Kept by Shawntelle Madison

inside a glass-walled area. We walked around in darkness before the goblin clapped two times. A sharp light filled the room.
    The Clapper, huh? Who needs magic when you’ve got human innovation at your fingertips—or smacking hands, as the case may be?
    The goblin’s office wasn’t too shabby. From the endless packets of sugar and empty coffee cups, it was evident that he had the sweet tooth of a sugarcane farmer. Not a single scrap of paper—other than from the sugar packets—sprinkled the desk.
    “Now, Scabbard expects you to keep your promise,” the goblin said. “He’ll give you the compact and jewels and you’ll leave him alone.”
    He reached into a drawer and pulled out a black bag. As he reached inside, I noticed the bag was velvet-lined. Fine quality, my eyes told me. But then, what he pulled out would make any girl sigh. A square compact case, about the size of my palm, filled his spindly hand. The outside shined from the bright light above and made me notice the swirls etched into the surface. My first thought was, Timeless and expensive .
    The goblin clicked on the tab to open it. Nestled inside the compact lay seven gems. Four of them were cut, while the other three were raw. I most certainly wasn’t a jeweler, but I knew the raw gems would be valuable to a dealer, who’d want to further divide them into certain cuts for his customers.
    One of the gems, a raw-cut diamond, beckoned to me like a discount rack Christmas ornament. It wantedme to pick it up. To clean and protect it with the rest of the goodies at home. I usually didn’t like shiny things other than ornaments, but this one was different. It was imperfect, but with a little love, it would become pristine.
    My distraction almost kept me from looking closely at the inside of the compact. The goblin was in the process of closing it when I saw the flaw. The mirror caught my eye. It was far too clear. Why would an antique give off such a bright reflection? That too-perfect perfection screamed the compact had been manufactured in the past century. But Roscoe had said it belong to his great-grandmother.
    “You like it?” the goblin asked.
    He mistook my expression for interest. At first it had been, but now I was more than suspicious.
    “It’s a very pretty piece,” I said. “From what century?”
    Let’s see what he pulls out of his ass this time .
    “It’s very old. Illya’s been waiting decades to try to take this from Scabbard.”
    “Illya?” Thorn’s eyebrow rose.
    “That must be Roscoe’s real Russian name,” I whispered.
    I turned to the goblin. “How old again?”
    The goblin shrugged. “Scabbard doesn’t know.”
    I took the compact and examined it. After another glance inside, my suspicions were further confirmed. The interior had chipped-off paint on it. Barely perceptible but a sign of a fake nonetheless. No one in their right mind would use paint on an antique compact. Of course, anyone who wasn’t in the biz, which I was, would’ve mistaken the flaw for a discoloration in the metal. What the hell was going on here?
    The goblin rubbed his hands. “Don’t forget our terms.”
    I offered him the compact. “I won’t. Especially after you give me the real one.”
    “You think Scabbard would just hand off something this valuable so easily, huh? Well, Scabbard values his business and his life.”
    I placed the compact on the desk when he didn’t take it. “That part of the job is really shitty. I’m guessing Antique Metallic Brass spray paint. Maybe the Hammered Metal Finish? What do you think, Thorn?”
    “It all looks red to me. Like someone’s splattered corpse on a wall.” His lips formed a thin line.
    The goblin’s hands went up. “Now, now, there’s no need for violence again.”
    This place looked like an office, but something in the garage was giving me the creeps. “How about you produce the real compact, so we can leave.”
    After mumbling under his breath a few times, the goblin led us out of