Read Online Wish Bound (A Grimm Agency Novel Book 3) by J. C. Nelson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. C. Nelson
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Goddess. In fact, the longer I looked at it, the more familiar it looked. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Seriously?” I swore at myself again. In the middle of the wreckage that remained, surrounded by a tribe of feral gnomes, I stood before a fourteen-foot statue of myself.
“Where did you get the picture to carve this from? I don’t look like that most of the time. And while I’m flattered, if I had a bust like that, I wouldn’t be able to stand up, let alone walk. And my hips do
not
look like that. Do they?” I almost missed the ring of pointy spears.
“Make a sacrifice.” The young gnome at the counter screamed, leaping up and down like a gorilla in a rampage.
“Not going to happen. Let me out of here, give me my package, and for the love of god, carve a new face on the statue.” I could send them a picture of Ari’s stepmother, if they wanted to kneel before a monster.
Something hissed in the darkness, and a stinging fire lit up my arm. I pulled away a dart the size of my fingernail. For one moment, I thought about calling for Grimm. About screaming for help. Without a mirror to catch his reflection, Grimm couldn’t watch, let alone help. A chorus of hissing, a flurry of pinpricks, and my body lit up all over with pain.
Then one of them lassoed me with a vine as I felt my hip and pulled out another dart. Like a five-foot, eight-inch tree, I collapsed, crushing a gnome or two as I fell, and the world became very fuzzy.
• • •
WAKING UP LEFT me in a worse mood than ever. My first urge was to strangle the nearest gnome, but with my hands tied behind my back, I didn’t have a huge number of options.
“Put her in the pot,” said one gnome, dressed in a purple loincloth to match his purple hat. “Our goddess demands we make a broth of you, with mint, dill, and just a hint of cumin.”
The gnome before him held up his hands in a convulsion. “She don’t fit. I don’t know what she’s been eating, but our largest pot won’t hold her rear.”
“Get the saws,” they said in unison.
Now, their insults to my posterior I could deal with. Their glee at the thought of chopping me up, that I could get past. The thought of being boiled down as an offering to a grotesque misrepresentation of myself bugged me. “I demand a trial.”
The blank look adorning their faces told me trials weren’t common.
“I demand the right to defend myself in hand-to-hand combat.” If they wanted to go
Lord of the Flies
on me, I could spear a piggy or three.
The two looked at each other, a look of dread passing between them. “She challenges the chief.” The way they said it, I wondered if the bone saws might have been a more kind option.
“Yes, she does.” I assumed my normal boss tone. “Get him, let me face him in combat.”
They scampered away, disappearing into the flickering shadows. The drums grew faster, louder, like the pounding heart of a gnome caught in a crocodile stream. Then the chanting began, low and long. A figure emerged, a torch in one hand, a guitar-pick spear in the other.
“You will sacrifice to our god, or be sacrificed to our god.” The chief kneeled, pointing with his spear to the statue. His skin, covered in tattoos, shone blue in the torchlight.
“I have a strict policy against offering sacrifices to myself.” I wrenched a hand loose, picking half a dozen darts from my skin. “Also against being sacrificed to myself.”
With a cry of rage or excitement, the chief leaped toward me, swinging his torch so close it swept up against my cheek. Now, I made a point, usually, of being nice to the gnomes. But being speared at, darted, sacrificed, and nearly burned was more than I could take. I seized the torch by the burning end, letting the tar and oil drizzle, still flaming, onto my fingers. “That is enough.”
I think they expected me to burn.
They expected wrong. See, one of the main problems with being engaged to a half-dragon man was that even the slightest
“Where did you get the picture to carve this from? I don’t look like that most of the time. And while I’m flattered, if I had a bust like that, I wouldn’t be able to stand up, let alone walk. And my hips do
not
look like that. Do they?” I almost missed the ring of pointy spears.
“Make a sacrifice.” The young gnome at the counter screamed, leaping up and down like a gorilla in a rampage.
“Not going to happen. Let me out of here, give me my package, and for the love of god, carve a new face on the statue.” I could send them a picture of Ari’s stepmother, if they wanted to kneel before a monster.
Something hissed in the darkness, and a stinging fire lit up my arm. I pulled away a dart the size of my fingernail. For one moment, I thought about calling for Grimm. About screaming for help. Without a mirror to catch his reflection, Grimm couldn’t watch, let alone help. A chorus of hissing, a flurry of pinpricks, and my body lit up all over with pain.
Then one of them lassoed me with a vine as I felt my hip and pulled out another dart. Like a five-foot, eight-inch tree, I collapsed, crushing a gnome or two as I fell, and the world became very fuzzy.
• • •
WAKING UP LEFT me in a worse mood than ever. My first urge was to strangle the nearest gnome, but with my hands tied behind my back, I didn’t have a huge number of options.
“Put her in the pot,” said one gnome, dressed in a purple loincloth to match his purple hat. “Our goddess demands we make a broth of you, with mint, dill, and just a hint of cumin.”
The gnome before him held up his hands in a convulsion. “She don’t fit. I don’t know what she’s been eating, but our largest pot won’t hold her rear.”
“Get the saws,” they said in unison.
Now, their insults to my posterior I could deal with. Their glee at the thought of chopping me up, that I could get past. The thought of being boiled down as an offering to a grotesque misrepresentation of myself bugged me. “I demand a trial.”
The blank look adorning their faces told me trials weren’t common.
“I demand the right to defend myself in hand-to-hand combat.” If they wanted to go
Lord of the Flies
on me, I could spear a piggy or three.
The two looked at each other, a look of dread passing between them. “She challenges the chief.” The way they said it, I wondered if the bone saws might have been a more kind option.
“Yes, she does.” I assumed my normal boss tone. “Get him, let me face him in combat.”
They scampered away, disappearing into the flickering shadows. The drums grew faster, louder, like the pounding heart of a gnome caught in a crocodile stream. Then the chanting began, low and long. A figure emerged, a torch in one hand, a guitar-pick spear in the other.
“You will sacrifice to our god, or be sacrificed to our god.” The chief kneeled, pointing with his spear to the statue. His skin, covered in tattoos, shone blue in the torchlight.
“I have a strict policy against offering sacrifices to myself.” I wrenched a hand loose, picking half a dozen darts from my skin. “Also against being sacrificed to myself.”
With a cry of rage or excitement, the chief leaped toward me, swinging his torch so close it swept up against my cheek. Now, I made a point, usually, of being nice to the gnomes. But being speared at, darted, sacrificed, and nearly burned was more than I could take. I seized the torch by the burning end, letting the tar and oil drizzle, still flaming, onto my fingers. “That is enough.”
I think they expected me to burn.
They expected wrong. See, one of the main problems with being engaged to a half-dragon man was that even the slightest
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