Read Online Wish Bound (A Grimm Agency Novel Book 3) by J. C. Nelson - Free Book Online
Authors: J. C. Nelson
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office. I just couldn’t wait to get in line.
Which, incidentally, should have been my first tip-off that something was wrong. I rounded the corner to the post office and saw only an empty marble entrance. On a normal day, the Kingdom Postal Service had a line that snaked out of the door like an anaconda made of pure frustration. I walked right up to the door, threw it open, and nearly choked.
The air indoors had enough humidity that every minute I spent inside would go down as scuba diving practice. The interior of the building held only darkness, and the odor of mud mixed with a smell like someone scooped up a quarter mile of rain forest and dumped it in Kingdom.
“Hello?” I pushed through a stand of bamboo just beyond the marble arch, wondering if a spell had gone wrong, or maybe a bomb and a spell.
With a
whoosh
, a row of torches flickered to life, leading off into the darkness. A distant drum thumped like the beat of my heart echoed, constant and worried.
“Is anyone here? I just want a package. That’s all I need, and you—” On the edges of my vision, forms swarmed in the darkness, flickers of shadow, glints of torchlight in sharp steel.
“Come.” A gnome’s voice echoed from about the height of my knee. I swiped a torch from its holder and swung it in a circle. In the guttering light, gnome eyes gleamed back at me from every angle.
They’d completely destroyed the interior of the post office. The last time I was there, it had been decorated in “Old-Style Government,” which meant marble floors and ceilings mixed with plastic chairs and cheap plastic “Now Serving” signs. Once, giant chandeliers lit vaulted ceilings. Now vines hung like ropes, and gnomes hung like rope-hang-y things from them, every last one sporting a spear that looked like a guitar pick tied to a chopstick.
Grimm could get his own package, as far as I was concerned.
“You know, I think I’ll just come back later.” With a swing of the torch, I cleared a path through the gnomes, took a few steps back, and pushed on the door.
Only smooth granite met my fingertips, cold and impersonal as a “We tried to drop off your package, but you were unconscious” note.
“Someone open the door.” I pounded for a moment on the stone, then spun and put my back to it. It might not let me out, but the wall wouldn’t stab me either.
“Come. Make your sacrifice. See if you live.” I couldn’t tell you which one of the gnomes said it, but the rest took up hooting like a pack of two-foot-tall monkeys. I don’t have a problem with the occasional sacrifice, though I’d had to remind people on more than one occasion that virginity was a state of mind. The whole “See if you live” bit didn’t exactly give me warm cuddles, but at least it wasn’t “And then you die.” That’s almost always bad. So I followed.
Puddles do not belong on the inside of a government facility. The crocodiles were a complete violation of the Exotic Animal law, but I wasn’t going to ask for their facility permit. Turns out, there’s an easy way to tell if it’s safe to cross a given stream: toss a gnome in first.
After what felt like an hour of listening to tribal chanting, punctuated by the occasional “I’m being eaten by a crocodile” gnome scream, I finally reached what I believed was once the main service counter.
Torches on either side lit the window, and a beaten brass gong replaced the service bell. I kicked it like a soccer ball, sending a reverberating crash through the post-forest. “I just want my package. I’ll sign. Eight copies, if you want.”
The gnomes began to chant and stomp their feet in a way that passed way beyond normal into flat-out weird. Then a new one approached from behind the counter, a pair of guitar-pick spears across his back, a miniature hockey stick in his fist. “Make your sacrifice.” He pointed behind me with the stick.
There, a ring of torches illuminated a carven image of the dark jungle god.
Which, incidentally, should have been my first tip-off that something was wrong. I rounded the corner to the post office and saw only an empty marble entrance. On a normal day, the Kingdom Postal Service had a line that snaked out of the door like an anaconda made of pure frustration. I walked right up to the door, threw it open, and nearly choked.
The air indoors had enough humidity that every minute I spent inside would go down as scuba diving practice. The interior of the building held only darkness, and the odor of mud mixed with a smell like someone scooped up a quarter mile of rain forest and dumped it in Kingdom.
“Hello?” I pushed through a stand of bamboo just beyond the marble arch, wondering if a spell had gone wrong, or maybe a bomb and a spell.
With a
whoosh
, a row of torches flickered to life, leading off into the darkness. A distant drum thumped like the beat of my heart echoed, constant and worried.
“Is anyone here? I just want a package. That’s all I need, and you—” On the edges of my vision, forms swarmed in the darkness, flickers of shadow, glints of torchlight in sharp steel.
“Come.” A gnome’s voice echoed from about the height of my knee. I swiped a torch from its holder and swung it in a circle. In the guttering light, gnome eyes gleamed back at me from every angle.
They’d completely destroyed the interior of the post office. The last time I was there, it had been decorated in “Old-Style Government,” which meant marble floors and ceilings mixed with plastic chairs and cheap plastic “Now Serving” signs. Once, giant chandeliers lit vaulted ceilings. Now vines hung like ropes, and gnomes hung like rope-hang-y things from them, every last one sporting a spear that looked like a guitar pick tied to a chopstick.
Grimm could get his own package, as far as I was concerned.
“You know, I think I’ll just come back later.” With a swing of the torch, I cleared a path through the gnomes, took a few steps back, and pushed on the door.
Only smooth granite met my fingertips, cold and impersonal as a “We tried to drop off your package, but you were unconscious” note.
“Someone open the door.” I pounded for a moment on the stone, then spun and put my back to it. It might not let me out, but the wall wouldn’t stab me either.
“Come. Make your sacrifice. See if you live.” I couldn’t tell you which one of the gnomes said it, but the rest took up hooting like a pack of two-foot-tall monkeys. I don’t have a problem with the occasional sacrifice, though I’d had to remind people on more than one occasion that virginity was a state of mind. The whole “See if you live” bit didn’t exactly give me warm cuddles, but at least it wasn’t “And then you die.” That’s almost always bad. So I followed.
Puddles do not belong on the inside of a government facility. The crocodiles were a complete violation of the Exotic Animal law, but I wasn’t going to ask for their facility permit. Turns out, there’s an easy way to tell if it’s safe to cross a given stream: toss a gnome in first.
After what felt like an hour of listening to tribal chanting, punctuated by the occasional “I’m being eaten by a crocodile” gnome scream, I finally reached what I believed was once the main service counter.
Torches on either side lit the window, and a beaten brass gong replaced the service bell. I kicked it like a soccer ball, sending a reverberating crash through the post-forest. “I just want my package. I’ll sign. Eight copies, if you want.”
The gnomes began to chant and stomp their feet in a way that passed way beyond normal into flat-out weird. Then a new one approached from behind the counter, a pair of guitar-pick spears across his back, a miniature hockey stick in his fist. “Make your sacrifice.” He pointed behind me with the stick.
There, a ring of torches illuminated a carven image of the dark jungle god.
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