Authors: Amanda Carlson
London, 175 years into the reign of Her Ensanguined Majesty Queen Victoria
I
hate
goblins.
And when I say hate, I mean they bloody terrify me. I’d rather French-kiss a human with a mouth full of silver fillings than pick my way through the debris and rubble that used to be Down Street station, searching for the entrance to the plague den.
It was eerily quiet underground. The bustle of cobbleside was little more than a distant clatter down here. The roll of carriages, the clack of horse hooves from the Mayfair traffic was faint, occasionally completely drowned out by the roar of ancient locomotives raging through the subterranean tunnels carrying a barrage of smells in their bone-jangling wake.
Dirt. Decay. Stone. Blood.
I picked my way around a discarded shopping trolley, and tried to avoid looking at a large paw print in the dust. One of them had been here recently–the drops of blood surrounding the print were still fresh enough for me to smell the coppery tang. Human.
As I descended the stairs to platform level, my palms skimmed over the remaining chipped and pitted cream and maroon tiles that covered the walls–a grim reminder that this…
mausoleum
was once a thriving hub of urban transportation.
The light of my torch caught an entire set of paw prints, and the jagged pits at the end where claws had dug into the steps. I swallowed, throat dry.
Of course they ventured up this far–the busted sconces were proof. They couldn’t always sit around and wait for some stupid human to come to them–they had to hunt. Still, the sight of those prints and the lingering scent of human blood made my chest tight.
I wasn’t a coward. My being here was proof of that–and perhaps proof positive of my lack of intelligence. Everyone–aristocrat, half-blood and human–was afraid of goblins. You’d be mental not to be. They were fast and ferocious and didn’t seem to have any sense of morality holding them back. If aristos were fully plagued, then goblins were overly so, though such a thing wasn’t really possible. Technically they were aristocrats, but no one would ever dare call them such. To do so was as much an insult to them as to aristos. They were mutations, and terribly proud of it.
Images flashed in my head, memories that played out like disjointed snippets from a film: fur, gnashing fangs, yellow eyes–and blood. That was all I remembered of the day I was attacked by a gob right here in this very station. My history class from the Academy had come here on a field trip. The gobs stayed away from us because of the treaty. At least they were
supposed
to stay away, but one didn’t listen, and it picked me.
If it hadn’t been for Church, I would have died that day. That was when I realised goblins weren’t stories told to children to make us behave. It was also the day I realised that if I didn’t do everything in my ability to prove them wrong, people
would think I was defective somehow–weak–because a goblin tried to take me.
I hadn’t set foot in Down Street station since then. If it weren’t for my sister Dede’s disappearance I wouldn’t have gone down there at all.
Avery and Val thought I was overreacting. Dede had taken off on us before, so it was hardly shocking that she wasn’t answering her rotary or that the message box on said gadget was full. But in the past she had called me to let me know she was safe. She always called
me
.
I had exhausted every other avenue. It was as though Dede had fallen off the face of the earth. I was desperate, and there was only one option left–goblins. Gobs knew everything that happened in London, despite rarely venturing above ground. Somehow they had found a way to spy on the entire city, and no one seemed to know just what that was. I reckon anyone who had the bollocks to ask didn’t live long enough to share it with the rest of us.
It was dark, not because the city didn’t run electric lines down here any more–they did–but because the lights had been smashed. The beam from my small hand-held torch caught the grimy glitter of the remains of at least half a dozen bulbs on the ground amongst the refuse.
The bones of a human hand lay surrounded by the shards, cupping the jagged edges in a dull, dry palm.
I reached for the .50 British Bulldog normally holstered snugly against my ribs, but it wasn’t there. I’d left it at home. Walking into the plague den with a firearm was considered an act of aggression unless one was there on the official–which I wasn’t. Aggression was the last thing–next to fear–you wanted to show in front of one goblin, let alone an entire plague. It was like wearing a sign reading
DINNER
around your neck.
It didn’t matter that I had plagued blood as well. I was only a half-blood, the result of a vampire aristocrat–the term that had come to be synonymous with someone of noble descent who was also plagued–and a human courtesan doing the hot and sweaty. Science considered goblins the ultimate birth defect, but in reality they were the result of gene snobbery. The Prometheus Protein in vamps–caused by centuries of Black Plague exposure–didn’t play well with the mutation that caused others to become weres. If the proteins from both species mixed the outcome was a goblin, though some had been born to parents with the same strain. Hell, there were even two documented cases of goblins being born to human parents both of whom carried dormant plagued genes, but that was very rare, as goblins sometimes tried to eat their way out of the womb. No human could survive that.
In fact, no one had much of a chance of surviving a goblin attack. And that was why I had my lonsdaelite dagger tucked into a secret sheath inside my corset. Harder than diamond and easily concealed, it was my “go to” weapon of choice. It was sharp, light and didn’t set off machines designed to detect metal or catch the attention of beings with a keen enough sense of smell to sniff out things like blades and pistols.
The dagger was also one of the few things my mother had left me when she… went away.
