by S. Jae-Jones
“What consequences?”
The Goblin King shrugged. “Goblin glamour has no effect on you. You see things as they are.”
“How is that a consequence?”
“Depends on whom you ask.” He ran his tongue lightly over his pointed teeth. “Your sister,” he said, nodding toward Käthe in the crowd, “would prefer pretty enchantments to the stark ugliness of reality, I think.”
My sister danced with not one, but several of the tall goblin men. They spun her from man to man, pressing their lips to the inside of her wrists, up her arms, along her collarbone, up her throat. She laughed and tried to kiss one of them on the mouth, but he turned his face away.
“Don’t we all?” I thought of the uncounted days spent at my klavier, before I had come to my senses, before I had come Underground. “Sometimes it is easier to pretend.”
“It is,” the Goblin King said in a low voice. His words vibrated all the way down my spine. “But aren’t we too old for our games of make-believe, Elisabeth?”
There was a wistful note in his words that belied his cool command of composure. Startled, I turned to face the Goblin King. His mismatched eyes looked vulnerable. Fallible. Almost … human. Those remarkable eyes searched mine, and in the space of a breath, I recognized the boy for whom I had played my music in the Goblin Grove.
A bright, musical laugh. I turned to see Käthe trip and fall into a dancer’s arms. She threw her head back, exposing her neck and bosom to his kisses. I wanted to rush to my sister’s defense, but froze at the touch of a hand upon my shoulder.
“Wait.” Fingertips brushed the skin of my neck. “Stay.”
“But Käthe—”
“Your sister will come to no harm, I promise.”
I held myself still, unwilling to face his eyes again. “How can I trust you to keep your word?” My voice did not sound like mine, husky and dark. “Are you not the Lord of Mischief?”
“You wound me, Elisabeth,” he said. “I thought we were friends.”
“You became my enemy the moment you stole my sister.”
It was a long time before the Goblin King replied.
“Tonight is for indulgence without consequence. Tonight you are my guest, Elisabeth, and your sister shall come to no harm. Tomorrow,” he said, arch and sly once more, “we can return to being enemies.”
The sound of my sister’s laughter returned to me, echoing about the cavernous ballroom. “Your word, mein Herr.”
“I said your sister will come to no harm,” he said. “Do not press me further than that. Now,” he said, turning me to face him. “Let us dance, Elisabeth.”
The musicians struck up another song, one I didn’t recognize. The tempo was slow and in a minor key, seductive and sinister. The Goblin King pulled me into his embrace.
He pressed his hand to my lower back, pushing our hips close together. Our hands met palm to palm, fingers intertwined. He was not masked and neither was I. Our eyes met. Despite the closeness of our bodies, it was the touch of our eyes that made me blush.
“Mein Herr,” I demurred. “I don’t think—”
“You think too much, Elisabeth,” he said. “Too much about propriety, too much about duty, too much about everything but music. For once, don’t think.” The Goblin King smiled. It was a wicked grin, one that made me feel unsafe and excited at the same time. “Don’t think. Feel.”
We swept around the ballroom floor, our feet keeping rhythm with each other, even as my heart kept a frenetic pace. I flinched whenever our legs entangled themselves within the folds of my gown, whenever a step caused his chest to brush against mine, whenever more of him touched me than necessary.
“Breathe, Elisabeth,” he said softly.
But I could not. It wasn’t the stays trapping my lungs in an iron grip; it was the Goblin King. His proximity, his unbearable nearness. I had wanted Hans to know me intimately, but I was familiar with him. I could imagine his body beneath my hands—solid, comforting, dependable, predictable, just like the rest of him. But I did not know the Goblin King, not as a man, not as someone with flesh and hands and hips. My soul thrilled with recognition at the sight of his face, but the reality of him frightened me. He was an old friend in myth and legend; he was a stranger in breath and body.
The Goblin King sensed my discomfort. After the dance was over, he stepped back and gave me a courteous bow, kissing the back of my hand.
“I thank you for this dance, my dear,” he said formally.
I nodded, unsure of my voice. I tried to pull my hand out of his grip, but he held on all the tighter.
