“A Vardan get,” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly low and articulate for a goblin. “Here on the official?”
Half-bloods took the title of their sire as their surname. The Duke of Vardan was my father. “Nothing official, my lord. I’m here because the goblin prince knows everything that happens in London.”
“True,” he replied with a slow nod. Despite my flattery he was still looking at me like he expected me to do or say something. “But there is a price. What do you offer your prince, pretty get?”
The only prince I claimed was Albert, God rest his soul, and perhaps Bertie, the Prince of Wales. This mangy monster was not my prince. Was I stupid enough to tell him that? Hell, no.
I reached into the leather satchel I’d brought with me, pulled out the clear plastic bag with a lump of blood-soaked butcher’s paper inside and offered it to the goblin. He snatched it from me with eager hands that were just a titch too long and dexterous to be paws, tossed the plastic on the floor and tore open the paper. A whine of delight slipped from his throat when he saw what I’d brought. Around us other goblins raised their muzzles and made similar noises, but no one dared approach.
I looked away as the prince brought the gory mass to his muzzle and took an enthusiastic bite. I made my mind blank, refusing to think of what the meat was, what it had been. My only solace was that it had already been dead when I bought it. The blood might smell good, but I couldn’t imagine eating anything that… awful… terrible… raw.
The goblin gave a little shudder of delight as he chewed and rewrapped his treat for later. A long pink tongue slipped out to lick his muzzle clean. “Proper tribute. Honours her prince. I will tell the lady what I know. Ask, pretty, ask.”
The rest of the goblins drifted away from us, save for one little gob who came and sat at the prince’s furry feet and stared at me with open curiosity. I was very much aware that every goblin who wasn’t preoccupied with human playthings watched me closely. I was relatively safe now, having paid my tribute to their prince. So long as I behaved myself and didn’t offend anyone, I’d make it out of here alive. Probably.
“I want to know the whereabouts of Drusilla Vardan,” I said quietly, even though I knew most of the goblins had keen enough hearing to eavesdrop without trying. Their sensitivity to sound, as well as light, kept them deep underside.
The prince raised his canine gaze to mine. It was unnerving looking into that one bright eye, seeing intelligence there while he had yet to clean all the blood from his muzzle. “The youngest?”
I nodded. My father had gone through something of a mid-immortality crisis about two and a half decades ago and done his damnedest to impregnate every breeding courtesan he could find. The first attempt had resulted in my brother Val, the second in me and the third and fourth in Avery and Dede. Four live births out of nine pregnancies over a five-year period–pretty potent for a vampire.
“She’s missing.” He didn’t need to know the particulars–like how she had last been seen at her favourite pub. “I want to know what happened to her.”
“Nay, you do not,” the prince replied cheerfully. “Pretty wants to know where her sibling is. The prince knows.” He petted the little goblin on the head as he bared his teeth at me–a smile.
Sweet baby Jesus. Even my spleen trembled at that awful sight.
Trying to hide my fear was futile, as he could surely smell it. Still, I had to give it a go. “Would you be so kind as to share my sister’s whereabouts, my lord? Please? I am concerned about her.”
If there was one thing goblins understood it was blood–both as sustenance and connection. Offspring happened rarely because of their degree of mutation, and were treasured. No decent goblin–and I use “decent” as loosely as it can possibly be construed–would turn down a request that involved family.
“New Bethlehem,” he replied in a grave growl.
I pressed a hand against the boned front of my corset, and closed my fingers into a fist. I would not show weakness here, no matter how much the prince might sympathise with my plight–he was still a goddam goblin. “Bedlam?” I rasped.
The prince nodded. “She was taken in two nights ago, in shackles.”
Albert’s fangs. I blasphemed the Queen’s late consort to myself alone. My mind could scarcely grasp the reality of it. “You’re wrong,” I whispered. “You have to be wrong.” But goblins were never wrong. If he hadn’t known, he wouldn’t have said. That was their way–so I’d been taught. “Honourable monsters”, Church had called them.
“Alexandra.”