Wintersong(36)

I should have left. I should have run. This was Der Erlk?nig. 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 Erlk?nig 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 K?the, 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 you 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 Erlk?nig, distant and dangerous. I missed that soft-eyed young man. I wanted him back. He seemed real, not like Der Erlk?nig, 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 K?the 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.

“And so I did, my dear. So I did. Your sister is perfectly safe. She is whole, intact”—he placed a slight emphasis on the word intact—“and hale. My subjects were under orders not to touch her.”