I murmur, and I lean forward to drag the fairy up off the floor.
He dangles from my grip, his crystalline blue-green eyes clouded with pain. His only remaining wing twitches uselessly at his side. Given enough time, he can recover. His damaged wing, if not removed, will eventually fall off, and after a few years he will molt and have a new set. I grin savagely at him. De-winged and stranded in the human world is satisfying, although the desire to tear him apart is a hot pulse within my blood that is hard to ignore.
I give him a shake, and his eyes focus on me.
“Who sent you, and why?” I snarl.
His throat works, and a pained, half-wheezed moan hisses from him before he begins to speak.
“It was supposed to be easy… just grab the female and return. A human… How hard can that… be?” he mutters. “Didn’t think you would have help,” he adds, glaring at a grinning Grimsal.
I drop him in disgust and watch dispassionately as he crumples to the floor. Humming a tune to himself, the goblin crouches at his side and tucks a long strand of dark hair behind the male’s ear almost affectionately.
“Goblins are many things—thieves and tricksters to be sure—but most of us don’t condone murder. We don’t abide evil done. So I took it upon myself to bring the news when I caught wind of what was being planned. Now tell me,” he says pleasantly as he rises and steps forward to grind his heel into the damaged nerves of his remaining wing, “which of the fairy lords sent you?”
“He’ll kill me if I tell,” the male hisses.
I tower over him, drawing his attention to me as my shadow falls over him once more. My eyes narrow threateningly.
“If you don’t tell us, I will kill you. There is only one way out and that is by purchasing your life with the information you have,” I rumble with displeasure.
The goblin grinds his foot down harder, shifting his weight in the process and sliding his foot to cover more area to expand the zone of agony. The male screams and fights against him weakly for a few tense moments before pleas tumble from his lips and he nods in agreement.
“Okay. You win,” he mumbles, his head hanging heavily.
“Oh, you’re no fun. We barely got into the torture,” Grimsal complains loudly but as he does so he eases away and smirks down at the fairy as if daring the male to give him a reason to apply even more pain.
“Lord Halathnar, the fifty-sixth prince of the Underhill Kingdom,” the fairy groans quietly. “He wants her to feed from and enjoy her for as long as she’s able to survive it. He sent me and my mate and another male to acquire the female.”
“Oooh, a blood fetishist too, is he? Had plans to fuck and eat and probably do all sort of disgusting things.”
I shoot the goblin a dark look, and he has the grace to look chagrined. I absolutely do not wish to think of my female being used in such a way and for him to even speculate about it makes me want to do violent things to my temporary ally. He coughs and narrows his eyes at the fairy once more, his expression thoughtful.
“Fifty-sixth, huh?” Grimsal says, and his lip curls with disgust. “Damn fairies multiply like maggots in their Underhill courts.”
I shoot the goblin a questioning glance and am grateful when he answers without giving me cause to regret his help.
“The fairies live in a huge underground colony like fucking insects,” he supplied, a grin once more lighting his face. “They call the whole area the Underhill Kingdom, but it is actually several courts, each with their own king and queen. Most of the long-lived races wouldn’t have so many offspring because reproducing at such rates drains our magic and so we are slow to breed… but not fairies.” He rubs thoughtfully at his chin. “That could be why they consume every bit of raw magic they come across. Tell me,” he says, directing his attention back to the fairy. “How large of a brood does fifty-six have?”
The male’s useless wing twitches in the air as his face pinches.
“We can’t control our reproduction anymore,” he grumbles. “Whatever our ancestors did to boost our numbers may work well for the nobles, but it’s a curse for the rest of us. We drop like end-of-season butterflies, barely living even half the time our ancestors or