Kept: A Coveted Novel

by Shawntelle Madison

And I thought my goblin boss took things too far at times. But I’d only met Scabbard a few minutes ago, and I was already sick and tired of him referring to himself in third person. “I’m not the one who attacks people without provocation. Between the two of us, the one on the ground bleeding could’ve answered the door when I planned to knock on it.”

  “Scabbard’s protecting his territory. This place is rampant with you werewolves. The leprechauns aren’t any better either.”

  I rolled my eyes. “As much as I’d like to argue this little matter with you, we need to get going. We’re heading back to Roscoe. If my dad shows up—and he’s a lot bigger than Thorn, by the way—I suggest you answer the door when he knocks. If he knocks.”

  The goblin swallowed visibly. “Bigger, you say?”

  I flipped open my phone and showed a picture of my dad with my uncles. “He’s the one in the back who looks like he could crush you with his bare hands.”

  “Fair enough,” the goblin whispered.

  Thorn took a step toward the front of the building. I followed.

  “W-wait,” the goblin stammered. “If Scabbard gave you the compact, could you keep that bigger fellow from coming here? The rest of your family, too?”

  I shrugged and feigned a sour face. “When someone attacks a member of my family, we usually have no choice but to retaliate—in great numbers. And you attacked me.” I matched Thorn’s pace and gestured wildly with my hands. “I have several uncles, a few mean aunts,” I called to the goblin. “And good God, I’ve got cousins all over the place. Big, burly men, like my dad.”

  “Now, you don’t need to keep threatening Scabbard. All he did was protect what’s his from people like you.” Even after grumbling a few times, the goblin got up and hobbled over to the building. His hand shook when he reached for the doorknob. It served him right for stabbing me with his magical butter knife.

  After changing back into human form, Thorn followed us.

  The inside of the garage was nothing I hadn’t seen before. The office was against the far wall, inside a glass-walled area. We walked around in darkness before the goblin clapped two times. A sharp light filled the room.

  The Clapper, huh? Who needs magic when you’ve got human innovation at your fingertips—or smacking hands, as the case may be?

  The goblin’s office wasn’t too shabby. From the endless packets of sugar and empty coffee cups, it was evident that he had the sweet tooth of a sugarcane farmer. Not a single scrap of paper—other than from the sugar packets—sprinkled the desk.

  “Now, Scabbard expects you to keep your promise,” the goblin said. “He’ll give you the compact and jewels and you’ll leave him alone.”

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a black bag. As he reached inside, I noticed the bag was velvet-lined. Fine quality, my eyes told me. But then, what he pulled out would make any girl sigh. A square compact case, about the size of my palm, filled his spindly hand. The outside shined from the bright light above and made me notice the swirls etched into the surface. My first thought was, Timeless and expensive.

  The goblin clicked on the tab to open it. Nestled inside the compact lay seven gems. Four of them were cut, while the other three were raw. I most certainly wasn’t a jeweler, but I knew the raw gems would be valuable to a dealer, who’d want to further divide them into certain cuts for his customers.

  One of the gems, a raw-cut diamond, beckoned to me like a discount rack Christmas ornament. It wanted me to pick it up. To clean and protect it with the rest of the goodies at home. I usually didn’t like shiny things other than ornaments, but this one was different. It was imperfect, but with a little love, it would become pristine.

  My distraction almost kept me from looking closely at the inside of the compact. The goblin was in the process of closing it when I saw the flaw. The mirror caught my eye. It was far too clear. Why would an antique give off such a bright reflection? That too-perfect perfection screamed the compact had been manufactured in the past century. But Roscoe had said it belong to his great-grandmother.

  “You like it?” the goblin asked.

  He mistook my expression for interest. At first it had been, but now I was more than suspicious.

  “It’s a very pretty piece,” I said. “From what century?”

  Let’s see what he pulls out of his ass this time.

  “It’s very old. Illya’s been waiting decades to try to take this from Scabbard.”

  “Illya?” Thorn’s eyebrow rose.

