Greta and the Goblin King Page 2

  Through the thick smoke from the bonfire crackling in the middle of the cavern, Greta eyed the gray-skinned, skeletal figure. The fact that it stood approximately eight feet tall, was even uglier than usual, and sported a mouth full of teeth the length of her best dagger proved they were in big trouble.

  It had turned.

  This was one of the Lost, a being that had given in to its raw form completely and would never revert back to a more civilized one, “civilized” being a term applied loosely when it came to ghouls in any case.

  Her entrance had gotten the thing’s attention. It crouched on the other side of the flames and faced her with a growl, bulging eyes glowing a sickly yellow in the low light. It pushed forward on all four lanky limbs, readying itself to spring. The horrific sound of its enraged roar bounced off every inch of rock surrounding her until Greta wished her eardrums would explode and end her misery.

  The goblin boy huddled in a tight little ball against the cavern wall. He held his right arm close to himself and cringed as far from the nasty creature as he could. Greta paid no heed to his injuries. He was still breathing, which was more than she could have hoped for at this point.

  Knowing she had to get the ghoul to come for her, she edged along the wall in the opposite direction of the cave entrance. She kept her gaze on the creature, trusting that the goblin king would do what she’d said and get the boy to safety.

  “Come on, you ugly mother,” she muttered.

  The ghoul’s eyes widened as he charged, leaping over the blazing fire and across the small space in three long strides. Chancing a glance out of the corner of her eye, she watched his highness run for the young goblin and sighed with relief even as she lifted her sword to defend against the ripping talons aimed right at her face.

  If they connected, she’d be done for. They would tear her in half. Greta swung her blade and ducked. The claws weren’t even her most imperative concern. Ghouls were rabid creatures, desperate to sate their hunger for flesh, blood, and bone. Very strong and super fast, and yet their most dangerous weapon was a poisonous toxin expelled with their saliva that rendered its victim immobile for hours—which was just long enough to be consumed by your worst nightmare, inch by agonizing inch.

  A ghoul could shoot a stream of that nastiness with paralyzing accuracy, and her back was up against the wall. Literally. She had nowhere to go, which made her a decent target.

  Remaining far enough away to avoid the deadly slice of her blade, the ghoul roared again, opening wide to launch a thick jet of its poison.

  She swore between clenched teeth and ducked to the side so it didn’t get her full in the face. The fluid struck the rock behind her. It splashed, bounced off, and splattered onto her neck, cheek, and the hand she lifted to protect herself. “Damn it.”

  She righted herself and quickly jerked out of the way of another swipe of those wicked claws. “Damn. Damn. Da—”

  The effect of the poison was practically instantaneous, numbing her hand, cheek, and the exposed skin at the base of her neck. It traveled quickly across her face, down her neck and left shoulder.

  Okay, now she was worried.

  She told herself the exposure was minimal and probably wouldn’t hit her heart, move any farther than her elbow, or inhibit her brain function. Yeah, right. The arm was already practically useless, and “damn” was likely to be the last coherent word she would pronounce with her thickened tongue for a while.

  It would suck if her last word ever was a mumbled “damn.” When the time came—hopefully not today—she had hoped to be in a position to impart some profound and meaningful advice—

  Another swipe of claws. She barely shifted out of the way in time to prevent her innards from tumbling out onto the dirt floor of the cavern.

  Maybe she should think of that meaningful advice real quick.

  Glancing up, she realized the goblin king was watching her dodge and parry. His indecision was clear as he paused and hitched the boy up in his arms.

  Just what did he think he was going to do?

  Worried his royal goblinness was about to attempt something royally stupid, she shook her head and glared at him before twisting her hip and leveling the ghoul in the chest with the heel of her boot. It stumbled back a few steps.

  “Go! Get out of here,” she shouted. It came out sounding more like Het ooh a hee because she couldn’t make her lips form the words, but he would get the picture.

  He had better get the picture.