“But we are not finished yet.” He leaned in, lips moving against the curve of my ear. “The game resumes tomorrow.”
With that, he released me and melted into the crowd. I stood, dazed, wanting to follow him, wanting to crawl back to my barrow room and hide. Every face in the room belonged to him; I found an echo of his cheekbones, his chin, his arched brows in the masks of the attendees.
“Wine, Fräulein?” A goblin servant materialized by my side, holding a tray with several goblets. I hesitated. Years of watching Papa struggle with drink had made me wary of intoxication. And yet, the burden of being Liesl, responsible older sister and dutiful eldest daughter, wore on me. I wondered what oblivion was like.
A responsible older sister. I scanned the room for Käthe. I found her straightaway; she was like a flame in darkness with her golden hair, her bright, pastel-colored gown. She sat upon an enormous carved throne at the head of the ballroom, surrounded by a bevy of fawning suitors. They fed her “grapes” and “bonbons” as she took sips of wine from a crystal-studded goblet. Her gorgeous gown was in disarray, her hair falling loose from its elaborate pompadour. She kicked out at one of them, giggling and showing quite a bit of leg. One of her swains caught her foot, and then ran a hand along her delicate ankle, slowly moving up her stockinged leg to her calf, then along her bare thigh …
“Mistress?” The goblin servant had not moved. I stole another glance at Käthe, then looked at the goblets on the tray. I had wished for wantonness, hadn’t I? I fingered the edge of a wineglass. I wanted to be like Käthe, to turn off my rational mind just for one minute, one hour, one day.
You think too much.
I lifted a goblet of wine off the tray.
Your sister will come to no harm.
“Ooh—ooh!” Käthe said in a scandalized voice.
I brought the goblet to my lips. The wine was a dark red, darker than rubies, darker than blood, the deep black-red of blackberries. And sin.
Don’t think. Feel.
I drank.
* * *
The taste is heady on my tongue. The world is bright, the sounds are clear, and everything is beautiful. Touches, touches everywhere. A hand on my waist. Fingers in my hair. Wine-red lips that taste of temptation. They leave stains on my neck, where my skin meets my clothes, the rising swell of my breasts and the valley between them. Ticklish brushes against my ankles, a rising breeze. My skirt above my knees, games of bluff. Yes, no. Yes. No. Yes. Fingers walk up the inside of my thigh. No.
His face. I wrap my arms around him, but it is not the Goblin King, only another wearing a mask. I let him taste my skin, but I am looking. I am still searching.
I twirl around the room, passed from arm to arm, partner to partner. With each switch I look, I search, I yearn. My stays are loosened, my shoes are lost. I am not thinking now. The freedom is headier than the wine.
Elisabeth.
A breath on the back of my neck. I am dizzy, I sway, but I stand. A breath, then a kiss. I cannot see, but I know it is him. The Goblin King.
I lean into him, but he holds me upright. He murmurs my name down my neck, down my spine, his long, elegant fingers traveling along the curves of my hips, my waist.
Elisabeth.
I do not know what to call him, but I cry out his name.
My fingers reach, but he is gone.
THE GAMES WE’VE PLAYED
I opened my eye
s.
And immediately regretted it.
The room tilted and spun, the bed rocking back and forth like a boat on the sea. I shut my eyes and moaned. I was dying. Or worse.
Presently, my wits began to return. I was not dying; I was merely suffering the ill effects of my lapse in judgment. I tried to recall the events of the previous night—day?—but nothing returned. Hazy memories, the remembered sensation of bare skin against skin.
Bare skin. I sat up, clutching my head as pain shot through my temples. To my horror, I was naked beneath my sheets. Where was I?
The bed was my bed, the barrow my barrow. The portrait of the Goblin Grove hung over the fireplace, the same Louis Quinze table and chair set, the same grotesqueries. I took stock of myself, running a trembling hand over my body. Aside from the headache, I was unharmed. Intact. Untumbled. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
My beautiful ball gown lay rumpled on the floor, discarded in haste with little regard for preservation. There were wrinkles and tears in the fabric, and the stays had been shredded. It was beyond salvaging.