  “That must be Roscoe’s real Russian name,” I whispered.

  I turned to the goblin. “How old again?”

  The goblin shrugged. “Scabbard doesn’t know.”

  I took the compact and examined it. After another glance inside, my suspicions were further confirmed. The interior had chipped-off paint on it. Barely perceptible but a sign of a fake nonetheless. No one in their right mind would use paint on an antique compact. Of course, anyone who wasn’t in the biz, which I was, would’ve mistaken the flaw for a discoloration in the metal. What the hell was going on here?

  The goblin rubbed his hands. “Don’t forget our terms.”

  I offered him the compact. “I won’t. Especially after you give me the real one.”

  “You think Scabbard would just hand off something this valuable so easily, huh? Well, Scabbard values his business and his life.”

  I placed the compact on the desk when he didn’t take it. “That part of the job is really shitty. I’m guessing Antique Metallic Brass spray paint. Maybe the Hammered Metal Finish? What do you think, Thorn?”

  “It all looks red to me. Like someone’s splattered corpse on a wall.” His lips formed a thin line.

  The goblin’s hands went up. “Now, now, there’s no need for violence again.”

  This place looked like an office, but something in the garage was giving me the creeps. “How about you produce the real compact, so we can leave.”

  After mumbling under his breath a few times, the goblin led us out of the office and into the area where he stored tools. While he sorted through one of the larger storage compartments, I noticed something gleaming along the opposite wall. Underneath the shelves with parts in boxes, another metallic object glinted. It was blurry, as if my vision had been smudged with grease, but eventually it cleared more and more, since I was familiar with this type of magic.

  What I finally saw was a set of cages. Two of them, stinking of burnt cinnamon from binding magic, were a few inches shorter than my height and were barely wide enough to lie down inside. The beginnings of fury stirred in my blood. That piece-of-shit goblin had planned to keep and sell whatever he’d caught. Namely, us. The dark magic in the cages was the sort spellcasters used to entrap werewolves.

  Based on what I’d learned from Nick, warlocks used black magic for nefarious spells. Wizards like Nick were restricted to white magic—which meant we might need to watch for a warlock in this area.

  Scabbard turned to us, holding an object that appeared far older than the fake compact. This piece had all the signs of fine workmanship: It was a nearly flawless silver case with embellishments like seashells along the surface. I was almost afraid to pick it up, it appeared that delicate, but I had to fulfill the debt. We hadn’t been captured—nor would we be tonight.

  “Is everything okay?” Thorn asked. He gave me that look that said he knew something was troubling me.

  “We’re good,” I managed to say. “Let’s take the compact and get the hell out of here.”

  We left the garage, Thorn taking up the rear. The goblin limped ahead of us and remained silent. As soon as we reached the car, Scabbard stood to the side with a frown.

  Before I got in the SUV, he asked, “Can Scabbard have his knife back?”

  Why not just give him the knife back so he can stab and cage others? Against my better judgment I replied, “Check your mail in a couple days.”

  I might’ve wanted to tear the goblin apart, but I refused to lower myself to his level.

&
nbsp; Chapter 6

  We reached the Atlantic City limits before I fell apart. The nagging pain from the wounds Scabbard had given me didn’t help either. I tried to focus on what I had to do next, but my mind clung to the web of deceit I’d fallen into. If Thorn hadn’t saved us, I would have been caged right now. And all the blame fell to Roscoe. He’d set a trap for us.

  It was all there in front of me. Why would Dad be given such an easy task for the first part of his debt? And if fetching the heirloom was the only task, we shouldn’t have been able to get it from Scabbard as easily as we did. The facts swirled through my mind: the cages, the warning beforehand from Roscoe to Scabbard. All of this stank of trickery to get us either captured or shoved out of the way. But for what reason?

  Another question suddenly came to me, but the very thought of it stole my breath. If this was all a wild-goose chase, then what was the real task my father had been asked to do? One that would be suited to a man like Dad—a skilled killer? My frown deepened. Whatever it was, it had to be something so wrong that perhaps my father didn’t want any part of it. Which meant Roscoe was hiding something very important from my brother and me about our dad.

