Chapter 3: The Goblin Undermarket

Chapter 3: The Goblin Undermarket

The entrance to the Undermarket isn't marked on any map. You just have to know which derelict subway station still has a trickle of power, and which graffiti-covered steel door groans open when you offer it a jolt of will and a whispered password that tastes like rust. The air that hits you on the other side is a physical assault: a humid wave of damp earth, unidentifiable fried foods, ozone from failing electrics, and the cloying, sweet smell of things that have been dead for a very long time.

Leaving the endless rain of Evernight for the perpetual drip of the Undermarket was trading one kind of gloom for another. Down here, the only light came from colonies of phosphorescent fungi clinging to the arched ceilings, casting everything in an eerie blue-green glow, and the angry, sparking neon of signs powered by thick cables siphoning electricity from the city above.

This was the city's true melting pot. Trolls hawked questionable potions from behind stalls made of petrified wood. Pixies, with wings like stained glass, flitted through the crowds, their high-pitched laughter often preceding the discovery of a lightened wallet. I saw a Kelpie in a makeshift tank trying to sell prophecies for the price of a pint of blood and a satyr haggling over the price of a stolen car stereo. The rule here was simple: everything was for sale, especially secrets.

My goal was to find the artist responsible for the grimy little charm in my pocket. In a place this chaotic, you don't ask questions in the open. You find the nexus of power and you pay your respects. In the Undermarket, that nexus was a goblin named Griznakh.

Griznakh's "shop" was a decommissioned subway car, hoisted onto a platform overlooking the main thoroughfare. Its windows were barred, and the entrance was guarded by two hulking hobgoblins in cobbled-together plate armor, their tusks yellowed and sharp. They watched my approach with the bored, predatory stillness of crocodiles.

"Business with the boss," I grunted, not breaking stride.

One of them blocked my path with a rusty halberd. "Boss is busy."

"He'll want to see this." I held up the crude goblin charm between my thumb and forefinger, letting the fungal light catch it.

The hobgoblin squinted, his piggy eyes struggling to focus. He grunted something to his partner in a guttural tongue, then gestured with the halberd towards the subway car's door. "Don't waste his time."

The inside of the car was a hoarder's paradise. Every surface was covered in glittering junk: piles of watches, mountains of costume jewelry, mismatched silverware, and strange arcane components that hummed with weak, unstable magic. Presiding over it all from a throne made of old car seats and circuit boards was Griznakh himself.

He was larger than most goblins, with a potbelly that strained the buttons of a stolen silk waistcoat worn over a grimy shirt. His skin was the color of a fresh bruise, and his long, pointed ears were laden with stolen earrings. But it was his eyes that held you—black, intelligent, and missing nothing. They flickered from me to the charm in my hand and back again, a silent, lightning-fast calculation running behind them.

"Well, well," he rasped, his voice like gravel in a tin can. "A half-breed topside. You're a long way from your gutter, Grimm Gourden. What piece of trash have you brought to my palace of treasures?"

"Looking for an artist," I said, tossing the charm onto the cluttered table in front of him. It skittered across a pile of stolen hubcaps and came to rest near a disembodied mannequin hand. "Recognize the handiwork?"

Griznakh picked it up with surprising delicacy, his long, dirty fingernails turning it over. He sniffed it. "Ugh. Bog-standard scrounger work. Twine's cheap, bone's from a sewer rat, binding spell is sloppy. Worthless." He flicked it back at me. "Why should I care?"

This was the part I hated. The barter. In the Undermarket, information was currency, and Griznakh was the central bank. I knew he wouldn't talk for free.

My hand went to my trench coat pocket. I thought of Elara, her cold, calculating beauty a universe away from this grimy throne room. She wanted me to chase shadows in her world of shimmering lies. But this charm, this piece of goblin trash, felt like the only truth I'd touched since she walked into my office.

I pulled out one of the gold coins she'd given me and placed it on the table.

The effect was instantaneous. Griznakh’s bored demeanor vanished. His black eyes widened, fixated on the coin. The low-level hum of junk magic in the car seemed to quiet, silenced by the pure, ancient power radiating from the small piece of metal. Under the shifting fungal light, the coin’s glamour wavered, showing glimpses of the pressed autumn leaf beneath the gold.

"By the rusted gears of the deep..." Griznakh whispered, reaching out a trembling finger but not daring to touch it. "Seelie gold. And old. From a High House mint..." His eyes shot up to mine, the greed warring with a newfound, intelligent fear. "This isn't just topside trouble you're in, is it, half-breed? This is throne trouble. What have you stumbled into?"

"Just a job," I lied smoothly. "A missing persons case. The coin is for your time."

Griznakh let out a short, barking laugh. "A single coin of this value could buy this whole market! You think I'm a fool?" He leaned forward, the car-seat throne groaning in protest. His smile was all teeth. "You want to know who made this piece of filth? It was a sniveling little shaman named Pip. But he doesn't work for himself. He makes charms for anyone with enough iron to pay. This one," he tapped the charm with a long nail, "he sold it three days ago."

"To who?" I pressed. My goal was inches away.

"Ah, ah, ah," Griznakh wagged a finger. "That's the expensive question. The Seelie gold question." He finally picked up the coin, his eyes gleaming with avarice. "I will take your payment. But this kind of gold... it draws attention. Bad attention. For taking this off your hands, for taking on the risk that its previous owner might come looking for it... you owe me more than just the metal."

"A favor," I said flatly. It wasn't a question.

"A marker," he corrected, his smile widening. "To be called in at my discretion. We do this deal, and you walk out with your information. But you leave a piece of yourself here, Grimm Gourden. You leave a debt."

I thought of the eviction notice. Of the empty bottle. Of the long, lonely nights with nothing but the rain for company. What was one more debt in a life built on them?

"Fine," I bit out. "You have your marker. Now, the name."

Griznakh's grin was triumphant. He pocketed the coin, and it vanished into the folds of his waistcoat. "Pip sold this charm to a Redcap. A nasty piece of work, even for his kind. All blood and iron and fury. Been squatting down at the old shipyard on the industrial docks, chasing out the ghouls that used to nest there."

A Redcap. The name hit me like a physical blow. They were brutal, blood-mad Fae-kin, infamous for their mindless violence. They were killers, not kidnappers. They were blunt instruments, not planners. A Redcap using a goblin charm to snatch a Fae noble's son of immense power from a warded penthouse? It made no sense.

"A Redcap," I repeated, the word tasting like ash.

"That's what you paid for," Griznakh said, leaning back into his throne, already dismissing me. He gestured to the door. "Now get out. You're bringing the stink of a coming war into my shop."

I turned and left, the eyes of the hobgoblin guards following me as I stepped back into the chaotic thrum of the Undermarket. The goblin charm felt heavier in my pocket now. It was no longer just a clue; it was a link in a chain, and the next link was a bloodthirsty creature squatting in the decaying rust-belt of the city.

I had my target. But Griznakh was right. I was deep in throne trouble, caught between the cold lies of the Seelie and the savage truth of the gutter. And the path forward smelled a lot like blood.