P.C. Cast - Mysteria Nights

Hell’s bells, ’twas a goblin! Useless monsters, always underfoot. “Too many eyes,” Damon growled. “And too few brains.”

The creature came into view. It had the dark green skin of a frog, gleaming and lumpy with boils. That the little goblin hadn’t called him “Lord” reminded Damon just how far he’d fallen.

No, not fallen. Risen. Damon had to think differently now.

The little monster waved something at him. “I have me a souvenir.”

Between the goblin’s spindly fingers was a long strand of wavy dark hair. Harmony’s hair. Damon’s heart dropped. If the goblin brought part of Harmony back to Hell—any part: a fingernail, this strand of hair—it would forge a link between the underworld and this farm, and would make other night creatures more brazen. They’d come looking for souvenirs of their own, mementos far more precious.

Damon advanced on the goblin, snarling, but the goblin danced out of his reach. “No, no, you can’t have it, mortal. It’s a prize too sweet. A prize all mine. Mine, mine, mine. Soon she will like me, too. She will like me, she will, better than you.” A slimy, warty tongue darted out between the goblin’s lips and slid down the entire length of the hair, a sensation Harmony would feel in her sleep night after night unless Damon ended it here.

Rage boiled up inside Damon and made his blood burn. Snarling, he grabbed for the little beastie, but it slipped out of his grip. Fury was making him sloppy. In the past, he’d always acted efficiently and without emotion. Now anger drove him. Aye, anger and fear.

Slow down. Concentrate. Damon forcibly unclenched his teeth and extended an open hand. “Give.”

“No, no, no. Oh, no. Mine, mine, mine. All mine, not yours.”

“But all Hell-born are brothers, yes?” The mere thought of pledging a blood bond with a goblin almost made him puke. “’Tis simple. You help me, I help you.” He advanced another step. “Give me the hair and no harm will come to you for your trespassing.”

“Harm, harm will never come,” the goblin sang. “Your powers are gone, yes, they are.” Spinning in a careless little pirouette, it waved the strand of hair like a victory flag.

Damon watched. Waited. His gentler tone had made the thing careless. Lost in celebrating, the goblin spun closer.

Damon bolted forward and grabbed the creature by its skinny wrist before it could dart away. The goblin shrieked in surprise; its lips pulled back in fear, revealing rows of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth. “Ouch, mortal. Hurts—hurts, it does!”

Damon brought his face very close. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not yet mortal enough to care.”

With the wriggling, screaming goblin in one hand, he strode across the barn. “No, no, no!”

“I think yes.” Damon reached for a bucket and threw it under a spigot, turning on the water. A few drops splashed onto the creature’s belly and sizzled like hot oil.

The beastie screamed in agony and fright. “No! Not that! My lord and master, not that.”

“Ah, so I’m your lord now, eh?” Methodically, Damon filled the bucket. “Interesting how desperation breeds respect.”

“Master, Master, please. Let me go!”

Grim, Damon shut off the water and turned to the goblin dangling from his grip. Its eyes were wide, each blinking at different rates. Thin, blistered fingers curled around his forearm. Damon could feel a rapid pulse in the press of its fingertips. Harmony’s hair still curled from one knotty fist.

One dunk was all it’d take to silence the despicable creature forever.

Frantic yellow eyes searched his face. Damon knew he looked fearsome to the goblin, what with the rage he felt glowing in his gut. Sensing its demise, the goblin went very still. “I’ll do anything, Master, anything.”

Damon lowered the goblin until its bare feet hung inches from the water. Fear trembled through its thin frame. “Mercy,” the goblin wailed. “Oh, please. Mercy!”

Damon went very still. Mercy . . .

Harmony’s words echoed in his memory. “You’re a true man of mercy.”

But was he? Damon swallowed, frozen to the spot, almost forgetting about the struggling goblin that was so far too panicked to sense Damon’s hesitation, his weakness.

Nay, not weakness! Mercy was not a weakness. Mercy was never wrong!

’Twas it not time to prove he believed it?

Damon turned his attention to his prisoner. “Give me your prize, goblin. Give it to me and I will let you live.”

The goblin’s little hand unfurled. “Here, Master. Here, here. You take—please take.”

Damon snatched the curly black strand and slipped it into his trousers pocket. Then he brought his nose very close to the little creature’s maw. The goblin’s breath was fetid and warm. Wisely, the creature chose silence, or Damon might not have trusted himself to maintain his compassion. “Never come here again—you or your cohorts. For if you do return here, ’twill not go well for you the next time.” He lowered the creature, slowly, until its heels just barely brushed the water. A sizzle and a scream brought a smile of satisfaction to Damon’s face. “Not well at all . . .”

He threw the goblin to the ground. “Go! Return here and ye will perish.”

“Don’t want to perish. No, no, I will go, go.” Gasping, the goblin scrabbled, limping, across the hay-strewn floor and disappeared into a small Hell hole that opened only wide enough to allow the creature to disappear.

Sniffing the air one more time to check for subdemons, goblins, and other dark creatures, Damon had almost convinced himself there were none close by when another dark form came barreling into the barn, snorting and snuffling. A breath away from flinging the creature into the wall, Damon saw that the intruder was Harmony’s dog.

Bubba leaped up on him, black eyes shining: a wriggling, roiling mass of pure eagerness—eagerness to see him, to smell him, and above all to please. Damon scratched him behind the ears. “Aye, I’m glad to see ye, too.”

Next, Harmony swept through the door, her arms filled with bundles. She’d changed clothes from earlier. Her blouse was pink and form-fitting, worn over faded blue pants that hugged every inch of her long, firm legs. The flesh of her ankles peeked out between the pants and pink-and-white rubber-soled shoes.

“Down, Bubba!” Harmony’s hair bounced in a mass of dark ringlets around her shoulders. “Damon does not want to be mauled.”

Mauled by the dog, no, Damon thought. But mauled by you, lass, well, that would be an experience to be savored, indeed.

“I’m sorry, Damon. He’s all over you.”

“’Tis not a bother.” Damon took the pup’s head in his broad palms and held eye contact with the squirming animal. Be still, boy. Be still.

The dog immediately sat on its rump. Only its tongue fluttered.

Harmony laughed. “How do you do that? It’s amazing. I’m going to start calling you the dog whisperer.”

“’Tis a lot like whispering,” he conceded, sorry that the talent to communicate with animals would soon leave him. With one last affectionate rub behind Bubba’s floppy ears, he turned his full attention to Harmony. His heart gave a little leap at the answering spark of interest he saw in her eyes.

She was full of life. She filled him with life.

Harmony smiled and reached for him, and his breath caught as he waited for her touch, but all she did was pluck a piece of straw from his shirt. “I thought you were going to rest.”

He glanced at the portion of the floor where the Hell hole had opened. It was gone. Only displaced straw indicated where the struggle had taken place. His shoulders sagged as he dashed an unsteady hand across his forehead. He hadn’t been weary before, but he was now. Battle, he’d overheard many a mortal warrior state, exhausted a man.