There’s a goblin in my stairwell. Not even in disguise. Just sitting there, picking his teeth with a dagger. He better not have eaten my landlady.

I’ve only had this flat for a day. It’s a house that’s been split in two. The landlady’s got the main floor, and I’ve got the upstairs. I convinced her that I’d be a quiet tenant. No drugs. No parties. (Goblins are worse than parties.)

“Hello, Mage Prince,” the goblin says. He’s red-lipped and green-skinned. Dead handsome, like every goblin.

“I’ve tried to tell you lot that I’m nobody’s prince…”

“Word on the street is, you’ve lost your blade.”

I shrug. There’s a price on my head—the goblin who brings it back to their council or whatever gets to be king.

This one thinks he’s got a fair shot at it. He gets to his feet, almost lazily, and points his dagger at me.

I shoot my right hand out to the side and grab a broom that’s leaning against the wall.

“You have lost your blade!” the goblin cries, absolutely delighted.

He runs at me, and I wallop him in the gut so hard that the broom handle cracks. He doubles over—but comes up quickly, swinging his dagger at me.

My wings are strapped down under my shirt, and my tail is tucked away. (I’ve just been to see Dr. Wellbelove at his practice.) It sort of feels like fighting with one hand tied behind my back.

I’ve still got the end of the broom handle, so I use it to bat the goblin’s hand away from me.

He keeps coming.

I decide to let him. The Mage taught me this—that sometimes the best way to get under someone’s guard is to let them get close.

The goblin runs at me, and I grab the wrist of his dagger hand, spinning around behind him, so I can crush him against the wall, my chest to his back. I hold the splintered broom handle in my other hand, an inch from his eye. When he tries to turn away from it, I use my face to grind his head into the wall. I bang his wrist against the wall until he drops the dagger, then I step on it.

His eyes are open, staring at the splintered broom handle.

“If you leave now,” I say, right into his ear, “I’ll let you keep your eye.”

He bares his teeth. “Another gob’ll be right behind me. All of London knows you’ve lost your blade.”

I nudge the broom handle closer to his eye. “Yeah, but you’re going to tell them I don’t need my blade—cuz now I’ve got yours.”