I cast my eye about for my old dress and chemise, but there were no other clothes in my room. Despite the nausea roiling through me, I was desperately thirsty and hungry. I pushed back my bedclothes and got up.
“Mortals look so different naked, don’t they?”
I threw up my hands, trying to cover my nakedness as best I could. I had not seen Twig and Thistle enter my room; had they always been there?
“Yes. Pink,” Twig said, agreeing with Thistle.
“How did you get here?” My throat was hoarse and dry, and squeaked like a badly played oboe.
Thistle and Twig shrugged in unison. Twig held an earthenware jug and a cup, while Thistle had a loaf of bread. “We thought you might need this.”
They set their offerings on the Louis Quinze set. Twig poured me a cup of water. I eyed the cup; after the goblin wine, I was wary of any drink the goblins might offer me.
“It’s not poisoned,” Thistle said irritably, seeing my hesitation. “His Majesty told us not to, ah, tamper with your food.”
I needed no more urging. I gulped down the water: ice-cold, delicious, and tasting of alpine springs. I poured myself a few more cups. Once my stomach was settled, I tore into the bread.
After I had eaten and drunk, I felt more human. More alive. It was only then I noticed that I was still stark naked.
“Look, she’s growing pinker!” Twig pointed out my flush of embarrassment. I hurried back to my bed and pulled off one of the sheets to wrap around me.
“Stop staring at me,” I snapped.
Twig and Thistle cocked their heads. They were clothed in scarce more than rags and leaves stitched together. Their clothing seemed less about modesty and more about status—indeed, the goblins I had seen at the ball were more humanlike in appearance than these two, and dressed in clothing much like ours.
“What have you done with my clothes?”
Thistle shrugged again. “Burned them.”
“Burned them!”
“His Majesty’s orders.”
I was furious. He had no right to dispose of my things like that. My clothes had been my last link to the world above. The longer I stayed Underground, the more I felt as though I were being skinned and peeled alive, little bits of human Liesl stripping away.
“Take me to him,” I said. “I want an audience with the Goblin King. Now.”
The goblin girls exchanged looks.
“Is that what you wish?” Twig asked.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I wish for you to take me before the Goblin King.”
“All right.” Identical pointed grins spread over their faces. “As you wish, mortal,” they said. “As you wish.”
* * *
I blinked.
I was in an entirely different room, naked but for the bedsheet draped about me. This room was much larger than my barrow, its packed-dirt ceilings supported by the great roots of a spreading tree, like the buttresses of a cathedral. An audience chamber, I thought.
Despite the spaciousness, the chamber was cozy: the furnishings simple, the decorations spare. No tapestries, no statuaries; the only thing that dominated the room was the enormous bed at its center, wrought of roots and rock.
Then I realized I wasn’t in the Goblin King’s audience chamber. I was in his bedroom.
Thistle and Twig had granted me my wish. They had taken me before the Goblin King the exact moment I demanded it. I had wished and now I was here.
Constanze always told me to never play games with the goblin folk. Never say I wish, never give them an opening.
Panicking, I scrambled for a way out. I had to leave before he awoke, before he saw me.
A moan from the bed stopped me, a disconcertingly familiar sound. It was the sound of Papa trying to make it through the day. The sound of Mother’s disappointment in her husband’s failures. The sound of Josef after a long day of practice. The sound of Käthe during her monthly courses. The sound of pain.
I should have left. I should have run. This was Der Erlkönig. This was the Lord of Mischief, the Ruler Underground. This was the creature who had abducted my sister, who made me sacrifice my music to his capricious whims. This was the stranger who lured me Underground for the sake of his wagers and games.
But I thought of the soft-eyed young man with whom I had danced at the ball, the man who had called himself my friend. I hesitated.
Well, I thought. Today we go back to being enemies.
I approached the bed. All that was visible was a shock of messy, pale hair, a pile of rumpled sheets, and the curve of a bare shoulder. I tucked the edges of my bedsheet more securely about me. Gathering my courage, I grabbed the silken linens wrapped around the Goblin King, and pulled.