  “I want to kill, Roscoe,” I breathed.

  Thank goodness Thorn was driving. Rage stirred inside of me and I wanted to lash out. To lash out at anyone who tried to contain the wolf.

  How long had it been since I’d vented properly? The battle with the Long Island werewolves? I’d waited far too long to give in to my desire to tear something apart.

  With a man like Roscoe, should I be surprised that something bad like this happened? After seeing his place and meeting Scabbard, this whole situation would only get worse.

  I swept my fingers over the heirloom—a fancy piece of shit meant to bait us into going to see that goblin. My boss at The Bends—even with his crotchety attitude—had more honor than the people I’d encountered tonight.

  A curse in Russian escaped my lips, and I tried to suppress a wave of anger with clenched fists. Darkness suffocated me and made me wheeze with each breath.

  “Calm down,” Thorn said softly.

  I didn’t want to.

  I’d always been like this. Calming the wolf. Restraining it under my desire for order and organization. My hands clenched the seat, ready to form claws. My back hunched slightly. The change was close to the surface.

  “Pull over,” I demanded.

  The car rolled to a stop, and I stumbled out. Like a tightly pulled rubber band I ached for release. Maybe screaming would help. Before I could turn to run for the nearest set of woods, Thorn’s arms slid around me and clutched me tightly. When I tried to fight him, he tightened his grip.

  “Let me go,” I growled.

  “When you calm down I will.” His deep voice held hints of the change. He must’ve sensed the wolf straining to be free within me and was reacting to it.

  Time passed. I wasn’t sure how long. One of Thorn’s warm hands slowly slid upward along my arms until it cupped my face. A thumb brushed a single tear away.

  Instead of feeling comfort, all I felt was shame. A deep ache that made me want to hide my face in my hands and never expose the inner me to Thorn. I’d seen angry wolves before. When they succumbed to the bloodlust, they attacked and slaughtered without thought to their actions. If I knew anything, it was that the Code taught us those kinds of wolves weakened a pack.

  No wonder old Farley Grantham had kicked me out.

  “You’re telling me he just gave it to you?” Roscoe hid his disbelief with a laugh.

  Under most circumstances, I would have wondered if we were fools for coming back, but what choice did we have? I wanted answers, and Roscoe was the only one who could give them.

  I tossed the compact to one of the guards. The man gingerly tried to catch it. I snorted. Why were they bothering to pretend they cared about it? “Here’s your compact. Isn’t that what you expected my father to fetch?”

  The guard handed it to him. Roscoe rubbed his fingers along the ridges before he lobbed it on his desk. Just as I thought—he didn’t care about it. He’d abandoned another video game to chitchat with us. This time, he’d taken the form of a death knight with an elaborate set of armor.

  “Are you sure you didn’t barter your firstborn child?” He appeared smug. “Most goblins don’t take too kindly to folks messing with their profits.”

  “We found a way to persuade him,” I said. “You could say I have a way of seeing through people’s lies.”

  The side of Roscoe’s mouth lifted to show the hints of a smile. “Do you, now?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” I said. “I know very well you warned Scabbard about us. Which pretty much screamed to me that your little bullshit run was to get me captured by another party while you continue to persuade my father to fulfill the job you set for him. What was it you said last time? ‘No one is allowed to harm the family of a debtor in my presence’?

  “The only way you could get my dad to do whatever shitty thing you wanted him to do was to have me captured and then force him into doing it by saying Scabbard would kill me. Do I have that about right?”

  I hate to admit it, but I felt really smug—until I saw the lack of enthusiasm on Roscoe’s face.

  Slowly, he walked over to me. “Fyodor is a strong one. One of the strongest werewolves I’ve hired.” His voice lowered, and his black eyes focused on mine. “I’ve seen him crack a human’s back with his bare hands.”

  “Where’s my father?” I whispered.

  “He lacks something most of my men will always have: fear. I’ve never seen him afraid—only angry.” Roscoe continued while I stared at him, my own fear creeping up my back.

