrong.” But goblins were never wrong. If he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have said. That was their way—so I’d been taught. “Honourable monsters”, Church had called them.
“Alexandra.”
I jerked. I shouldn’t be surprised that he knew my name. Of course he knew it. It was the posh way he said it—his voice sounded almost like my father’s.
He stood before me—I was right, he was my height. The little one remained glued to his side. I had the sudden and inexplicable urge to reach out and pat her on the head, just as I had wanted to do to a tiger cub I once saw in a travelling exhibit. The comparison kept my hand fisted, and at my side. I wanted to keep it.
“Your prince regrets telling the pretty lady this news.”
I turned my attention back to him. The pity in his eye almost brought me to tears. Why should a monster pity me?
“There was an incident at Ainsley’s. The Vardan get tried to stab the earl, she did.”
That I believed, and therefore I had to believe my sister really could be in Bedlam—where all the special barking mad went to die. Dede and Ainsley had history—a painful one.
The goblin held out his furry hand, and etiquette demanded I take it. The prince was offering me friendship, and my getting out of there alive just might depend on my taking it, treaty or no.
I nodded, my throat tight as his “fingers” closed around mine. He was warm. For a moment—and only one terribly mad one—I could have hugged him. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “No thanks, lady. Never thank for bad news.”
I nodded again and he released my hand. The goblins watched me as I turned to leave, but no one spoke. They didn’t even try to tempt me to stay; they simply let me go. I think I despised them most at that moment, especially that little one who waved goodbye.
My sister was essentially in hell and goblins felt sorry for me. As far as I was concerned, things couldn’t get much worse.
I stumbled cobbleside on shaky, numb legs. The heavy door closed with a thud behind me as I braced a palm against the closest chipped and pitted brick wall. Scorch marks and faded maroon paint marred part of the once impressive frontage. The two buildings flanking the old station had been empty since the fires of ’32, their derelict state a blemish on the formerly opulent neighbourhood. This end of Down Street looked like it belonged near the docks rather than within the walls of Mayfair. It was still the most exclusive neighbourhood in London, but for the past eighty years it had existed behind high walls of stone and wire, guarded against the possibility of another human uprising. Broken lamps kept this part of the street, unaffectionately nicknamed “Gob Lane”, in the dark. Further up, just past Brick Street, the lamps retained their bulbs, casting a golden glow over the worn cobblestones. Here, grass and weeds poked up from between the cobbles, and someone had propped a broken carriage wheel against the side of the building to my right. Mayfair had its share of ruins, but this was the only one with ABANDON ALL HOPE above the door in flaking white paint, and the only one that still had bloodstains on the threshold.
My ride was waiting for me where I’d left it—no worries about theft on Gob Lane. I swung my leg over the Butler 1863 motorrad and started the engine. The machine roared to life, and I tore off down the street on three hundred kilos of rubber and steel, my frock coat whipping out behind. I stopped at the gates because I had to, but I couldn’t remember anything John or Mick, the Royal Guards on duty, said to me. I must have given the correct answers because they let me go.
It wasn’t until I neared Wellington district, and my part of it—the area formerly known as Belgravia—that the numbness eased and I began to feel like myself again. I’d entered the plague den and survived, and now I knew where Dede was. It did nothing to make me feel better, but at least I knew.
Bedlam. Fang me.
Why couldn’t she have run off with one of the wolves who were down from Scotland for the season? That was what other Peerage Protectorate girls—and boys—did. Shagged the hairy brutes and protected them at the same time—not that weres needed an abundance of protecting. The Scots were looked down upon by some aristos for being a little too physical, but they were impressive in their strength.
I pulled the Butler to the kerb outside the house my sister Avery and I shared on the upper west side of Belgrave Square. The closer to Buckingham Palace and Mayfair you got, the older the neighbourhood appeared. In the East End they’d repaved some of the streets, and even had tall buildings, but here almost everything looked as it had two centuries ago. Even the parts that were new had been made to look old.
