57. Thea
Thea
Not Crying, Just Laughing in Horrific Pain
They come by and let us use the restroom. Benson can barely stand and I have to hold him while he pees. We’ve reached a new level of friendship. No going back now. Also… okay, fine. Lazlo wasn’t lying. I started that rumor as a joke, but apparently, goblins really are packing.
They bring us some fast-food chicken sandwiches. They aren’t warm and the wrappers say this place doesn’t even open until eleven. So probably already afternoon. I’m basically Sherlock Holmes. I snort despite myself, working on Benson’s cuff.
“What’s so funny?” he asks weakly, eyes closed. He’s had the cuffs on for sixteen hours now, and he’s young. His magical reserves must be dwindling.
“The sandwiches,” I say. “They’re cold.”
“I noticed. Why is that funny?”
“The bag says the place opens at eleven. Means it’s already past noon. So either we slept through the worst of it, or this is the chillest hostage situation of all time.”
He cracks an eye open.
“You seriously read the wrapper?” His tone is dry, amused. “You need a new hobby.”
“What, you think consulting detective isn’t in my wheelhouse?” I shoot back, keeping my tone light. Trying to make it feel normal. Like we aren’t completely screwed.
“Is there such a thing as a consulting detective?”
“That’s literally Sherlock Holmes job, haven’t you read any of his books?” I ask.
“I meant you need a hobby other than reading,” he clarifies.
“You’re a monster!” I say with false bravado that causes a small chuckle. Score.
“Ah, the age-old debate: what are goblins?” he muses, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “We pass as human, but don’t have much in common.”
I give him a sidelong glance.
“Honestly, I don’t think either of us fits the human bill. Looks like we’re both monsters.”
He laughs weakly, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “More than just monsters, Thea. But, yeah, sometimes we’re seen as that. We’re… practical, I guess. Not much into philosophy or the finer things. We don’t have the luxury of overthinking.”
“Ah, so no Sherlock Holmes-type detective work for you then?” I ask, smirking.
He shakes his head.
“Not unless it involves tracking down something valuable. And even then, it’s all about the payoff, not the process.”
I work at the cuff a little more, feeling the pressure of time, but I can’t help but wonder.
“What makes goblins so… practical? Witches are so impractical it’s absurd.”
He pauses for a moment, as if thinking it over.
“Survival. We’re survivors. We don’t waste time trying to figure out why things happen. We just get through them.” He looks up at me, his eyes focused.
I nod slowly.
“Survival, huh? I feel like that’s all I’m doing some days too,” I admit. “But I’ve seen some of your crafting projects and designs, you’re super creative, so it can’t just be survival.”
“Art’s not about feelings. It’s just pretty,” Benson tells me.
“Like hell it isn’t. What? Van Gogh just had an astigmatism when he painted Starry Night?“ I ask, raising an eyebrow and holding my ground.
Benson’s laughter breaks through the tension, genuine, a bit breathless.
“Alright, alright,” he says, grinning weakly. “You got me there. I guess there’s more to it than putting pieces together.”
I grin, feeling a little lighter. “See? Even goblins can be poets under the right circumstances.”
He shakes his head, but there’s something warmer in his expression now.
“You really think so?”
“I do. It’s not just about surviving, Benson. It’s about living too.”
Benson reaches out, his hand curling around my wrist in a gesture of camaraderie as I work on the cuff.
“You need to get out and live too, Thea. Not just read about life in books.”
His fingers brush against the brand, and an icy jolt zips through me. I’d almost forgotten about it: the scythe brand. The illusion that usually covers it has faded along with the rest of my magic.
“Weird. It’s like one spot’s colder than the rest.” he says quietly, flipping my hand over in the dim light. His fingers trace the brand.
“It’s nothing.” I try to pull away, but his goblin-strength grip, even with his drained magic, holds firm.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes focus intently on my wrist. “You died?”
I feel his gaze move up to meet mine, locking onto my eyes. The weight of his question settles deep in my chest, making it harder to breathe. I want to lie, but the truth is already on display in front of him.
“Yes,” I concede.
“I thought the scythe brand was a myth,” he murmurs, staring at me like he’s seeing a legend come to life.
The steady tread of boots echoes down the hallway, unhurried and sure. Benson immediately drops my hand. His eyes promise this conversation isn’t over as he moves away.
I sit against the cold wall and tuck the nail behind an empty can, my fingers trembling slightly. I force myself to look up. I need to appear unaffected.
The door slams open, and Grunt’s hulking figure stands in the doorway.
“Doll, come with me.”
“What about Benson?”
“He’s too weak,” he growls, his grip closing around my arm like a vise as he yanks me to my feet.
I glance over my shoulder, watching as Benson struggles to stand, before the door slams shut with a final, resounding bang.
A strange, sick feeling coils in my gut, but I force myself to turn away and let Grunt drag me down the hallway.
“You got a weak spot for that one, don’t you?” Grunt snarls.
“You need to take that cuff off him before it kills him,” I retort, my voice steady despite the unease settling in my chest.
“They won’t kill him,” Grunt mutters, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
“Really?” I snap, incredulous. “Do you not know that witch-cuffs kill goblins? Seriously, where did they find you, ?”