  “Over the years, I’ve come to have many enemies. A few of them needed to learn a final lesson only Fyodor can teach. Since your father’s moon debt was high, I told him he’d have to take care of a few of his former associates and then make a delivery for me.” Roscoe leaned forward, switched his gaze to Thorn’s. “Do you know what he said to me? He told me he wasn’t the kind of man to kill his friends—even if he didn’t work with them anymore. He wasn’t a killer like me. Ha!”

  When Thorn didn’t react, Roscoe looked at me. “But you know what? A killer will always be a killer. A wolf’s always a predator waiting to strike its prey. Of course, none of those truly matter to a man—especially when he has a weak point: a family.”

  My heart sank.

  “Your father left me with no options—so I offered him none in return.” Roscoe gestured to a guard and jerked his head to one of the doors to the left. Thorn and I watched the guard as he entered and closed the door behind him.

  Time passed, and all the anger I’d pooled earlier turned into an icy ocean of fear. What was behind the door? If my father didn’t want to fulfill the debt, what had they done to him? Had they killed him?

  My mouth dried painfully, and every breath took effort to inhale. No matter how angry I got, no matter how much rage boiled inside me, I would never be a match for the guards around us. I prepared for the worst, but I was still hit hard. The door opened and the guard returned, dragging something on a chain. A large form rolled along the floor.

  I heard a soft cry and then realized it came from me. No one stopped me when I rushed to Dad’s side. He was wide awake and blinked at me. Something about his gaze almost made me want to turn away—as if he was ashamed to have me see him like this.

  My hands reached for the chain—over an inch thick—which circled him, from over his shoulder to around his neck. I tried to pull it off him, but failed.

  Those filthy bastards. I stood, but a hand locked over my shoulder. He hadn’t meant to—but Thorn’s hand brushed against the wound near my neck. Just another reminder it still hadn’t healed yet.

  “Not now.” Thorn’s voice was low, primal.

  “I’m definitely not the person you want to fuck with, devushka.” Roscoe watched me with a grin I wish I could claw off his face. “Unless you’re finally interested in sho
wing me what you’re made of.”

  “Release him,” I hissed.

  “He’s perfectly free to leave, when the debt on his head is clear. Of course, he hasn’t fulfilled any of it yet, so the answer to your demand would definitely be no.”

  If I’d had a gun, I would’ve fired that puppy until my trigger finger fell off. But Thorn was right. My anger wouldn’t save my family. Roscoe had boxed my father in, and now he knew he had the Stravinskys by the balls.

  My shaking hands clenched into fists. This whole mess made me want to bury my head in my hands and escape to a quiet place where stress and pain couldn’t find me.

  The sound of my teeth grinding together pushed me back into reality. I had to do something. Alex wasn’t here. Mom wasn’t here. The debt was my father’s, yet the weight of the debt affected the whole Stravinsky family. And now this burden was on my shoulders. I knew very well that I wasn’t a mercenary trained to kill.

  I approached Roscoe. Every footstep made me feel weaker. A tingling sensation coursed down my arms. He’d resumed his computer game, as if we had left the room. Why bother to worry about us when he had enough firepower and guards to knock us into next week?

  Slowly, I managed to find my voice and bury the heat of my anger. “I’ve come to take responsibility for Fyodor Stravinsky’s moon debt,” I said.

  “Hmmm?” Roscoe swiveled his chair and regarded me in amusement. “You’ll take on your father’s debt?”

  Thorn was at my side and twisted my arm to make me face him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “The right thing.” From the way his features tightened, I’d prevented him from doing what he’d planned. I guessed I earned two points for beating him to the punch, but I was sure I wouldn’t hear the end of it when I faced him alone.

  Thorn turned to Roscoe. “I will help her repay this moon debt.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said. He wasn’t my mate or even my boyfriend. He shouldn’t play the hero.

  Thorn ignored me and continued to stare Roscoe down.

  “No,” was all Roscoe said.