It was the same in most cities across Europe with a strong concentration of aristo citizens. The plague had spread across trade routes, taking the Prometheus Protein with it. There were vampires and werewolves all across the continent—halvies too, though the first of my kind had been born right here in London. Or at least, the first halvie in historical record had been. Aldous James was born in 1900. His father was Devonshire, but this was before we took titles as our surnames.
My house had been built in the 1820s. It was a large town house that used to be part of a huge mansion. My father had bought it for his children, but only Avery and I lived there now. Val had his own flat, and Dede had moved out six months ago, claiming she wanted her own space as well.
I unlocked the door, slipped inside the darkened foyer and punched the code into the alarm. That was as fancy as we got. When you were half-vampire, and trained to survive and protect at any cost, you didn’t really need much outside security.
I ran straight up the winding staircase to my bedroom. So far my night off had been a nightmare, but it wasn’t over yet. There was one person who would try to help me if what the goblin prince said was true. I had to get changed and haul my arse to a party in Curzon Street before sunrise in order to find him.
I had several decent gowns in the walk-in off my bedroom. I had to—Queen V didn’t like what most of us considered fashion, so at fancy aristo functions the Royal Guard and the Peerage Protectorate had to dress to code, females in gowns and men in black tails. Sometimes it was a bit of fun, but other times—like now—it was an exercise in frustration. It wasn’t that the aristocracy fought progress; just that time moved so slowly for them, it took change longer to take hold. They clung to that which was familiar.
I grabbed the easiest to get into—a pewter-coloured silk with tiny sleeves and long concealed slits on either side of the skirt in case I needed to move quickly or fight.
My shower took exactly four minutes, including waiting for the water to get hot. I didn’t have time to wash my bright red hair, so I dusted it with shampoo powder, gave it a bit of a back-comb and twisted it up on to the top of my head.
The hair thing was often copied by humans looking to emulate halvies, but wigs and dye couldn’t quite get the same shine. Aristocrats had gorgeous hair—thick and rich, with extraordinary highlights due to the plague’s mutation of the pigmentations that determined hair colour. The only way I can describe it is to say that the plague seemed to make everything “more”. With halvies, this pigmentation was often sent into overdrive by our unique maternal genetics. It didn’t happen in all halvies, but the brighter colours were something o
f a status symbol amongst our kind. My colour, the same red as Christmas barley candy, was highly unusual.
Clean undies and a fresh corset that hooked up the front went on as quickly as I could manage, followed by stockings, boots and then the gown. I was still fiddling with the zip on the side as I raced back downstairs. I had to get to Curzon Street. I had to find Church.
It was quarter past three in the morning. Most aristo functions ended around four to give everyone time to get home and into their dark chambers before the sun rose, so that gave me forty-five minutes. Luckily, my destination was less than a mile away.
I thought of Dede—not of her locked up in Bedlam, but as she had been when we were younger. She’d always been tiny, sprite-like. Shiny and sweet and full of life. Our family, especially me, had been so protective of her, but even we couldn’t save her from herself. She’d fallen for Ainsley’s charm as though her bones were made of lead. I’d held her after she lost the baby, crying myself as she sobbed as if the world was ending. I suppose for her it had. I thought she was done with the bastard.
I turned on to Grosvenor Place. Checking the traffic, I saw something in the park to my right that made me put my foot down to stabilise the Butler and look again.
“Fang me,” I muttered. Why now, of all times? I had somewhere to be. I did not have time for betty-bashing.
I lifted my foot and whipped the machine between two cars—the space from the boot of one to the bonnet of the other was just large enough for my ride. I kicked the stand and jumped off. Skirt hitched, I raced along the pavement, wishing I’d worn my arse-kicking boots instead of the pointy-toed, hourglass-heeled ones that matched my gown. Still, I was fast and quickly caught up with the people I was chasing.
