# Chapter 7: The Goblin's Price
The silence in the apartment was a physical weight, pressing down on Relly's shoulders. Sleep was a distant country, one he had no passport for. Every creak of the building, every distant siren wail from the city streets, was a potential herald of her return. Pres. The name echoed in his mind, a single syllable that contained multitudes of terror. He sat on the floor of his small, cluttered living room, the grimoire open before him. The book was the source of all his problems, and it was his only hope.
The leather cover was cool and strangely soft under his fingertips, the metal clasp cold and heavy. He traced the unfamiliar symbols etched into its surface, feeling a faint, almost imperceptible thrum of energy, like a sleeping animal's heartbeat. The pages inside were a nightmare of calligraphy and diagrams, inked in a dozen different shades of brown and black. The script was a language he didn't recognize, a flowing, cursive script that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of his vision. He'd spent hours trying to decipher it, forcing his exhausted brain to find patterns, to connect the arcane geometry to the clumsy, instinctual magic he'd performed. It was like trying to learn nuclear physics by staring at the sun. All he'd gotten for his trouble was a splitting headache and a renewed sense of utter futility.
He slammed the book shut. The sound was a sharp crack in the stillness, making him flinch. He was a bartender, for Christ's sake. His greatest skill was knowing the difference between a rye and a bourbon. He wasn't a scholar, a mage, a… whatever this book demanded him to be. He was a man who'd stumbled into a war he didn't understand, armed with a weapon he couldn't load. Pres would be back. She wasn't the type to make idle threats. She was a predator, and he was wounded prey, hiding in a flimsy thicket of ignorance. Hiding wasn't a strategy; it was a delay of the inevitable. He needed help. He needed information that wasn't written in a language he couldn't read.
A memory surfaced, a story his grandfather used to tell him, a bedtime tale told with a wink and a nudge. Stories about the Lower East Side, about shops that didn't sell what they advertised, about creatures who dealt in secrets and curiosities. A goblin pawn shop. The name came to him from the depths of his childhood, a ridiculous, fantastical name. "Gramps's Emporium of Esoterica." His grandfather had laughed as he said it, but his eyes had been serious. "If you ever find yourself in real trouble, Relly-boy," he'd said, "and the kind of trouble can't be solved with cops or cash, you go there. But be prepared to pay the price."
He looked at the grimoire, then at his perfectly healed hand. He was in that kind of trouble. The price couldn't be any higher than the one Pres had already named. He had to move. He had to find answers before his past, or his future, caught up with him.
Decision made, a cold resolve settled over him. He found an old canvas messenger bag, the strap frayed and the fabric stained with years of use. He wrapped the grimoire in a spare towel, not for protection, but to muffle its presence. It felt foolish, like trying to hide a bonfire under a blanket, but it was better than nothing. He slung the bag over his shoulder, the weight a familiar, grounding pressure. He took one last look around his apartment—the stacks of books, the half-empty coffee mug, the worn-out sofa. It felt like a life that belonged to someone else.
He slipped out into the pre-dawn gloom. The city was quiet, holding its breath before the morning rush. The air was cool and damp, smelling of asphalt and garbage from the alleyways. Every shadow seemed to deepen as he passed, every reflective surface—a darkened storefront window, a polished car door—felt like an eye watching him. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, trying to project an aura of a man just heading to an early shift. But his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of paranoia. He imagined vampires lurking on rooftops, their senses attuned to the magical signature he now knew he was broadcasting. He imagined Pres's sleek black car gliding silently around the next corner.
He stuck to the side streets, avoiding the main avenues where the first few yellow cabs were beginning to prowl. The walk to the Lower East Side was usually a pleasant twenty-minute stroll, but now it felt like a trek through a hostile jungle. The city's familiar architecture seemed alien and threatening. The ornate facades of old tenement buildings looked like grim, watchful faces. The skeletal fire escapes were claws waiting to snatch him from the street. He was seeing the world through a new lens, one that revealed the monstrous lurking just beneath the mundane.
He found the alley his grandfather had described, a narrow, grimy cut between two brick buildings. It smelled of stale beer and something vaguely chemical. A flickering, buzzing neon sign was bolted to the brick, its letters cracked and faded. It read "PAWN" in a sickly green, but beneath it, barely visible in the gloom, was a smaller, hand-carved wooden sign: "Gramps's Emporium of Esoterica." There was no doorbell, just a heavy, iron-strapped wooden door with a tarnished brass knob. He took a deep breath, the air thick with the alley's decay, and pushed.