I wound my way down the staircase to the abandoned platform. It was warm, the air heavy with humidity and neglect, stinking of machine and decay. As easy as it was to access the tunnels, I wasn’t surprised to note that mine were the only humanoid prints to be seen in the layers of dust. Back in 1932, a bunch of humans had used this very station to invade and burn Mayfair–
the
aristo neighbourhood–during the Great Insurrection. Their intent had been to destroy the aristocracy,
or at least cripple it, and take control of the Kingdom. The history books say that fewer than half of those humans who went into Down Street station made it out alive.
Maybe goblins were useful after all.
I hopped off the platform on to the track, watching my step so I didn’t trip over anything–like a body. They hadn’t ripped up the line because there weren’t any crews mental enough to brave becoming goblin chow, no matter how good the pay. The light of my torch caught a rough hole in the wall just up ahead. I crouched down, back to the wall as I eased closer. The scent of old blood clung to the dust and brick. This had to be the door to the plague den.
Turn around. Don’t do this
.
Gritting my teeth against the trembling in my veins, I slipped my left leg, followed by my torso and finally my right half, through the hole. When I straightened, I found myself standing on a narrow landing at the top of a long, steep set of rough-hewn stairs that led deeper into the dark. Water dripped from a rusty pipe near my head, dampening the stone.
As I descended the stairs–my heart hammering, sweat beading around my hairline–I caught a whiff of that particular perfume that could only be described as goblinesque: fur, smoke and earth. It could have been vaguely comforting if it hadn’t scared the shit out of me.
I reached the bottom. In the beam from my torch I could see bits of broken pottery scattered across the scarred and pitted stone floor. Similar pieces were embedded in the wall. Probably Roman, but my knowledge of history was sadly lacking. The goblins had been doing a bit of housekeeping–there were fresh bricks mortared into parts of the wall, and someone had created a fresco near the ancient archway. I could be wrong, but it looked as though it had been painted in blood.
Cobbleside the sun was long set, but there were street lights, moonlight. Down here it was almost pitch black except for the dim torches flickering on the rough walls. My night vision was perfect, but I didn’t want to think about what might happen if some devilish goblin decided to play hide and seek in the dark.
I tried not to imagine what that one would have done to me.
I took a breath and ducked through the archway into the main vestibule of the plague’s lair. There were more sconces in here, so I tucked my hand torch into the leather bag slung across my torso. My surroundings were deceptively cosy and welcoming, as though any moment someone might press a pint into my hand or ask me to dance.
I’ll say this about the nasty little bastards–they knew how to throw a party. Music flowed through the catacombs from some unknown source–a lively fiddle accompanied by a piano. Conversation and raucous laughter–both of which sounded a lot like barking–filled the fusty air. Probably a hundred goblins were gathered in this open area, dancing, talking and drinking. They were doing other things as well, but I tried to ignore them. It wouldn’t do for me to start screaming.
A few of them looked at me with curiosity in their piercing yellow eyes, turning their heads as they caught my scent. I tensed, waiting for an attack, but it didn’t come. It wouldn’t either, not when I was so close to an exit, and they were curious to find out what could have brought a halvie this far into their territory.
Goblins looked a lot like werewolves, only shorter and smaller–wiry. They were bipedal, but could run on all fours if the occasion called for additional speed. Their faces were a disconcerting mix of canine and humanoid, but their teeth were all predator–exactly what you might expect from a walking nightmare.
I’d made it maybe another four strides into this bustling netherworld when one of the creatures stuck a tray of produce in my face, trying to entice me to eat. Grapes the size of walnuts, bruise-purple and glistening in the torchlight, were thrust beneath my nose. Pomegranates the colour of blood, bleeding sweet-tart juice, filled the platter as well, and apples–pale flesh glistening with a delicate blush. There were more, but those were the ones that tempted me the most. I could almost taste them, feel the syrup running down my chin. Berry-stained fingers clutched and pinched at me, smearing sticky delight on my skin and clothes as I pressed forward.
“Eat, pretty,” rasped the vaguely soft cruel voice. “Just a taste. A wee little nibble for our sweet lady.”
Our?
Not bloody fucking likely. I couldn’t tell if my tormentor was male or female. The body hair didn’t help either. It was effective camouflage unless you happened upon a male goblin in an amorous state. Generally they tried to affect some kind of identity for themselves–a little vanity so non-goblins could tell them apart. This one had both of its ears pierced several times, delicate chains weaving in and out of the holes like golden stitches.
I shook my head, but didn’t open my mouth to vocalise my refusal. An open mouth was an invitation to a goblin to stick something in it. If you were lucky, it was only food, but once you tasted their poison you were lost. Goblins were known for their drugs–mostly their opium. They enticed weak humans with a cheap and euphoric high, and the promise of more. Goblins didn’t want human money as payment. They wanted information. They wanted flesh. There were already several customers providing entertainment for tonight’s bash. I pushed away whatever pity I felt for them–everyone knew what happened when you trafficked with goblins.
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?