  Either way, she couldn’t afford to wait and see. Ignoring the tingling in her forearm—hell, that stuff was potent—she returned her attention to the ghoul, countering its next attack with a hard, straight jab.

  Her blade sank into its shoulder. She pulled back and quickly backed it up with a solid roundhouse to the gut, trying to throw the thing off balance. Knowing she couldn’t afford to let up, she struck again with her blade, slicing its chest open from end to end. The creature howled. The sound grated in her ears like metal scraping over metal.

  With a relentless lack of mercy or compassion, she advanced again. And again. Looking for the opening, she needed to end this once and for all.

  Despite Greta having gained some ground, the ghoul wasn’t slowing down, and it wasn’t backing down. Its growing rage had only made it more determined. She got the distinct feeling since she had deprived the thing of its dinner, it had decided she should take the boy’s place.

  She was toast.

  Her next strike was deflected and her hand whipped back in a wide arc, her wrist striking rock. She hissed, barely managing to hold onto her weapon. Stumbling, she tried bracing herself against the wall but her arm wouldn’t respond and she just leaned against it instead.

  The ghoul lunged. Its claws tore into her shoulder, wrenching a scream from her throat. She was thrown back and bit her lip hard. Her head bounced off the wall and she groaned. Second time today.

  She was going to have a bump—not that a headache would matter much to a dead person.

  Swallowing the blood in her mouth and fighting off the wave of nausea that threatened to take her consciousness, she put her back to the wall. How was she still on her feet? Ah, hell. She was weakening with every heartbeat, her system shutting down fast in reaction to the always-great combo of rapid blood loss and ghoul poison.

  Blinking back the globby dots swimming in her field of vision, she pushed off the wall and skirted to the side in time to avoid another wicked swipe—a close one. Would have taken her head clean off.

  The fact that she’d started musing about her imminent death knocked some sense back into her. With a deep breath, she ducked beneath the creature’s long arm, the point of her blade puncturing its side again.

  Once more, a flash of movement drew her attention from the fight. The goblin king had re-entered the cavern alone, without his heavy outer cloak. He must have left the boy covered up somewhere outside.

  Is he completely out of his mind?

  Gritting her teeth, she turned her back on him, pissed that he obviously hadn’t believed she could handle this creature on her own. Granted, she’d already gotten herself fatally spit on and clawed to ribbons in the space of what couldn’t be more than two minutes. Probably closer to one and a half. Still, this was her job. No way was anyone going to interfere.

  Duck and roll. When she came back up, it was with a renewed determination and her sword held high. A shout rumbled from deep within her churning belly as she forced her arm down in a sweeping diagonal arc and waited for the ghoul’s head to slide off its neck to the ground. Which it did with a satisfying thunk.

  The rest of its body tumbled over into the dirt a long second later, and Greta herself slumped against the cavern wall. Taking deep breaths, she waited for her body to catch up with her brain and realize the fight was over.

  Good thing Luke wasn’t here to see how badly she’d butchered this job. It was bad enough that it was his voice she heard in her mind, ripe with disappointment, telling her that after the embarrass
ing way she’d fought, she should be the one lying bloody in the dirt without a head.

  No argument there. She hadn’t been focused. She’d ignored her pater’s teachings, especially the most important of them all: Always stay in control.

  As much as she hated to admit it, she’d broken that rule today.

  And look what had happened.

  “Danem Greta.” Isaac came forward, reaching for her. She jerked away and pulled a cloth from her pocket, ignoring him as she wiped the ghoul’s black blood off her blade and slid it into the sheath at her waist.

  Wincing, she unstrapped a leather bag from her belt. It had a thick drawstring and the inside had been oiled to make it resistant to leakage. Whether that would work with corrosive ghoul poison…

  Her shoulder screamed with pain until she wanted to scream right along with it, but she’d already let the goblin see more weakness from her than she’d ever shown anyone except for Luke, so she forced herself to bend and grab her prize.

