Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (28 page)

Part of me wanted to feel sorry for him, the other part was fuming. I said nothing.

“Natalia and I ran, of course. The night my father passed, my mother left town as well. I think she’s in the Alps now—at least she was when you were born. That left the kingdom in Jag’s hands. I’d hoped he would just let us be, but he wouldn’t be content until he had the Wheelers for himself. He wanted Protectors, and he didn’t understand the magic involved in our bond. He thought he could just bribe them away.”

He paused for breath. “It didn’t work, of course. Marnie and Mannox had more integrity than any fae, human, or troll I’ve ever met. Last two of a dying breed, they were, in more ways than one. They stayed by our sides, fought for us—died for us. Their only request, right at the end, was that we pledge you as their daughter’s Protector. And we did.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “A troll Protector?”

Othello nodded. “Everyone thinks a Protector is a race of fairy, but they’re wrong. Anyone can be a Protector, if they’re magical, and their heart is in the right place. All you have to do is—”

“Skip the recipe, O, and cut to the chase,” I said.

“Fine, sure,” he said, holding up a hand. “Can we begin to cut the hostility, just a bit, son?”

I shrugged.

He stared at me, and I realized that my eyes were his eyes. It’d been so long since I’d seen him, his face had become a vague recollection in my mind. Staring into his eyes now, I knew I would forgive him—eventually. Not yet, though.

I sighed. “Just tell the story, Dad.”

A tight grin passed his lips, then he continued. “So, you were sworn to protect Deb, and then Zelda gave a prophecy that you’d always be together, through blood and fire and water, so we knew we were doing the right thing—”

“I married her, Dad.”

He smiled. “Really? What’s she like?” He acted as though he expected me to produce a wallet filled with family photos or something.

“Well, right now she’s being held captive by your little brother, somewhere upstairs. So, I can’t rightly answer that one.”

“We’ll get her out of here, son,” he said. “I swear to you. I will not let you down.”

“Like you didn’t let Mom down?” I asked.

He cringed. “Harlow, my son—if I could have saved her, I would have. When Jag came after us, the Wheelers laid down their lives to save us, and we didn’t have any choice. I tried to protect your mother, but she always was smarter than me—she made a deal with Jag, gave herself as a sacrifice in the bargain. She died to save you, Harlow, on the promise that I would keep memory charms on you—”

But I couldn’t hear any more of this. “You son of a bitch!” I said. “You let Mom die for you? And
you
erased my memories!?” I was rage, embodied. I shook, and experienced Blood Vision for the first time—everything turned red. I stood up, hands clenched in fists, and then dove onto what was left of his pitiful body. I wanted to tear him apart, punish him for his sins.

But it was too late. He had already melted back into the cracks between the stones.

I turned, but the rest of the band was dissolving, as well.

“Told you he wouldn’t take it well, O,” said Holly’s disembodied voice.

“God damn it, Harlow,” said John. “You sure have changed, man.”

And that was the last thing I remembered, before a sleeping spell hit me. Either it was a spell or I raged out, I don’t know. It was inevitable, either way. A troll can only go so long at that intensity before falling into a deep sleep, or turning to stone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Bleeding Heartland

Deb

The pack was on the starting line when the juice kicked in. I went from dazed and confused to razor sharp. The referee’s whistle blew, and I felt it inside my chest before I even heard it.

I was playing Inside Blocker, and I took off behind Betsy, our Pivot. It was Betsy’s job to control the speed of the pack and to be the last line of defense against the opposing team’s jammer—if the Godsmackers were kind enough to let her through.

I spent most of the first jam skating with my head turned, watching over my shoulder and trying not to lock skates with the English rollergirl on my right.

The Godsmackers’ Outside and Back Blockers were giddily thumping the Bleeding Heartland Jammer betwixt the two of them, before easing up and letting her make her way through the pack. I saw the blur of our own half-troll jammer, Juwanna Kiss, whiz by me, her human glamour wearing enough to shed twinkly perspiration in her wake.

There was little for me to do until our back wall eased up on Bleeding Heartland, allowing them some ground.

It was my first bout, though, and I wasn’t in the mood to let anyone get past me. When Bleeding Heartland’s burgundy uniforms got anywhere near me, I threw myself into them, knocking girls off the track and into the suicide seats. It felt like bumping into vapor, their bodies were so light and frail. By the time Juwanna skated through the pack for her third pass, there were barely any English girls still in it.

“Juwanna Kiss, for the grand slam!” The announcer’s voice rang clearer now. The Bloomington crowd was stunned and probably demoralized, but a low roar of troll mirth built every time I knocked someone down. The ref blew the two minute whistle, signaling the end of the jam.

I grabbed a seat on the bench and chugged more of this new water. Betsy put her hand on my knee and looked me in the eye. “Go easier on them, Deb. Easier. We’ve got to make this last. If they break enough arms and legs, they’ll call the bout, and that’s not what we want.”

April patted my back. “Easy, Baby.”

“No more blocking for Deb this period,” said Betsy. “She can jam, but that’s it. We’ve got to let Bleeding Heartland finish this bout with most of their roster intact. We don’t want a forfeit, or Jag won’t be able to collect on the point-spread bets.”

The period flew by, with our girls alternately roughing up Bleeding Heartland and then letting them score. It was a close game, and I was sent in to jam.

