"You’re a damn annoyance.”

  Smoke floated through the air as the words echoed through the alleyway. Silent, and binding. The other male, the smaller one, shivered as the wind brushed his skin, cool to the touch.

  “I tried my best. Anyone’ll tell you that getting a goblin’s first girl is hard work-”

  “So you got me the youngest? The one that required the least effort?” The larger sniped. Two men shifted behind him, faces hard and deformed. The younger wondered if they were half-ogre.

  His ‘employer’ took another puff on the cigarette, clutching it like it would calm him. Golden eyes peeked through the grey cloud he breathed out, littered with a lusty greed. “The youngest has no magic whatsoever. I wanted the oldest. Goes for a much better price. Adequately magical. Makes a better wife.”

  “It’s not like you’re looking for a wife, anyway.” The smaller almost snapped. The tone was enough to trigger the other, and he became acutely aware of his surroundings, and how closed-off this alleyway was.

  “My clients are, Rastof. I hired you for one thing only – get me goblin girls, first-born girls. If you can’t do that anymore -” the half-ogres behind Harvino leered menacingly, “we’ll get rid of you.”

  The streets beyond the alleyway were hardly audible. They’d truly met somewhere private – if they decided to murder Rastof, nobody would know until the next day. Shit, he thought. Traffickers were too damn hard to please, and too damn eager to kill.

  The complaints did nothing for the inherent danger, however. In a last effort, Rastof slid his hands into the pockets of his coat, feeling his switchblade’s metal against his fingers. It wasn’t like he could use it – more for comfort than anything. “Look ‘ere - I’ll get ya what you want. Goblin girl, first-born, whatever. I just need a little time: them goblins are already getting wary of me. Whenever I visit, someone’s daughter goes missing.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The cigarette fell to the floor, squeezed to a pulp. The fire jutted out and dwindled against the damp floor. “I don’t have time, Rastof.”

  Rastof swallowed, a prayer stuck in his throat. He pulled out his hands, the switchblade in front of him like a drop of water facing a furnace. The dim night hid half of his employer’s face, but the half-ogres stepped forward, letting light flood their misaligned features. There was a rattle from the buildings above, and Rastof choked out a sob.

  “I’m gonna have you ripped apart, you imbecile. That’ll teach you damn suppliers to stop playing tricks with me.” The ogres stepped even closer, and Rastof considered scrambling away. “Don’t you know I take my business seriously, you-”

  “As do I.”

  Rastof would have liked to say that the voice rang out through the alleyway, but it didn’t. It really didn’t. It was as if it rose from the ground instead, enveloping them all in a joint sense of terror that the four of them couldn’t grasp. The voice was followed with a soft laugh, and another figure stepped into view.

  It was a woman’s voice, and that was truly her most definite quality. She was simply a figure, clothed head to toe in black, a mask hiding most of her face. Dark eyes with flecks of white gave the impression of a blessed hunter, but she didn’t seem that way with two scabbards crudely strapped to her person.

  His employer had had enough, turning swiftly. “Who the hell are you?”

  The figure’s head cocked to the side, before she bowed with unnerving certainty. “Mr. Harvino. Known trafficker of goblin women. Your crimes...they are atrocious but -” her head rose again, those eyes locking onto all of them at once - “it is still an honour to meet you.”

  Mr. Harvino’s eyebrows creased, and a slow nod of his head told his henchmen all they needed to know. Both ogres turned away from Rastof, facing this new threat with a silent thrill. Mr. Harvino hummed, his calm facade surprisingly difficult to see through. “I cannot say I am honoured to be interrupted at such a time. And you are?”

  The woman laughed again, the sound wildly gripping. “My name is quite irrelevant in this scheme of things. It is nowhere near as intimate as what I ask of you.” Her hand slipped behind her back, as if adjusting her outfit.

  “Mr. Harvino. Will you give me the pleasure of your last dance?”