Page 1 of The Goblin's Mine

CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE

I’ve never likedthe term “black sheep.” I feel like it somehow frowns on the idea of being original or unique. Like it suggests that we should all be the same, or else we get called out. And believe me, I’ve been called the black sheep of my family enough times to know that it never feels great. Just because I’m different, it makes me somehow bad? Please.

Here’s the thing about my family. They practically run the town of Haven’s Hollow, but not in a creepy mobster way. They all just do their part to make it the cutest little town that ever there was. My brother Griffin is the mayor. My sister Aerin owns the kitschiest diner, doing her part for the tourist trade. My cousin Lauriel was recently promoted to bank manager, and my cousin-slash-best friend Haven…well, Haven does everything. Runs a resort, knows literally everybody, manages any and every crisis that arises. Organizes festivals, does covert match-making. You know the type. Everybody loves Haven, myself included.

But then there’s me. The wayward drifter who, at twenty-six, still lives on the family homestead—although at least I live in oneof the guest houses and not in the big house with Mom and Dad. I’m the dreamer who likes to spend hours painting and making my own clothes and rambling around the property. The one who hasn’t yet “realized her potential,” as my grandpa once said. But I love the town my ancestors founded as much as anyone, and I finally figured out how to make my mark.

I’m going to prove monsters are real.

And that they live right here in Haven’s Hollow.

And then our tourist trade, which is built on monster lore, will really explode.

I’m using the term “monster” loosely, of course, because I’m not sure what else to call them. Cryptids? Supernatural beings? Maybe monster is wrong, because I feel like it kind of has a negative connotation, like these creatures are evil or scary. And some of them probably are. But what I’m really talking about are non-human, sapio-sentient creatures. I’m positive they’re out there, and I’m determined to find them.

Part of me thinks I should start at the lake, because once, over too many glasses of wine, Haven confided to me that there’s a kelpie living in Lake Eerie. But she wouldn’t say any more than that, and I’m not exactly sure how to search an entire lake, or if she was just teasing me.

But that’s okay, because I think I have a better idea. On one of the far edges of the Bishop homestead are a bunch of caves that lead under the mountains surrounding Haven’s Hollow. I’m going to start there, because if you were a monster in the area, wouldn’t you stake your claim on a nice, cozy cave?

The town’s entire backbone rests on the idea of the supernatural and monsters. We happily claim that they’re here, we celebrate them with parades, and we decorate in their images. We have signs, statues, and souvenirs, all monster-themed. But no one takes any of it seriously. It’s just a way tomake our town stand out, and people who love the spooky come here on vacation. Win-win.

But if I can prove monstersactuallyexist? Hoo-boy. Think how famous our town would be then.

And the timing is just right. I’ve been heavily interested in making jewelry lately, and it turns out I’m pretty good at it. Unlike most of my other hobbies, I could see this one actually going somewhere. I’ve got some better tools and supplies on order, but until they come in, I’m at a loose ends. And not only am I currently between projects, but I’m dodging my himbo ex-boyfriend Brock. A Liam Hemsworth-lookalike with the IQ of a banana, I used to think the dude was harmless.

Cute, dumb, but okay in bed and decent fun for a night out. A little on the possessive side for my taste, but I could overlook it. Then he got furious over the most trivial thing—my insistence on calling him Broccoli, which I thought was a cute nickname—popped me one good and gave me a black eye, all while screeching about what a dumb bitch I was.

It was both eye-opening (in the figurative sense) and eye-closing (in the literal, swelling shut sense). Needless to say, I left without a backward glance and told him to lose my number. Instead, though, he’s been texting apologies to me ever since, swearing that he didn’t mean to, that he’d had too much beer, that he’s soverysorry, etc. The texts have amped up recently, and the other night I swear I saw his car go by on one of the security cams.

I considered blocking his number, but that seemed unwise. As annoying as he is, I feel better knowing when he’s trying to contact me. It’s better than him surprising me.

Anyway, I’m not thrilled by his persistence, to say the least. Disappearing into some caves that lack cell service will grant me a much-needed reprieve until I figure out what to do about the jackass.

Which brings me to my current plan. On the table in front of me, I have an empty pack and the essentials I’ve assembled: water, snacks, my camera, a hunting knife, some rope, a high-powered flashlight with extra batteries, and a few other odds and ends. I’m hoping this excursion won’t take more than a day or two; any longer than that, and I’ll have to come back and resupply. But I don’t have a bigger pack, I’m not what anyone would call outdoorsy, and I don’t want to weigh myself down too much, so this seems like the best option. I’ll go into the caves, find my monsters, take some photos and video, and voila! We can put it on the town’s website or something.

Okay, no, I haven’t figured out what to do with the evidence of monsters once I have it, but that’s fine. One thing at a time. First things first, I gotta go explore those caves. Preferably before Brock calls me again.

Even as I think it, my phone rings, but luckily, my dad’s name pops up on the screen. Bram Bishop is retired now, but guess who was mayor before my brother took over? Like all the Bishops except me, civic duty is basically his middle name.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, picking up.

“Hey, honey. How are you?”

I smile. I live a hundred yards away, but he calls out of respect for my privacy. “I’m fine. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m good. I actually have news. Remember Max Gutierrez?”

“Nope. I do not.”

“Well, he used to be in charge of the Tourism Board. He retired a few years back, but his daughter Marisol runs it now, and it turns out they need someone to help them with PR! You’d be great at that, honey.”

“Dad, I don’t know the first thing about PR. I majored in Art History.”

“Pshaw, that doesn’t matter. I’ll put in a good word for you. There’s no way they wouldn’t hire you. You’re a Bishop.”

Thanks for the reminder, Dad. As if I could ever forget. “Okay, well, I’ll look online and see if I can find the posting, okay?”

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