Wintersong (Wintersong #1)(59)

“Stop!” I cried. “I wish you would stop!”

My voice rang out, echoing in the cavernous chamber. At once, all movement stilled. The goblins held their positions, frozen by my command. Their faces still contorted into expressions of desire, their limbs still twisted into grasping gestures. Their flat, black eyes moved and quivered, their inhuman chests rising and falling with each breath, the only movement in a still room.

I walked through the goblins, but not a single one stirred, bound by my wish. Only their eyes traced my path as I wound my way through the cavern. One poured an endless stream of wine into a goblet that overflowed onto the floor, another had sunk its teeth into the carcass of a raw and bloodied deer, yet another bent its back in the midst of a wild and savage dance.

Curious, I pushed at one of them. The flesh gave way beneath my fingers and offered me no resistance. I pinched the skin of its arm, rather cruelly, to see if I could make it react. No sound, no cry, no grimace, only a slight tightening of its mouth. Then, without warning, I shoved the goblin over with all my might.

The creature went careening into his fellow goblins, scattering them like tenpins. I laughed. I did not recognize the sound of my own laugh—high, wild, and cruel. I sounded like a mad woman. I sounded like one of them.

My laughter broke the spell that held them. The goblins began bowling into each other, sending each other flying, the crash of shattering dinnerware and the clatter of falling cutlery punctuated by the sharp, high laughter of the goblins. And me.

I surveyed my kingdom. Chaos. Cruelty. Abandon. I had always been holding back. Always been restrained. I wanted to be bigger, brighter, better; I wanted to be capricious, malicious, sly. Until now, I had not known the intoxicating sweetness of attention. In the world above, it had always been K?the or Josef who captivated people’s eyes and hearts—K?the with her beauty, Josef with his talent. I was forgotten, overlooked, ignored—the plain, drab, practical, talentless sister. But here in the Underground, I was the sun around which their world spun, the axis around which their maelstrom twirled. Liesl the girl had been dull, drab, and obedient; Elisabeth the woman was a queen.

Across the room, I spied my king. He was not part of the throng, off to the side, half-forgotten in the shadows. This night—my wedding night—was about me. I was the center of the goblins’ world, their savior, their queen. Yet a part of me longed for my adoring subjects to disappear. Longed to be alone with my husband. To be the subject of his adoration, the center of his world. Freed of my inhibitions by attention, power, and the goblin wine, I could finally admit how much I desired Der Erlk?nig.

I had always desired him, even when he had been a shadowy figure from Constanze’s stories, and even more when he had been my friend from the Goblin Grove. How had I forgotten? I knew that face, those eyes, that build. I knew how his lips thinned into an approving smile, how those eyes crinkled into a twinkle of pleasure. I had watched those fingers run themselves along an imaginary fingerboard, seen those arms hold an invisible bow as I shared my music with him. I had watched him study me, and knew now how he had become the most sublime interpreter of my art. He was as familiar to me as the sound of my own voice.

Around us a chorus of goblins screeched and shrieked their ribald comments and bawdy suggestions. While my cheeks were flushed, I drew my head up high and met Der Erlk?nig’s gaze. Although my laughter had broken the spell of I wish over the goblins, the Goblin King stood paralyzed, powerless against me. My mouth stretched in a grin, and I imagined my teeth growing sharper and pointed, the smile of a predator.

Fairy lights followed the path I cut through my gay, cavorting goblins, illuminating my husband’s face as I drew near. His face was blank and expressionless, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. No tremor nor tremble betrayed him, his hands loose and careful by his sides. Yet I noted the tension in his arms and shoulders, and wondered if my bridegroom was afraid.

Was he frightened of me? Somehow the thought excited me to greater heights. I was the Goblin Queen. I could force or coerce any goblin to do my bidding, including my king. The power was more intoxicating than the wine. I drew myself up tall, moved closer to claim my husband as mine.

I stopped just a handsbreath away from the Goblin King. My bare toes brushed the tips of his polished black boots. He did not shrink or withdraw, but he made no move to meet me either. I lifted my chin and studied his face. His eyes were … wary? excited? pleading? I could not read him, I could not parse his features into an expression I understood.

I lifted my fingers to touch his cheek. He was trembling, so slightly I could not see it, but felt it beneath my hand.

“Elisabeth,” he murmured, and his voice quivered too. Those quivers traveled all the way down my arm, down my chest, down to a secret, deep part of me. “Elisabeth, I—”

I shushed him with a finger across his mouth. He was shaking even harder now. I ran my hand down his lips to his jaw, and then farther down his neck to rest on his chest. I could feel the flutter of his heart beneath my palm; it felt like a baby bird in my hand.

I beg your compassion, my queen, your compassion and your grace.

Suddenly, I understood. He had put his trust—his faith—in me, and he was afraid of my mercy. My tender, sympathetic heart twinged, beating in time with his.

So I grasped his cloak and pulled him close, crushing our lips together in a kiss.

*

The kiss is sweeter than sin and fiercer than temptation. I am not gentle, I am not kind; I am rough and wild and savage. I bite, I nip, I lick, I devour. I want and I want and I want and I want. I hold nothing back.