Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (14 page)

“Bet you feel naked without your skates, huh?” he said.

I dusted the wet grass off my ass and didn’t make eye contact. “Do you read minds, too?”

“Naw,” he said, laughing. “Just a hunch.”

He pointed to an enormous aluminum building, sparkling in the last of the sunlight. “That’s the place.”

Hundreds of cars filled the parking lot, yards away from an interstate. A red, white, and blue sign on the building announced that shoppers inside were “Trollin’ for Bargains at the Midwest’s 2nd Biggest Flea Market!”

“Is that 65?” I asked.

“Yep.”

We were halfway to the market now. Over my shoulder, the interstate was so close, I thought about making a run for it—but I’d never go without my skates. He must have known. Left them behind for insurance.

The flea market was fairly typical. Cheap Chinese NASCAR tapestries, gun & knife booths, and rows and rows of bins of $1 health and beauty products on recall. We passed several booths of musty secondhand clothing, dusty antiques, and moldy paperback books. If I hadn’t been so concerned about Gennifer’s well-being, it would’ve been tempting to browse the book stalls a bit, but as it was, Harlow was nearly breaking a sweat for the back corner of the hall, and I could barely keep up.

“Who exactly did you want me to meet?”

“Zelda,” he said. “Keep walking, we’re getting closer.”

The last half-aisle of the flea market was devoted to musical instruments, and a circle of banjo pickers and guitarists were set up facing one another, jamming away to their heart’s delight, while little children danced.

“Does Zelda play the dulcimer or something?” I asked.

He looked at me sideways, then laughed. “Actually, she might play the accordion—but I wouldn’t ask her to demonstrate. Not if you want to get home before midnight tonight.”

After a good fifteen minutes of walking, we finally reached the back of the market. A stale, greasy snack bar featuring Unlimited Topping Pizzas and Broasted Chicken was closing, and the attendant made sure we knew it.

“I’d like a marshmallow pizza with extra gnomes,” Harlow said.

“That ain’t the password anymore,” said the guy behind the counter, doffing his paper hat in my direction. “Orders of the boss.”

“So what’s the new password, Charlie?” Harlow asked, leaning over the counter and staring hard at the kid.

A snap and quiver of wings, and the attendant shook himself, like a dog. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, but it didn’t seem natural. Not anything I’d seen in nature, anyway.

In an instant, he was back to normal, as if he’d never revealed his true nature.

“You’re a fairy!” I said.

Charlie laughed, nodding in my direction. He looked me up and down. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

“It’s her first time at the market, Charlie. Let us in.”

“First time, huh?” Charlie leaned forward on the greasy countertop between us. He spread his wings deliberately this time—translucent, shimmering, and extending about six feet out from his back. He shook them and let them relax slightly. I could read the list of Unlimited Toppings through the gauze-like membrane of his wings. Pepperoni, sausage, green peppers—what did he mean? Takes one to know one?

A door opened next to Charlie, and fluorescent light lit up a supply closet. Then the illusion billowed, and was gone. There was no supply closet, just a door leading who knows where.

“Excuse me, pardon me,” came grunting voices from below the counter.

Charlie tucked his wings in and shuffled out of the way.

“And don’t think we didn’t notice your wings out, civilian side,” the voices said in unison.

Harlow took my hand, and wordlessly pulled me closer to the counter.

Two small people with long curly beards and pointy red hats pointed fingers up at Charlie. Charlie shrugged and sputtered, and then Harlow was pulling me over the counter, through the door.

The illusion of the supply closet flickered back into sight, then peeled away like a curtain. The world bowed and opened up before me.

“Welcome to Wal-mart for the fae,” said Harlow, spreading his arms wide. “This,” he grinned, “is the Troll Market.”

Chapter 15.5

The Greatest Show on Earth

Harlow

“Welcome to the Troll Market.” I’d
always
wanted to say that.

I imagined myself, so cool and smooth and theatrical, rehearsing it in my mind all the way back to the portal—and she wasn’t even looking.

Deb’s mouth hung agape, her eyes wide. The familiar overpowering smell of the market was all around us, but I felt as though I were experiencing it for the first time, through her eyes.

It was a lot harder than I’d thought it would be—not just watching out for her, but keeping an eye out for Dave and his crew at the same time. They could be hiding anywhere, and although I normally had a good instinct for this kind of thing, I felt like my concentration was cut in half, having a newb to guide around like Deb. Had I been so different, the first time I visited?

I must have been. I mean, I didn’t live in seclusion from the fae as a child. Not like Deb had.

With the Amish becoming more and more half-troll, and the troll becoming more and more half-fae, of course it wouldn’t be long before nearly everyone knew a troll or a fairy who was openly magical. Honestly, I didn’t really understand how Dave and his crew had kept it hidden for so long, what with the sloppy drug use and all.

Dave.

The realization woke me from my reverie. I had to get Deb to Zelda, and there was no time to waste.