  She clutched the ghoul’s head by the coarse strands of its dirty, matted hair. Immediately, the disgusting bite of hundreds of tiny crawling parasites stung her hand and arm as they rushed to flee their food source. She stifled an involuntary shudder of disgust.

  “Leave that thing be.”

  The creature’s perma-snarl threatened soundlessly up at her as she started to shove it into her bag. As per the terms of the county writ, it wasn’t enough to have rescued the boy. She needed proof of the creature’s death in order to collect the reward.

  “Proof,” she said with big, numb lips. Pooth.

  “You don’t need that,” he insisted, his mouth curling in revulsion. “I’ll make certain you get paid.”

  She hesitated, contemplating whether she should ignore him out of spite. But she wasn’t quite that stubborn. There was a whole mountain of things Greta wouldn’t have trusted him with if her life depended on it, but he had no reason to screw her out of this bounty. If she didn’t have to carry a dead ghoul’s disgusting head on her back all the way to town, so much the better.

  “Fine.” Faaa. With a shrug, she dropped the thing back into the dirt and wiped her hand on her pants. She was going to have to burn these clothes.

  Adrenaline and poison pumped hard through her bloodstream. Deep breaths. Pull yourself together. With a small shake of her head, she looked at the mess surrounding her. Her job was not over. As much as the entire operation turned her stomach, it wouldn’t do to leave without cleaning this up.

  “Go. I’ll burn the body then put out the fire,” she said, carefully forcing the slurred words past her thick tongue. “Get kid…out. Cold. Medical attention. Parents will…want to know.”

  He just watched her. He didn’t answer, didn’t mock her pathetic excuse for a rescue attempt, or her garbled words.

  And he didn’t leave.

  She frowned. If that turned out to be pity on his face, she was going to punch—

  “Why do you do this?”

  His sudden, pointed demand startled her. She forced a snort. Why indeed? “What do you think I should do instead?” She pursed her lips, willing the feeling back into them. “Settle down in some pasture with a beefy troll, raising ornery cattle and little munchkins?” Liddoo mushins?

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t have said that. But why this?”

  Because one of these days it could lead the way out of here. She gazed into the bonfire still blazing in the middle of the cavern. “Why not this? It hasn’t gotten me killed yet. The pay is decent. It’s as good a career choice as anything else in this ridiculous world.”

  He tilted his head, studying her.

  She bit her tongue. Served her right for letting bitterness seep into her voice. “Now go before that kid freezes to death and costs me my bounty.” Boondee.

  Chapter Three

  She came back outside much later. Aching, filthy, exhausted.

  Propping her head against the rock wall, she took several deep, cleansing drags of winter air into her lungs. For once, she was grateful for the cold.

  Looking up into the late afternoon sky, Greta half-expected to see the goblin king waiting for her. There was nothing but the trees, and a lingering scent of smoke—probably coming off her clothing—but from the looks of it, he hadn’t been gone very long. His tracks remained in the snow, illuminated by the soft pink glow of Mylena’s two large moons.

  She spared a glance down at the massive boot print in front of her before stepping over it back through the woods the way she’d come hours ago.

  She trudged along slowly, the wind whipping across her face. “Sand and sp-p-lashing surf.” Blinking away the crystals forming on her eyelashes, she glanced up at the evergreens, so wide and tall all around her, they seemed to be closing in. “T-t-tender barbecue chicken.” Her teeth chattered together. “T-t-tall, leafy palms. A w-w-warm yellow sun.”

  After tripping for the third time, she paused. Unfortunately, the cold hadn’t yet made her delusional enough to believe the wet stuff filling her boots and trickling down the back of her neck was anything but miserable, icy snow, or that she was anywhere but miserable, far-from-home Mylena.

  She breathed heavily from the exertion of pushing herself through the deep drifts, and tried convincing herself—without much luck—that it was good for her.

  By the time she made her way to the edge of the woods, she was dead on her feet. She shuddered uncontrollably, but not entirely from cold. The whole left side of her upper body was still numb. Probably a blessing given how the rest of her felt.

