by Shona Husk
***
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.<
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“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.
He flipped the book over and read the back. As he did, his lips curved. Treasure hunters and ancient civilizations, obviously Eliza had given Amanda some hints—but how many? Had she told Amanda how she’d met Roan? Nothing Amanda had said would indicate she knew anything, and if she did, she was in safe company to talk about it. He realized he was surrounded by the only people who wouldn’t think him crazy for talking about goblins, curses, and the Shadowlands.
“Thank you. I look forward to reading it.” When he did he would think of her.
Her smile widened for a second before she remembered herself and drew back as if she overstepped a line. “It’s the first in the series, but he writes lots of other adventure books.”
Dai kept his grin in check. He doubted anything could come close to some of the tales he could tell, but it was always fun to read about someone else getting into trouble and escaping instead of being the one in danger and scrambling to survive.
“And lastly…” Eliza handed him a box.
Too light to be a book. He lifted the lid and wrinkled his nose. A cell phone. There was a reason he wasn’t going to get the landline connected—he didn’t want calls. Still he had to be gracious—she’d broken the curse and was making his brother very happy.
“I thought you might need a new one,” she added in case he didn’t got the hint.
“Yeah.” Like a knife in the back. Although now he could call Birch on Monday and make an appointment before turning up at the office he’d failed to locate while walking around the city. It was there, he knew it was.
“I’ve programmed in some numbers already.”
“Thanks.” He put it on top of the books on the kitchen counter.
There was a pause and the adults all looked at their drinks as if trying to come up with a safe topic for conversation. If it was just Roan and Eliza, things might have been less awkward. Hell, if it was just him and Amanda, it would have been less uncomfortable. The way Eliza kept glancing between him and Amanda, he was beginning to feel like some kind of social experiment.
He took a drink of his wine, knowing he could always crash in the study again. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Roast lamb,” said Eliza.
The tension in the room dissipated, and everyone moved as if freed from the bonds that had held them in place. Brigit began setting the table with Eliza helping with the glassware. Roan shooed him out of the kitchen. There was nothing for him to do but wait.
Amanda followed him into the lounge room. “So, what did you do last year for your birthday? Where were you…Mongolia?”
Dai studied the reflection as light cut the crystal glass and scattered in the red wine. She was searching as if she knew he was hiding something. The truth hovered on the tip of his tongue; he’d been in an icebound tomb looking for black diamonds, but he swallowed it down.
“I don’t remember too much, just sampling the local fermented yak’s milk.” Not a total lie, just not last birthday. He had gotten drunk on their lethal brew more than once. It was kind of expected.
She nodded. “Must be nice to have that kind of freedom. To up and go on a whim.”
The wistful tone made him glance up. She was watching him. Their gazes met, then she looked away, her eyes skimming down his body before turning aside. With his scars hidden by clothes, he didn’t flinch at her attention. He never thought of his travel as a freedom. It was a requirement, a duty to perform as part of his quest. But he’d seen things no one living had. Drank chocolate laced with chili in the Andes before the Spanish invaded. Joined forgotten rituals. Been to every continent. Raided tombs of heroes and villains. Shared a kill with a dragon. Sworn vows to gods no one remembered. Watched magic be worked and spoken with the dead. Left fingerprints on the pages of history—and he couldn’t share any of it with her.
“It was.” His life hadn’t been on hold in the Shadowlands; it was just different.
“Where’s your favorite place?”
“I don’t know.” No one had ever asked him. “Every place is unique.”
Could he visit those places again? Could he still cross continents with a thought? What would she think if he told her he could take her anywhere she wanted to go?
“You’ve traveled the world and yet you’re settling here.” She raised one fine, dark eyebrow as if she found the thought to be beyond belief.
“Roan wanted me here for the wedding.” If not for that, he’d never have met Amanda.
She twisted the stem of her glass. “But this isn’t just a visit. You’ve bought an apartment.”
“My family is here. Plus Perth makes a good base.”
“A base?” Amanda frowned.
Before he could answer Roan appeared in the lounge room.
He smiled at Dai and then Amanda like he was breaking up an important discussion. “Come and sit. Don’t let the meal grow cold.”
Or rot.
But they weren’t in the Shadowlands. Food didn’t decay soon after it was killed or served. And eating would be a welcome break. Amanda couldn’t ask questions with a mouthful of food. Every time she glanced his way, or she opened her lips, he expected a question to follow, the one that would catch him out saying something made with less truth and more lie.
Brigit wasn’t as recalcitrant as her mother, for as soon as she’d finished eating she started. “Can you do fairy magic?”
Roan coughed as he choked on his last mouthful of food.
“No, just tricks and illusions.” Dai glared at his brother.
Did Roan really think he would bandy about something as bizarre as real magic? He picked up his fork and wiped it clean on the napkin. Then he rubbed his fingers over the tines for show; as he did he twisted and turned the threads of the forks to change its shape. Amanda watched, her breath held and lips parted. When he was done the prongs were tied in a bow. He handed the fork to Brigit.
Her mouth hung open as she took the fork and examined with a reverence only a child could have. His sister wore a similar expression when given her first real sword. Everyone else just stared as if they didn’t believe what they saw. He smiled, as if to convince them it was all in fun.
Damn. Knotting the m
etal might have been too much; he should’ve just bent the fork, but it was too late now. Roan flicked him a cold glance that made the Shadowlands seem warm and welcoming. Dai knew what he was thinking. But as long as he kept the magic indoors and didn’t just pop up all over the place in front of people Birch wouldn’t interfere. He hoped they wouldn’t. Ice prickled between his shoulder blades. He should’ve thought about that before showing off. He didn’t want Birch to pay a visit to any of the people here.
“If magic isn’t your specialty, what is?” Amanda found her voice again, but her eyes were wide as she looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Myths. The Occult Practices Amongst Indigenous Populations of the Northern Hemisphere was the last book I had published.” And it had been widely decried as being new-age rubbish dressed up as fact. He had cited some of his earlier, more obscure books as references, but given that some of his sources were older than he was and written in languages humans didn’t live long enough to decipher, it presented a problem.
Amanda nodded and he could see her thinking. “So, you believe in magic.”
“Of course. If I didn’t believe, how could I have knotted the fork?” He wasn’t going to lie and say magic didn’t exist, because Amanda would see straight through him and explaining why magic did exist after denying it would be harder than admitting outright that it did exist.
“See, magic is real, Mom.”
Amanda nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave him. Her gaze hadn’t lost any heat; if anything the interest he saw burned brighter.
Eliza smiled at her niece. “Of course magic is real, sweetie, but only if you believe.” Her gaze lifted to Roan.
“How are you going to continue your research living in Perth?” Amanda leaned her cheek on her hand.
