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.