  Her right shoulder had been sending shooting pain up and down her arm ever since the ghoul clawed it all to hell, and now it also throbbed with a sweeping heat that said a nice infection was setting in. It emanated through the heavy layers of her outerwear, strong enough to convince her foggy brain she just might be close to that tropical paradise she’d been imagining.

  Blinking, she forced her leaden legs to carry her onward, muttering aloud to nobody in particular. Luke would have told her to quit complaining. He would have reminded her that tonight’s outcome could have been much worse. She could have been killed.

  Death might actually be an improvement right about now.

  Just a few feet from the road, she tripped over a branch hidden beneath a layer of snow and went down hard. Unable to move quickly enough to brace herself, she caught a face full of the cold stuff and tore her pant leg.

  Frigid wetness trickled down her calf into her boot. At least it numbed the sting from whatever rocky outcropping had cut open her shin.

  She flopped onto her side.

  Waited.

  Nope. Still not getting up.

  Greta’s eyelids drooped and she had to force them open again. Losing consciousness here, now—not a good idea. Chances were she wouldn’t ever wake up.

  She groaned. “Come on, you great big wimp. On your feet.”

  Moving slowly, she planted her hand in the deep snow for balance and tried to push herself up. A pathetic little shove. There was nothing left in her body to back up her will—and her will wasn’t exactly cooperating anymore, either. Maybe it was the cold, the poison in her system. Perhaps blood loss and exhaustion.

  Or, hey, why not all of the above?

  Whatever. She was done.

  Expelling a slow breath, her eyes fell closed. So tired and weak, she tasted salty tears at the corner of her mouth and realized they tracked down both her cheeks. Her heart ached as badly as her body.

  Mama. I want my mama.

  She laid her head on her arm, knowing the dreams would come, but without the strength to hold them—or the goblin king—off any longer.

  …

  He was here, sitting in the corner of the noisy taproom, just like he’d been the first time they’d met a fortnight ago. She ignored him now like she should have done then, making her way to the bar through the unusually thick crowd of sprites and goblins and…whatever the heck that gray guy was.

  Dreaming or not, she could still use a drink. />
  She pulled up an empty stool and sat beside a brawny troll with a scrunched-up face that reminded her of the pit bull that lived in the corner house on the street where she grew up.

  Shaking her head of the memory, she waited patiently for Maidra, then ordered a hot linberry tea to stave off the always-present chill that was part and parcel of a world where winter never ended. All the while, she sensed the goblin king watching her, felt the itch of his gaze right between her shoulder blades.

  She focused on the swirling tendrils of steam coming from her mug. It seemed to linger, to expand and spread out in front of her until the entire room was shrouded in a light fog.

  He was doing it again.

  She sighed. This wasn’t the first time he’d stolen into her sleep like a thief and manipulated her dreams. Those “interactions” were part of the reason their relationship felt deeper than it should have considering they’d only known each other for two weeks.

  Focusing on her reflection in the mirror over the back of the bar, Greta’s slim brows lifted in an arch over pale blue eyes, and her lips compressed into a thin, uncompromising line. She wasn’t wearing her own clothes—the familiar leather and furs of a bounty hunter—but soft, feminine fabrics similar to what other Mylean girls her age wore. And her blond hair fell loose to her shoulders instead of braided to cover her ears.

  She had some control in these dreams, at least. He seemed able to fashion the environment however he chose, but he couldn’t really force her to do things. It wasn’t like she was stuck playing a part in his own private stage production.

  Which made what happened the first time she’d dreamed of him that much worse.

  She blushed whenever she thought about it because, at that point, she hadn’t realized what he was doing. Hadn’t realized she was no longer alone in her head when she dreamed. She’d let him see the girl she wished she could have been the night they met—free to laugh and flirt with a good looking guy—instead of Greta the bounty hunter, who’d been on guard and unable to show any emotion.