He walked down to the quay to meet me, his footfalls silent. He moved like a shadow, a shadow that bent down to take my hand and help me from the barge. He led me from the lakeside, up through a series of passageways, and into a large, well-lit chamber. We did not exchange a word.
As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I took in the chamber. It was the chapel. The ceilings were tall and arched—formed by nature, not by man—and beautiful stained glass windows were placed at regular intervals around the chamber. The windows did not open to the outside world, but were instead lit from within. There was an altar at the head of the chamber, and a modest crucifix hung in the sanctuary.
Tears stung my eyes. Goblin-made and Underground as this chapel might have been, it was still a church. A church like many I had seen in the world above. Here there were no strange goblin-made statuaries. Here there were no fantastic creatures, no leering satyrs, no ecstatic nymphs. Here there was nothing but Christ, the Goblin King, and me.
“It’s all right to grieve, Elisabeth.” His voice was gentle as I wiped away my tears. “I did, when I first came to the Underground.”
I nodded, but his sympathy only made my tears flow harder.
There was no priest to bless us, no one to conduct the service. But we were in the presence of God nonetheless. Here, before the altar, the Goblin King and I were to exchange our vows.
“I do—” I began, then stopped. What could I say to Der Erlkönig, the Lord of Mischief, the Ruler Underground? What vows could I offer that mattered? I had already made him the greatest promise, the greatest sacrifice: my life.
He saw my hesitation, and took my hands in his. “I do solemnly swear,” he said, “that I accept your sacrifice, the gift of your life, selflessly and selfishly given.”
I looked at our entwined fingers. The Goblin King had a violinist’s hands: long, dexterous fingers, the tips of his left one callused and rough where they pressed against the strings. They were hands that could be both gentle and cruel, and they were familiar.
“Do you swear, Elisabeth?” I glanced up at his face. Those mismatched eyes were uncertain, and I saw not Der Erlkönig, but the austere young man. “Do you swear that you make this bargain of … of your own free will?”
We kept each other’s gaze, unblinking and unbroken. Then I made my vows.
“I do solemnly swear,” I said softly, “that I give of myself unto you of my own free will. Body … and soul.”
Those mismatched eyes sharpened. “You, entire?”
I nodded. “Myself, entire.”
The Goblin King took a ring from his finger. It was wrought of silver, and fashioned into the shape of a wolf. Its paws swept around the band, and its eyes were gems of two different colors: one an icy blue and the other a silvery green.
“With this ring,” he said, taking my hands in his, “I make you my queen. To hold sovereignty over all that I rule, and the power to bend the will of the goblins to your every wish.”
He slid the ring onto my finger. It was too big, but I tightened my hand into a fist so I would not lose it. He wrapped his own hands over mine.
“Sovereignty over my kingdom, over the goblins, and over me,” he said. Then he knelt. “I beg your compassion, my queen. Your compassion, and your grace.”
I freed a hand from his grasp, the hand that bore his ring. I laid it over his brow, and I could feel him tremble beneath my touch.
Presently, he rose and retrieved a chalice from the altar.
“Let us drink.” He offered the goblet to me. “To seal our troth.”
The wine was as dark as blackberries, or sin. I remembered the heady rush of goblin wine, the sweet, full-bodied taste on my tongue. I remembered the loose-limbed, wanton self I had become at the Goblin Ball, and a slow, languorous heat began to warm me from within. I brought the chalice to my lips in a hasty swallow, a few drops falling onto the white silk of my wedding gown. They looked like drops of blood in the snow.
The Goblin King took the goblet back and drank a little himself, his eyes never leaving mine. There were promises of nights to come, and I swore to myself then that I would hold him to every single one.
He set the cup back on the altar, and slowly wiped the wine away from his mouth with the back of his hand. I swallowed hard. Then the Goblin King offered me his arm and we walked out of the chapel, into the Underground, as husband and wife.
WEDDING NIGHT
We emerged directly into the goblin revels.
At the center of the large cavern that had served as the ballroom was an enormous bonfire, around which the twisted shapes of goblins danced. A gigantic boar was speared and spitted over the fire, and the smell of roasted meat was overpowering. There were no lights in this cavern: no torches, no fairy lights, no candles burning away in their unsettling candelabras shaped like human arms. Only the flames of the bonfire, its bloody, inconstant fire growing shadows instead of throwing light.
I shrank away from the scene, but the Goblin King held my hand firmly.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured into my ear. “Remember my troth.”
But I was afraid. I had danced and feasted at the Goblin Ball, but this was something entirely different: wild, untamed, and feral. The Goblin Ball, hosted by the Goblin King, had had a veneer of civilized behavior overlaying its orgiastic abandonment, but there were no such niceties now. This was not hedonistic indulgence; this was savagery. I could smell blood—freshly spilled. It smelled of copper and iron and flesh. Twining, writhing shapes copulated in the corners of my vision, and I thought of the little objet d’art in my barrow room that depicted the nymph and the satyr. Music wailed on pipes and horns and catgut lutes—rude, rustic, without refinement. The goblin wine took the edges off my fear, but the chill of it still ran through my veins.
“Come,” the Goblin King said. “Let your subjects pay tribute to their new queen.”
He led me down the steps into the throng. Bodies and fantastical faces crowded me on all sides, leering and cheering at me, their spindly fingers like brambles in a hedge, catching on the edges of my dress, my veil, my hair. A little hunchback of a hobgoblin skipped up beside us and offered me a flagon of wine.