Chapter Sixteen

Madame Zelda

Deb

The smell of sewer back-up and spicy meats hit me at once. Oh, and the voices! Overlapping strange languages in a blur of high sing-songs and low gutteral growls. So bizarre, at the bazaar.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked.

Harlow laughed. “It might look like hell, but we’re still in Indiana. This is the The Underground. Your kind, my kind, all kinds.”

I was still struggling with the concept that I was one of these people. There were men with heads of pigs—women and children, too, squealing along in otherwise normal clothing. Leprechauns on skateboards wore ripped street clothes and long wallet chains as they ollied through the meandering crowd.

Above me, the ceiling was high and dark—it might have been an open air market, so black were the heights above us—but the air was still. It was impossible to believe this place we were in was anyway connected to the Flea Market we’d meandered through to get here.

Harlow took my arm and pulled me into the throng. We passed an enormous wooden cart full of rotting mushrooms and moldy oranges. The man who pulled it was larger and bulkier than any troll I’d ever seen—and he was bald. He stared down at me with blank eyes, and I felt myself go cold.

“Ogre,” Harlow whispered in my ear. His breath warmed me, like sunshine. It tickled my ear, and I cringed against it, but couldn’t help but smile. “They’re only half alive, the poor guys. Slaves, usually. Best not to look them in the eye for too long.”

Harlow’s pace was like a strong current in a rocky river. He wound through the crowd, determined and urgent, but never offering me more than a whisper of encouragement or a protective grasp of the hand. The stalls here on this side of the Market were filled with brightly colored dresses, hats, fruits, books—as vibrant as the fairies and beasts who shopped among them.

Most of them wore everyday street clothes, and I was surprised how popular clothing trends were with the fairy set. I don’t know what I’d imagined fairies would wear, but I didn’t expect it to be Hollister tee shirts, or Ugg boots. A few times, I thought I saw an ordinary girl my age, only to make eye contact, and watch her glimmer into a flash of wings and wild hair, partially nude or sporting bloody fangs.

One such girl offered me a purple apple, and Harlow closed his hand around mine when I took it.

“She already ate,” he said. He whispered, but a violet fringe of hair whisped away from her face as if a full breeze were upon it.

“Give it back, then, Harlow,” she said.

He took the apple from my hand and squeezed. A mass of thick, bloody ooze spilled into the girl’s open palm. She scowled, and let the shriveled apple drop to the cobblestone floor. She shook her hand, and the sizzle of acid burns rose up from the pavement.

As we walked on, Harlow leaned in close. “One bite of that, and you’d have bled non-stop for the rest of your life.”

I was speechless. If I was unsure about Harlow’s intentions before, I really felt like I had no choice but to trust him now. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole, and had no idea which way was up. Could I survive this Troll Market without him?

He came to a stop before a red tent draped with purple paisley and gold lame curtains. A blue neon palm flashed on and off, and the letters M-A-D-A-M-E Z-E-L-D-A lit up one by one beneath it. A hand-lettered sign read, “Weekend Special. Ask inside for discount.”

“Business isn’t so good for Madame Zelda?” I asked.

“Naw,” he said, pushing the curtain aside and ducking to step inside. “She always puts that sign out when she wants privacy. The fae are extremely suspicious of anyone who does them a favor, you know?”

“Word.” I was wordless, though. I knew nothing about fairykind. My kind.

A woman’s voice called out from within the tent.

“Is that my Golden Boy?” The voice was smoky, and sounded vaguely Eastern European. A woman in a blood red turban, with a prominent hooked nose emerged from behind a black velvet curtain. “I was just watching
Days of Our Lives
on TiVo, darling. Can you come back in a few min—”

Then she saw me, and gasped. Harlow stepped away from me at just the moment that I most wanted him near.

“So,” she said, walking slowly toward me. “The time has come. Roller Deb has returned to us.” She gestured to a stiff-backed chair, and a small round table draped with a purple calico tablecloth. The only thing missing was a crystal ball. “I don’t know what Harlow has told you, but let me tell you about you and your sister.”

Chapter 16.5

I Will Survive

Harlow

My stomach tensed. My heart raced. I felt as though I would break out into a rain of sweat. What was Zelda going to say? And what price would you put on this information? Could we even believe her?

There were a few things I was sure about, and someone had put a memory curse on me to make sure I hadn’t remembered any of them. Why? Would Zelda know?

And what about Deb’s sister, Gennifer? I hadn’t laid eyes on the girl, but she smelled human enough, from what I had scented off Dave and Deb. Why would Dave want her? Just a simple human sacrifice? Or was there more to it than that?

Right after my parents had died, Jarod McJagger had taken me in for a while, and there were whispers among his court that he would raise me as his own. That was before he took another wife—the blondest, most evil fairy I’d ever known. Bianca. She looked like an angel, and bit like a vampire.