The door swung open with a low, groaning creak, and a wave of dry, musty air washed over him. It was the smell of old paper, dried herbs, and something metallic, like old coins. The shop was a disaster zone of organized chaos. Shelves sagged under the weight of thousands of items: glass jars filled with murky liquids and floating specimens, tarnished silver candelabras, stacks of leather-bound books, animal skulls, intricate clockwork mechanisms, and artifacts from a dozen different cultures and eras. The only light came from a few dusty lamps and the soft, multicolored glow from various crystals and glass orbs scattered around the room. The air hummed with a low, almost sub-audible energy, a thrum that resonated in his bones.
Behind a counter cluttered with astrolabes and jeweler's loupes sat a figure. It was small, no more than four feet tall, with skin the color and texture of old leather. It had a large, hooked nose, pointed ears that stuck out through a mess of wiry gray hair, and small, beady black eyes that were currently focused on him with an expression of profound irritation. This was Gramps. He wore a stained apron over a rough-woven shirt and was polishing a silver locket with a dirty rag.
"We're closed," the goblin rasped, his voice like stones grinding together. He didn't look up. "Come back during business hours. If you have any."
"I… I was told you could help me," Relly said, his voice barely a whisper. He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud that made him jump.
Gramps finally looked up, his beady eyes narrowing. "Help you? I'm a pawnbroker, sonny. I trade in things of value. You look like you trade in lost causes. Now, unless you've got a first-edition grimoire or a dragon's tooth in that bag, I suggest you see yourself out."
The irony was so thick Relly almost choked on it. He swallowed, his throat dry. He carefully placed the canvas bag on the counter, the thud unnaturally loud in the quiet shop. "I think I might have something of value."
Gramps snorted, a puff of air that smelled like dust and pipe tobacco. "They all do." He tossed his rag aside and gestured with a three-fingered hand. "Well? Don't stand there all day like a lost tourist. Let's see it."
With trembling hands, Relly unwrapped the grimoire. He placed the heavy book on the counter, its dark leather a stark contrast to the cluttered wood. The moment it touched the surface, the low hum in the room seemed to intensify, a subtle shift in pressure that made Relly's ears pop.
Gramps leaned forward, his irritation melting away, replaced by a professional curiosity. He squinted at the cover, his nose twitching. He reached out a claw-like finger, hesitating for a moment before touching the metal clasp. He flinched back as if it were hot. "By the First Forge…" he breathed, his voice now a hushed whisper. He looked from the book to Relly, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and dawning horror. "Where did you get this?"
"It was… it was my grandfather's," Relly lied, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
Gramps didn't seem to hear him. He was completely mesmerized by the book. He carefully, reverently, worked the clasp. It opened with a soft click. The goblin leaned in, his eyes scanning the first page, the arcane script. He didn't touch the parchment, but his fingers hovered just above it, as if feeling the heat from a fire. His whole demeanor changed. The cynical shopkeeper vanished, replaced by a terrified scholar.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "No, no, no. This can't be. They were all wiped out. The Concordat was… thorough." He looked up at Relly, and for the first time, Relly saw true fear in the creature's eyes. It was a primal, ancient fear that had nothing to do with money or business. "This is the First Codex. The *Materia Prima*."
"The what?" Relly asked, his own voice trembling now.
"The beginning and the end," Gramps said, his gaze locked on the book. "The source code. The original blueprint. This isn't just a book of spells, you fool. This is a lineage. A bloodline. A beacon that screams to every power-hungry monster in a ten-mile radius." He suddenly shoved the book back across the counter with surprising force, sending it sliding toward Relly. "Get it out!"
Relly caught the book before it could fall off the edge. "What are you talking about? You said you dealt in things of value!"
"Not this kind of value!" Gramps shrieked, his voice rising to a panicked squeak. He scrambled back from the counter, knocking over a stack of books that clattered to the floor. "This is a death warrant, boy. The kind of death that doesn't just stop with you." He pointed a trembling, claw-like finger at the grimoire clutched in Relly's hands. "That's not just a codex. It's a beacon. A screaming soul in a world of whispers. The Concordat isn't the only thing that'll come for that. The *old things* will wake up for it. Things that make vampires look like petulant children. Take it and go. You've already damned this place by bringing it to the threshold."