Long Live the Queen (The Immortal Empire)

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This book is for Steve, for putting up with the madness and doubts, for helping with plot, for reading every bloody word, for being my biggest fan, and my toughest critic, and for sticking around. Oh, and for backrubs. Yeah.

I had a corpse over my shoulder when I walked into the goblin den. It had been dropped off outside my house by a cheerful young man who seemed to have smoked a full stone of marijuana before getting behind the wheel. My nose still tickled from the scent.

Far beneath the streets of Mayfair, below the wreckage of Down Street station and beyond, was where my goblins made their home. They lived in catacombs and grottos amongst forgotten treasure, astonishing technology and inexplicably thriving horticulture. Pieces of pottery had been worked into the patching of a wall, and a tattered medieval leather shoe had been repurposed into a child’s doll.

I almost stepped on the doll as I entered the great hall. I skipped over it just in time, the corpse on my shoulder almost sliding down my back. I hitched it into a better position
before laying it down on a stone altar/sideboard against the far wall.

The goblins knew I had arrived, and word spread throughout the den. By the time I unzipped the mortuary bag, tens of furry bodies were crowding behind me as the smell of flesh mixed with the smells of the den – earthy smells, with a touch of metal and fuel from the Met trains.

The girl inside was human, a little on the plump side and totally naked. A Y-shaped scar divided her torso. She looked younger than I’d been told she was, but it didn’t matter now. Her blood was of no interest to the hospital, nor was her DNA. She was an organ donor who had signed her body over for medical research and who had no trace of aristocracy in her blood at all.

I suppose feeding my gobs could be loosely filed under “medical”. Her heart and eyes had gone on to help others who needed them, and the rest of her would keep the plague from hunting. It was a winning situation for all. One body didn’t supply a lot of meat when divided between every gob in the den, but they ate animal flesh as well, and were omnivorous. Human was what they hungered for most, and what made them strong, but they didn’t have to eat it all the time.

I pushed the bag off the girl’s shoulders and manoeuvred it beneath her until it slid free altogether. I wasn’t even squeamish over handling her – or what was to become of her. She’d feed my flock, and then her bones would be incorporated into furniture, her hair braided into rope. Nothing went to waste in the plague den.

I stood back and gestured to the feast I’d provided. “Eat.”

They did not need to be told twice. The goblins descended
upon the corpse with delighted yips and growls. I’d already eaten, so I left them to it and went in search of William, my second in command and friend. Usually he greeted me when I came to the den. I was a bit peevish that he chose tonight to deviate from that habit.

I’d discovered I was a goblin a few months ago now, back in the spring/summer. I looked like most other half-bloods out there, with my candy-red hair and lack of fur and snout, but inside… well, I was a wee bit of a monster.

Imagine my surprise to discover that I liked it.

In the social hierarchy of my world, Queen Victoria was at the top. She was the first vampire queen and had ruled the British Empire for 175 years. At the top of the food chain, however, were goblins.

As a furless goblin who could walk in the sunlight, I was considered dangerous. Extremely dangerous. I think I’d disappointed quite a few people by not living up to the hype. I’d a hunch that there were those who were just waiting for me to steal a baby or something. Maybe eat a nun while defecating on the grave of William the Conqueror.

If only they knew.
Ha
. If they knew, I’d be dead. There’d be a bounty on my head bigger than Victoria’s ego.

As I wandered through the halls and catacombs of what was essentially my kingdom, I let my nose lead me to my prince. Goblins had an earthy scent, like smoke and damp earth, and each was unique. I reached a room at the end of a darkened corridor. Something sweet hung thick and heavy in the air, irritating the inside of my nose and making me want to sneeze, only this time it wasn’t pot.

Opium. I ought to be accustomed to it by now.

The door was shut, but I knocked once and opened it. I
didn’t care that we had an opium den. If humans were hatters enough to get fucked up at the mercy of shameless flesh-eaters, that was their problem. Free will and all that.

And no, I didn’t tell myself that to make me feel better about the situation. I honestly didn’t care about the human users who frequented this dark place. It wasn’t as though they were lured down here like rats mesmerised by a magic piper. They came here because they’d already screwed over and stolen from everyone who ever loved them, and a few who hated them. They came to the goblins because they were so in debt no one cobbleside would sell to them.