There are many things I can’t recall from my days with the Godsmackers, but I will never forget the feeling of digging deep into my skates, bounding off the floor, fighting gravity as it pulled me sideways through the turns, before barreling through the waiting pack of rollergirls. The feeling of my teammates—of April—whipping me past the crowd, the wild speed threatening to topple me as I fought to stride into it, multiplying it into the sheer bliss of infinity.

The hardest part wasn’t avoiding the hits. I actually enjoyed those—the jarring feeling of another body slamming into mine, banging my ribcage, thumping my hips. I also loved the challenge of avoiding everyone’s skates—tippy-toeing through the pack—that was unbelievably fun.

No, the hard part for me was holding my arms in as close as I could to avoid getting a penalty. My pesky elbows just didn’t want to stay in. And worse than that, my wings got in the way. I could never take my mind off them, lest they reveal themselves.

I don’t know how many times I jammed during the bout. I don’t know if I was lead jammer, or how many points I scored. I’d been the Mayor of Blurville for so long, what did it matter? All I knew was I was born for this sport. This was my
moment
.

Near the end of the second period, a spectator threw herself onto the track and straight into me. I rolled over her fingers and tripped. I was sure I’d broken some of her bones on the way down.

She lay on the floor, an old woman in a bright red silk robe printed with purple paisleys. “Debra,” she said. “Help me up.”

Her neck was cocked awkwardly to one side, and Jag was pointing to her from the sidelines, screaming something to his henchmen. I scrambled to my feet, not sure what to do, but instinctively feeling the need to catch up with the pack at all costs.

“Debra!” she screamed. The ref’s whistles blew, and humans and trolls in heavy glamour rushed the floor, first aid kits on deck. I turned to skate back to our bench, but I felt a hand pulling on my shirt. That was the first time I was aware that I wore a team jersey, not just a glamour.

“Debra, return to Harlow,” she said. Her voice was muffled by the crowd of people encircling her on the floor, but her thick accent seemed so familiar. “Darling, do you hear me? Listen to Zelda. Return to Harlow and—”

But then she was gone. A flurry of purple paisley and red silk, and a brief memory of the woman’s bony fingers tracing the palm of my hand—and then nothing.

Chapter 33.5

Abdication

Harlow

They weren’t taking any chances. When I came to, I was tied with my own belt, and my dad wore my mojo sack around his own neck.

“That’s wrong,” I said. My throat was dry and scratchy, my voice cracking. “I want my sack back.” I pulled against the restraints on my wrist, as I surveyed the situation. The smuggled bow was crushed, and my iron arrows lay neatly beside it on the floor, behind the straw pile.

“Look, son,” Othello said. “I understand you are upset. We’re all upset—well, at least we’ve all been there. And I can tell by the weight of what’s in this pack that you’ve got a lot riding on you, son. I’ve never felt such heavy teeth.” He made as if to open the sack.

“Don’t you dare!” I said.

John and Max held me down by the shoulders. They were surprisingly strong, for their weakened state. I guess living inside the walls of a troll dungeon isn’t as hard on the physique as one would think.

“Okay, okay,” dad said. “I won’t get into your stuff. The only reason we removed your weaponry was so you could lie more comfortably.” Dad paced the room, then dropped the mojo sack gently onto my chest, where it belonged. He took a deep breath, then said, “Here’s what we’re going to do, Harlow. I’m going to finish telling you what I know, and then we’ll let you out of your bonds. If you still want to tear me limb-from-limb, so be it. If you decide otherwise, we’re with you all the way. Okay?”

I didn’t see as I had any choice. I managed to pull myself up into a sitting position, which was difficult to do without hands, but much more comfortable than lying on my stiff back. “Start talking, Pops.”

He sat on the floor cross-legged next to me, and my friends—or former friends, whatever they were—drifted to the edges of the room to give us space again.

“Harlow, despite what you think of me, I did what I did, and it can’t be undone now. There’s no way to go back. Someday hopefully you will understand—your mother and I made our choices to protect the ones we loved. She was smarter than me, is all. If I’d have been a faster thinker, I’d have offered myself in her stead, but your mother was always a step ahead of me. If it weren’t for you, and my desire to protect you, Jag would’ve gotten to me years ago. But I did enchant you, because I knew it would keep you alive. Jag lives in fear that you’ll wake up from the spells and decide to reclaim your birthright.”

“My birthright?”

“The throne, dummy.
My
throne. Well, what was supposed to have been my throne. The birthright reverts to you, unless you abdicate, like I did. Technically, you’re the rightful king of this realm.”

“Whatever,” I said. “What’s that matter, anyway?” But deep down, I knew what he was going to say next.

“It matters a lot, Harlow. There’s a lot of magic that goes along with being a troll king—or deposing one. If you challenge Jag for the throne and win, there’s almost nothing that’s outside your grasp.”

“That’s all well and good, Dad, but what if I don’t want to be king?”

Dad paused for breath, and Holly groaned across the room.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t you get it, you dummy?” she said. “You aren’t going to have any choice!”

Othello shot her a look of annoyance, and she shrugged and put her hands on her hips.

“Just tell him, O,” she said.

He took a deep breath, sighing in exasperation. “Okay, fine, fine!” With tears in his eyes, he placed his hands on my shoulders. “It’s either you or Deb, son. Jag’s going to make you choose.”

“Choose what? Who stays? Who goes? I’ll gladly stay here if it means she goes free.”