Anger flashes across his face.
“You’re just lying to get me to let him free so he can save you.” He stops abruptly, spinning me to face him with a violent force. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re in my world now. And if you think your boyfriend matters, then you’re dumber than I thought.”
He drags me down another corridor. The sounds ahead grow louder: shouting, grunting, the unmistakable smack of flesh meeting flesh as we approach a barred door. Grunt yanks it open with effort, revealing a small arena on the other side.
The stench of sweat, blood, and aggression hits me like a slap in the face.
The floor of the arena is stained with dark blotches: some blood, some sweat, some both.
Two goblins are fighting, their bodies twisting and slamming against each other with brutal force.
Fists are flying, teeth bared in snarls of rage.
Each blow is delivered with calculated precision, the pain in their growled expletives adding fuel to the chaotic chorus around them.
“Watch and learn,” Grunt leers, pushing me forward to make me see better.
I watch it unfold with a sense of detachment.
I don’t know these goblins, and while Grunt is pretending this is some sort of goblin-specific activity, I recognize it simply as a cage fight.
Lazlo once told me about a shifter cage fight he went to, where a dragon shifter caught a wolf shifter on fire, leaving a burned-out corpse.
This is nothing, just bare-knuckle boxing.
I glance at Grunt, who’s surveying me with enthusiasm, waiting for some kind of reaction.
“You like what you see?” he snickers.
“Yes,” I say brightly. “Looks like you took my advice about the ironic bloodstain.”
I can practically hear his eyes roll.
“This what you want to get involved in, spell-doll?” Spreading his arms wide.
“That’s it!” I say in sudden understanding. “You’re trying to scare me away from goblins.”
He falters for a second, clearly not expecting that, but recovers fast.
“This is how we settle things. This is how we survive. We’re brutes.”
“A cage fight?” I arch a brow. “This your big, scary goblin lesson? Intimidation through mediocre entertainment?”
His laugh is low and mocking.
“Keep talking. Soon enough, you’ll see things my way. Just wait until you’re in the ring.”
I meet his gaze, undaunted.
“Promises again,” I taunt. “You need to learn to deliver.”
His breath comes heavier, like he’s choking on the weight of his own failure. With each punch thrown in the cage, each bloodied goblin limping off, his irritation sharpens and his amusement fades into something darker.
Finally, with a snarl, he grabs me by the scruff and hurls me into the ring with two goblins. They both look at him.
“Beat her!” Grunt hollers.
“Uh… boss?” one of the fighters says, a tall goblin with orange hair, hesitating as he eyes me warily. “We can’t hit her,” he objects. “She’s got goblin favors. Multiple. Can’t you feel it?”
Grunt’s trying to convince me goblins are brutes. Meanwhile these two look ready to bow or bolt.
“No joke, sir,” another one with red hair chimes in. “My brother was there. Said there was a line.”
“Twenty-three,” I add lightly, grinning at him.
Grunt looks around, realizing, too late, that his command is slipping.
“She tricked twenty goblins into giving her their most prized possessions,” he growls.
A few goblins bristle at that, but one speaks up, the same one with the brother.
“No,” he says. “She told the first one that what she wanted most in the world was his pencil. Every single goblin offered her something valuable, and she picked the pencil in their pocket. Every time.”
Grunt storms into the cage and punches the orange-haired goblin. The guy shakes his head, apologetic. Guess there are some rules goblins won’t cross. Grunt’s eyes dart around the crowd as the others step back, refusing to touch me.
“Fucking cowards,” he snaps. He grabs me roughly by the arm and punches me to the ground. It stings, but I bounce back up and stare him down.
He hits me again. We repeat. This… this is nothing.
He tries the stomach next. I take the hit like a gladiator.
He keeps swinging as his anger gets the better of him.
The sound of my rib breaking echoes in the quiet arena.
I give away nothing. I’m not here, I’m with Lazlo.
I watch as his eyes dart around the room, taking in all the goblins who are watching him fail to break me.
Grunt stares at me, doubt creeping into the cracks of his fury.
“Do you even feel pain?” he demands, almost disbelieving.
“Of course I feel it. I told you, you’re not going to be able to break me.”
He grabs my left arm, the one with the cuff.
He twists with slow, deliberate cruelty, waiting hungrily for me to beg. I don’t. The crack is louder this time. I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I don’t even break eye contact.
A gasp spreads through the crowd.
“Try harder, sweetheart,” I goad. Then lean in, low enough that only he can hear. “I’ve had every bone in my body broken, one by one. Healed, and rebroken. And that? That was a fucking spa day compared to the other things they did to me.”
His eyes go wide. He squeezes my broken arm, like he’s trying to wring out a scream. I raise an eyebrow and smile.
“Is it my turn yet?”
“Fucking freak.” He drags me by it to the storage room. I can tell he has no idea what to do with me now. Every plan he had has failed.
He tosses me into the cage, like he finally realizes that I’m the monster here.
I land hard, right on Benson, who groans beneath me. My broken arm twists; agony surges up through my ribs and shoulder. My breath hitches, laughter spilling out maniacally as I press my forehead to the floor beside him, riding the wave of pain.
The last thing I hear is the door slam before I let oblivion take me.