A billowing cloud rolled over the threshold to meet me. I didn’t bother holding my breath; any effect from the drug would wear off soon enough.

The room was dark save for a few candles. I was surprised to find only two people in it. Well, neither of them was technically “people”, as that was a word generally applied to humans. One was William, and the other was Rye Winter.

Rye was a surprise. He lay on one of the narrow cots with a pipe, and a small smile on his lips. He looked more like the boy I’d once loved rather than the scarred and broken man I’d rescued from a laboratory that used halfies – half-bloods – as mice. They’d experimented on him for years.

William looked up from where he stood at Rye’s bedside. He made a motion with his hand/paw for me to leave, and then started towards me on slightly haunched legs.

I ducked out and he immediately followed, closing the door behind him. My head began to clear almost instantly.

“Xandra, lady. A pleasure.” His voice was low and growly. At one time it inspired so much loathing and fear that it made me want to vomit. Now, I found it comforting.

“William, what the ruddy hell is Rye doing getting dazed in the den?” I frowned. “And why didn’t I know about it?”

He took my arm and drew me further away from the door – presumably so that Rye wouldn’t hear us through his poppy-glazed haze. “One month has the wolfling sought our help.”

“I don’t think getting him wasted is entirely helpful.”

William smiled without baring his teeth, the silky sides of his muzzle pulling up. He was wearing a new eyepatch – this one was burgundy leather, tooled with an intricate design.

“The wolfling had become dependent on laudanum in the Tower. The plague will wean him like a pup.”

That analogy conjured the not so pleasant image of William holding Rye to his breast. “You’re trying to get him off the dragon?” It was a tricky process. Halfies metabolised alcohol and drugs very quickly. Rye had been almost constantly sedated for years. Trying to come off that would be dangerous indeed.

“Aye, my Xandra lady is correct.”

It would be remiss of me not to notice that since I’d become queen, the goblins in this den had improved their speech somewhat. Normally William sounded like a dyslexic Shakespearean actor on mushrooms, so any improvement was just that – an improvement.

“That doesn’t explain why I wasn’t told.”

William regarded me with his one good eye. The warm amber had more than a century of wisdom in its depths. “The wolfling asked that the lady not be told.”

“And you agreed?” A frown pinched my brow. “What the hell for?”

“Upon our honour the wolfling requested our silence.”

I made a face – a very attractive one, I wager. “You and
your bloody honour.” A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Does Vex know?”

Vexation MacLaughlin was alpha of the UK wolf pack, and my mate – for lack of a better term. As a wolf half-blood, Rye was under his care. Vex wasn’t obliged to care for the king-dom’s wolves, but he extended the blanket of pack and protection to all who wanted it. It was one of the things I respected most about him.

William’s muzzle twitched. Look at that, I’d made the big bad goblin uncomfortable. This killing machine was intimidated by my little self. Brilliant. My temper wasn’t
that
terrible.

“It was your wolf that brought your halfling to your prince.”

My
wolf.
My
halfling.
My
prince. It wasn’t lost on me that when William used “your” in this context, it was meant as a… suck up, a ploy to puff me up with my own importance. Most times it worked.

This wasn’t one of them.

I wasn’t pissed off – right, that’s a lie. I was pissed off, but I wasn’t certain on whose head to lay my anger. To be fair, I could also see why the three of them would leave me out – empathise, even. I simply didn’t like it.

“William, I know your word is your honour, but please don’t keep things from me.”

He bowed his shaggy, furry head. “Aye, lady.”

Scowling, I gave one of his ragged ears a tug. “Stop that. I hate it when you play at that subservient rubbish.”

He bowed his head further, but not before I saw a flash of fang. He was grinning. “Your word is rule, lady.”

I gave him a shove. “You arse.”

Goblin laughter can be a terrifying sound. Depending on the
goblin, it can sound like growls, whines, yips, or like a Dobermann being eaten alive. I was becoming used to it as well. Turns out gobs have more of a sense of humour than I would have previously given them credit for.