Page 154 of Echoes of the Banshee

He drops painfully onto the floor, propping his back against the corrugated metal wall.

“How?” he asks, his voice tinged with exasperation. I lean against the cool metal wall, slide down next to him.

“What did you learn from your chat with Grunt?” I ask, deliberately baiting him.

Benson’s voice rises, his irritation boiling over. “Nothing! I learned nothing! All you did was piss him off!”

I raise a finger as if I’m delivering a lecture. “Exactly. Even with me thoroughly pissing him off, he didn’t strike us, didn’t torture us, and most importantly, didn’t tell us why we’re here.”

Benson’s brow furrows. “And?”

“That means,” I continue, my smirk widening. “He’s not the one in charge.”

Benson exhales sharply and rakes a hand through his hair.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters. But then, after a pause, his tone softens, a reluctant admiration slipping through. “You’re lucky you’re good at this.”

I grin. “Don’t I know it.”

“Why are you so good at this?” he asks, and I let the words hang.

I watch as tension in his face sharpens. He flexes his fingers, wincing as the pain hits him again.

When we were in the light I realized he looks worse than he should. Pale. Trembling. He’s being drained faster than his body can handle it. My gut tightens, instinct telling me this isn’t just the cuff working as it should.

“Benson, is your cuff goblin-made?” I ask, forcing down the creeping panic. His brows furrow, his gaze locking onto the cuff as he shifts his wrist, tilting it toward the faint light near the door.

“No,” he says softly. “These are witch cuffs.”

“Fuck.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

Benson looks at me, confusion in his eyes.

“What? What does that mean?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “It means we don’t have much time. Witch cuffs stop all magic, and goblins can’t live without their magic.” I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look at him and not away, because this is something we have to face together.

“How long?” he asks. Steeling himself for my answer.

A goblin stronger than himself will be dead in a few days.

“Maybe a week,” I lie.

“A week?” his voice is barely a whisper, filled with disbelief.

I grab his hand. “I will get it off you,” I promise. “You’re good with magical artifacts, which part is the one that keeps them locked?”

He studies it for a moment. “Right here,” he says, pointing to a faint pattern etched into the metal. “But you need something metal to scratch it out with.”

“Lucky for us, I found this.” I hold up the nail with a small, triumphant smile.

Taking his wrist gently, I press the nail to the inscription and start scratching. The rusted tip digs in, slow and unsteady. As the nail grates against the metal, I glance up at him. His face is pale, sweat dripping from his brow as he presses his other hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. I will get this cuff off and he’ll never know how close he came.

I try telling him stories again, but he’s drained. It doesn’t take long before I hear the subtle change — the deep, even rhythm of someone slipping into sleep. I glance over my shoulder. His head against the wall, his face slack with exhaustion. Despite everything, I’m relieved he can rest, even for a moment.

When my eyelids begin to droop, I know I’ve pushed myself too far. With an annoyed sigh, I slide the nail into its hiding place. My body aches as I rest my head against the cold steel wall, feeling the faint warmth of Benson’s presence beside me. It’s a small comfort in an otherwise miserable situation.

Zair