The force of my pulling hurled him out of bed. He awoke with a volley of curses, his voice roughened by wine and lack of sleep. The Goblin King swore at Heaven, at Hell, at God, and the Devil. I was amused.
A disheveled head peered over the edge of the bed, eyes bleary, cheeks creased with sleep. He looked surprisingly young. I had always thought of Der Erlkönig as ageless, neither young nor old, but seeing him like this—he seemed near to me in age.
The Goblin King shot me a glare before realizing just who it was in his chambers, alone and undressed.
“Elisabeth!” Unbelievably, his voice cracked, like a schoolboy’s.
I crossed my arms. “Good morning, mein Herr.”
He scrambled for the covers. He wrapped the sheets about his slim hips, leaving his chest bare. The Goblin King was tall and slim, but well-muscled. I had seen other men bare-chested before—tan, broad-shouldered, well-worked—but their half-naked bodies did not stir me like the Goblin King’s. There was a grace to every line of his body; elegance was not only in his air, but in the way he moved. Even when he was awkward. Even when he was unsure.
“I—I—” He was flustered. I relished this bit of power over him, this ability to unsettle him as much as he unsettled me.
“Is that all you have to say to me?” I asked, struggling to keep a straight face. “After all we shared?”
“What did we share?” There was definite panic to his voice now. Suddenly the game was not so fun anymore; if we had indeed taken a tumble in his bed, would he truly be so horrified? I was not Käthe, with her inviting walk and her smile that promised indulgence. Despite my plainness, I thought that the Goblin King and I had shared a spark, but perhaps it was only I who was ready to blaze into flames.
“Nothing, nothing.” I was done playing.
“Elisabeth.” His wolf’s eyes demanded answers. “What did I do to you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You did nothing. I woke alone in my own chamber.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“In a pile of ashes, I’ve been told. On your orders, I might add, mein Herr.”
He ran a sheepish hand through his tangled locks. “Ah. Yes. I will send the tailors to yo
u to take your measurements. Is that why you are here?”
I shook my head. “I asked to be brought before you, and the servants you sent to attend to me are rather literal-minded.” Relief crept over his face, slowly hiding the vulnerable young man from view. “They whisked me here before I could even blink.”
During the course of our conversation, the Goblin King had slowly donned his affected armor, piece by piece. First the smirk. The raised brow. The twinkle in his eyes. Then the nonchalant pose, as though it were nothing to him to be found naked in his bedroom by an equally naked young woman in a bedsheet. As though he had not shown me more nakedness of the soul than the brief glimpse of his thighs as he tumbled out of bed.
“Well, then.” Even his voice had resumed its usual dry tone. “I do apologize you caught me with my pants down, my dear. Rather literally too. I had not thought to resume our game so quickly.”
“Will you not offer me a seat?” I was determined to conduct myself with all the dignity I could muster, despite my sleep-mussed hair and disheveled appearance.
The Goblin King tilted his head in a courteous bow and waved his hand. The earth parted beneath my feet, and the roots of a young tree burst forth, growing and twisting themselves into the shape of a chair. Louis Quinze style. So that was where the furniture in my room had come from.
I sat down, primly rearranging the sheet about me.
“To what do I owe this honor, Elisabeth?” The soft-eyed young man was gone; he wore the mantle of Der Erlkönig, distant and dangerous. I missed that soft-eyed young man. I wanted him back. He seemed real, not like Der Erlkönig, all illusion and shadow.
“Where is my sister?”
He shrugged. “Asleep, I presume.”
“You presume?”
“It was a rather raucous night.” His lips curled. “I imagine Käthe is back in her own bed. Or perhaps someone else’s. I can’t be too sure.”
Panic gripped me. “You swore she would come to no harm!”
He gave me a curious look. Before, he had merely glanced at me, unable to meet my gaze, but now that he was back in his trickster skin, he truly looked. He took in my flushed cheeks and tumbled hair, his eyes tracing the curve of my neck where it met my shoulder. Heat crept up the back of my neck.
