With a grunt, the ogre produced a pair of dampening cuffs from a pocket or his belt or something and tossed them to Rhynehart. The man caught them deftly, pulled the goblin’s arms behind her around the wide back of the chair—making her wince in pain and even more fear—and settled the cuffs firmly around her wrists. She sat there gasping for breath, turning over one shoulder and then the other as she tried to meet Rhynehart’s gaze or see what he was doing or both. The dining room filled with her whimpering and rapid breathing.
Then Rhynehart stepped around the chair and went to stand between the snarling ogre and a totally dumbfounded drow halfling who had absolutely no idea what was going on.
This is so wrong.
The FRoE team leader folded his arms and cocked his head, staring at the goblin woman with a completely blank expression. Then he let out a long sigh through his nose and just kept waiting.
Finally, the goblin woman found what she could of her voice. “I-I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
Rhynehart and the ogre said nothing.
“P-please, I-I haven’t done anything. If y-you’ll at least tell me w-what this is about, I can… I’ll… I just…” The goblin turned her wide, pale orange-yellow eyes on Cheyenne, who hadn’t felt like an animal startled into a corner like this in a really long time. “At least tell me why you’re here. Please.”
“She can’t help you, Anasz.”
“Wha—” The goblin couldn’t seem to catch her breath as she glanced from Cheyenne to Rhynehart and back again. “But I don’t—”
“Hey! Greedy eyes on me, goblin. I’m the one talking to you, not Resting Bitch Face over there.”
Cheyenne blinked furiously and scowled at the man. The FRoE were supposed to give magicals more chances than anyone else, weren’t they?
“I don’t… I just…”
“Okay, time to turn off the waterworks and shut your mouth until I tell you to open it. Or Jamal’s gonna have to shut it for you.” Rhynehart gestured at the massive ogre beside him, who added another warning snarl.
Anasz whimpered again. “Please don’t.”
Rhynehart squared his feet and clasped his hands in front of his belt. “Then listen up. We know you were involved in smuggling that shit off Rez 38. Your name came up three times from three different magicals. You’re gonna tell me how you did it and who helped you.”
The goblin’s mouth opened and closed, her upper lip—just a little darker blue-green than the rest of her face—sticking to her teeth with how dry her mouth had become. She stuttered again and looked at Cheyenne with pleading eyes.
“She can’t answer for you,” Rhynehart barked. “Start talking.”
“I-I-I don’t—”
“Who did you meet outside the front gates?” the operative shouted. “I need names, Anasz. I need dates and times. What kind of vehicle they used. Where you met them. Where you made the drop-off. How many times did that shit change hands before it got to Carytown?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the goblin wailed, straining against the rope around her chest and shoulders and the dampening cuffs behind the chair. “I’ve been off Rez 38 for f-f-four…for four years. In this house. I run a bakery.”
“You’ve been bringing in a little extra cash by smuggling, too.”
“No!”
Rhynehart leapt toward her and thrust a finger in the goblin woman’s face. She lurched back in the chair with another whimper, staring at the man’s threatening finger. “It’s over, Anasz. Your time’s up. This house, your goddamn bakery, everything you own—it’s all ours now. You know we can take it away from you just like that.”
“Why?” The goblin was on the verge of hyperventilating now. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I live here by myself. I don’t make any trouble. I run my business like every other regular person.”
“I want names.”
“I don’t know any magicals Earthside!” She was getting even more worked-up now, her voice squeaking in a high whine between sharp, quick breaths. “I left Rez 38 and cut ties with everyone. I want to be here. Please!”
Rhynehart looked the goblin woman up and down and stood back, lowering his hand. “Should’ve thought of that before you started dipping your fingers into black magic, Anasz.”
“What? No!” Anasz clenched her eyes shut and whispered fiercely in a language Cheyenne didn’t understand. She rocked back and forth in the chair, muttering the same few phrases over and over.
With a grimace of disgust, Rhynehart gestured toward the terrified magical and glanced at Jamal. “What the hell is this? What’s she doing?”
The ogre tilted his head and studied Anasz, then shrugged. “Praying.”
“Give me a fucking break.” Rhynehart turned toward the goblin woman and brought his face just inches from hers before he started shouting again. “Your gods don’t even exist on this side, goblin. They can’t hear you!”
Anasz shook her head furiously, whispering in her native tongue over and over, rocking while she shook her head.
“The only person who can save you now is your own damn self, Anasz. You have two choices. Tell me what I want to hear, and we’ll take you back to Rez 38 to rethink your career path in a nice, cushy cell. Otherwise, your ass is getting dropped right back across that Border, and I don’t think you have it in you to make that trip again.” When the magical didn’t give him any other reply, Rhynehart dropped his hand to his fell pistol again, removed it from the holster, and slapped off the safety. The low whine of the weapon powering up filled the goblin’s dining room, followed by the brightening green glow inside the mechanism. Then the man lifted the fell pistol and brought the barrel up toward Anasz’s face.
“What the fuck?” Cheyenne had had enough. She lurched toward the FRoE
