Shadowsong (Wintersong #2)(77)

The green and gray of the Goblin King’s eyes flash white and blue, white and blue, the pupils shrinking to a pinprick of black. The corners of his lips curl, close—so close—to mine.

As you wish, my dear.

As you wish.

A breath, a sigh, a kiss, and we are met.

Ice runs through me, knife slashes of cold up and down my body. His fingertips leave searing trails of frost against my skin, and I no longer know whether or not I’m dying by fire or by freeze. Inky darkness trails up my arms and legs in whorls of black, and I can taste the sickly-sweet bitterness of opium—or blood—on my tongue. It has never hurt like this before, both inside and out. I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t crave it.

But I do.

Meine K?nigin.

He calls me his queen, and I drink in the words, letting them fill me inside and out. The Goblin King’s hands find the seams of my gown, and I feel the laces of my stays snap one by one, the light tinkling of shattered glass as the frozen ribbons fall to the floor.

“Mein Herr,” I breathe. I am excited and frightened, elated and afraid, and tears slide down my cheeks. I’m sobbing and shaking, but the Goblin King holds me even tighter, as though only he can hold me together.

“No,” I whisper. “Break me. Let me fall apart.”

Punish me. Destroy me. Let me suffer the consequences of being my abject, ignoble self. I was no longer Elisabeth, entire, but Elisabeth, obliterated. There is no tenderness in the Goblin King’s rough touch, and it leaves me in tatters. I hated myself enough to be wiped from existence and memory, and I press myself harder against the keen edges of him. I do not deserve to be remembered. I do not deserve to be loved.

Hands wrap themselves about my throat, a cage of bones like a collar, and he claims me as his. The Goblin King’s lips stretch in a feral grin, the tips of his teeth gleaming in the light like a wolf’s bared to the sun. I should not have run away from the Underground. I should not have hurt my brother. I should not have doomed the world. Yes, please, yes. I am a sinner, a villain, a wretch. I am worthless, the most despicable of women.

Elisabeth.

The Goblin King’s voice is changed, a desperate urgency in his tone that only stirs my blood. I feel my pulse pounding everywhere—my ears, my throat, my wrists, my chest, my thighs—a persistent rhythm echoing in my body. It sets the tempo of our encounter, but I sense him pausing, chafing, resisting.

Elisabeth, please.

The cracking, creaking sound of twigs breaking or bones snapping, and the fingers of his hands twist and gnarl. Too many joints in his fingers, too little color in the Goblin King’s eyes. I stare into them, blue and white, then gray and green, as I watch the face of a man emerge from the monster in my arms.

Elisabeth.

It is the vulnerability in his voice that stops me, not the danger dressed in black with eyes of ice and death. I am holding them both, my austere young man and the Lord of Mischief, and they are one and not.

Der Erlk?nig smiles.

The Goblin King cries.

With a scream, I shove him away, but I am tangled in his embrace—my skirts in shreds about my ankles, my bodice falling off my shoulders. Der Erlk?nig laughs, a soundless cackle that makes my ears pop with pressure.

I have you now, Goblin Queen. You are mine.

Elisabeth!

With tremendous effort, my austere young man takes hold of himself, releasing me from his grip.

Go! Run!

He retreats back through the window between worlds, back into reflection, back to the Underground.

“Mein Herr!” I shout, striking at the broken mirror with bare fists. My hands leave bloody streaks against the glass, but for all my begging and pleading, the Goblin King does not return. My screams are as shattered as the panels in the ballroom, fractured and refracted in the topsy-turvy shambles of my mind.

Run, and nothing but his whispered echo remains.





HE IS FOR DER ERLK?NIG NOW

“fr?ulein? Fr?ulein!”

I felt a pair of hands upon my shoulders, and I hissed and lashed out like a panicked cat. I struck something soft, and a muffled grunt filled my ear as strong hands wrapped themselves about my wrists.

“Fr?ulein?” the voice repeated, holding my flailing limbs close. “My dear, it’s all right, you’re fine. You’re safe.” The words repeated themselves in a shushing murmur, a soothing, repetitive sound that pulled all my disparate parts back to myself.

Through my haze of fear and madness, a face came into focus. Round, rosy cheeks, black button-bright eyes, a startled shock of frizzy, iron-gray whispers framing a concerned mouth.

The Count.

“Nina! Bring the young lady something to drink. Tea, perhaps, or something stronger.”

I noticed the housekeeper standing behind my host with a worried expression on her broad face. Her dark eyes widened at the sight of blood running down the broken mirrored panels, and her hands went up to cover her mouth with her apron.

“Nina!” The Count repeated his request in Bohemian, and the housekeeper snapped to attention. She bobbed a quick curtsy and bustled out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Are you all right?” The Count peered into my face, taking in my red-blotched cheeks, my swollen eyes, and unkempt hair. He then took in the ripped bodice, the tattered skirts, my general state of deshabille and the angry red welts upon my arms. “What happened?”