“Ah, the music maiden,” it said. “She smolders still. Tell me, mistress”—it winked at me—“does His Majesty fear to set you alight?”
I blinked, trying to place where I had seen its face before. The hobgoblin hummed a familiar little tune, and I caught the scent of summer peaches.
The goblin market.
It cackled when it saw recognition bloom across my face, and cackled even harder at the blush on the Goblin King’s cheeks. “Only a breath, Your Majesty. A breath, and she bursts into flame.”
The Goblin King grabbed the flagon from the hobgoblin’s spindly hands. He threw back his head and downed the wine, heedless of whatever spilled from his lips and coursed down his throat like blood. Then he offered me the flagon, and grinned.
I was taken aback by that grin. It was all sharp edges and pointed teeth. His hooded eyes twinkled maliciously, and he was the Lord of Mischief once more. Which was the mask and which was the man? Der Erlkönig or the austere young man to whom I had said my vows? I stared at him as I took the flagon from his grasp. Neither his expression nor his manner changed or softened, but something flashed across his eyes when our fingers brushed.
The goblins hooted and called as I threw back my head and gulped down the wine. It burned down my mouth and throat, staining my dress. The room wheeled and spun, and for a moment I thought I might be sick.
Eyes watched me as I struggled with the effects of the wine, judging my reaction. I took a deep breath, threw back my shoulders, and smiled. If it could be called a smile. It was more like a challenge met, a grimace, the way a dog bares its teeth in its last extremity. I might have even snarled.
The goblins whooped their approval, hissing appreciatively. They rubbed their long, spindly fingers together to make a shushing sound, the sound of the wind in the trees. They did not cl
ap the way humans did, and I suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The Goblin King’s hooded gaze rested on my wine-stained and dripping lips, and I stared back, bold for the first time in my life. He inclined his head.
“Let us join the revels, my queen.” He extended me a pale, elegant hand. His palm was cool and dry, but the living touch of his skin against mine sent my heart racing.
Without warning, the Goblin King swept me onto the cavern floor. The goblin musicians had not ceased playing their savage melodies, and we danced. No prescribed steps to follow, no restrained and civilized conversations to be held, we let the music overtake us. I danced with wild abandon, my veins running with wine, falling into the throng of goblins as they embraced me, kissed me, and worshipped me. I was passed from hand to hand, goblin to goblin, each wanting to steal a bit of me, my life, my fire. I was their queen, their sacrificial lamb placed atop the altar, and they paid homage to me with their bodies, their gifts, their offerings. They offered me food, fruit, and drink: flesh fresh-charred from the spit, overripe peaches and plums bursting to the touch, and wine so rich it spilled from tongue to tongue.
Somewhere in the fray I lost track of the Goblin King. I wanted him, reached for him, but could not find him.
Panic overtook me. Like wolves scenting blood on the wind, the goblins closed in around me, nipping, grabbing, biting like I was a hart in the hunt. My fear drove them into a frenzy. I cried out as they tore at my dress, my veil, my hair, but it wasn’t my modesty I was concerned about. I could feel life draining from my limbs, I was turning languid, liquid, dissolving into nothing as the goblins fed on my emotions, growing bigger, more powerful, more.
“No,” I said feebly, but my protests went unheard. “No.”
My subjects did not listen, lost in the bloodlust and lifelust of my mortal existence in their midst.
“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 Käthe or Josef who captivated people’s eyes and hearts—Käthe 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 Erlkönig.
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 Erlkönig’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.
Elisabeth, he exhales into me, and I feel my lungs, my body, my loins fill with his breath. He fills me and I want to be filled by him. I open my mouth to let him in, but his hands come up and wrap themselves around my arms.
No, no, no, I think. Don’t push me away. Light my fire. Make me burn.
But the Goblin King doesn’t push me away. He grips me closer, and I am met. Our lips part and greet like partners in a dance, meeting, twining, clinging. When he pulls away, I moan, but his mouth never travels far, kissing the corners of my lips and my chin,
his nose brushing the skin of my cheek.
I am sloppy, artless. I run my tongue along the upper edge of my teeth, the lower edge of his lip. He tastes like a winter wind, but the heat of our mouths warms him up, and then everything is languid, humid, hot, like a still summer night. His hands, wrapped tightly about my arms, loosen and slide down. His fingertips trace a line down my back, resting where the curve of it meets my backside.
Oh, God. I have no words and I am far from Heaven, but I do not care. I want to lie with the Devil and would do so again and again, just to feel like this. I am gripping his cloak so tight, I imagine the impression of the embroidery will be left on my palms for days.
Elisabeth, he breathes again. Elisabeth, I—
But I don’t let him finish.
I wish …
He pauses, tensing.
I wish you would take me. Ravish me. Right now.
Right now.
PRICK AND BLEED
The power of a wish. In the world above, wishes were will-o’-the-wisps: beautiful, but insubstantial and always just out of reach. Here in the Underground, will-o’-the-wisps were very much real. Tricksy little creatures: sly, deceitful, but tangible. Touchable. My wishes had weight.
Sounds faded, lights dimmed. It was a moment before I realized we were no longer in the great cavern. Swept up in the powerful current of our kiss, I had not noticed when the Goblin King and I were no longer surrounded by jeering, leering hobgoblins. I had not noticed that we were alone. I only noticed that his lips were no longer on mine, and I suffered their loss like a child deprived of its sweets: no—more, please, more.
I whimpered when the Goblin King withdrew, clutching and clinging to him. He stopped my amorous advances with a gentle hand on my mouth. I nuzzled into his fingers, craving whatever bit of him I could touch.