by Tash, Red
“But? Isn’t there a catch?”
He laughed. “Smart girl. With a troll, there’s always a catch. Rule number one. Remember that.” He sipped a drink, so tiny in his hulking hands, then looked around the mansa. “Enough of that, though—you’re pretty well caught as it is, I’d say.”
I smirked. The bed was so soft, though, and now that my belly was full, I felt so tired again—but I wasn’t going to sleep without some answers.
“I really do want to find my sister as soon as I can,” I said. I lay down on the bed and gave in to the comfort of soft blankets around me. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Mom would drink too much and throw up on her blanket, and then she’d take mine. I used to climb into my sister’s bed to keep warm, but I stopped when we weren’t little anymore.
I stretched out on the pallet and yawned. I could get used to this. Harlow’s gruff, quiet voice almost didn’t break me out of my doze.
“I’ll help you find Gennifer,” he said. “It won’t be easy, but I think we can liberate her from McJagger if we approach it the right way.”
“McJagger!? That black hole has my sister?” I sat up, cold and feeling a little sick.
Harlow dropped to his knees before me on the floor. He held me gently by the shoulders, staring deeply into my eyes. “Trust me, Deb. Slow down. You have to trust me, or we’re never going to get anywhere.”
I nodded, but I was really tiring of this. I mean, he was a troll, for Pete’s sake! Part of my mind was screaming that he was probably going to eat me, eventually. The other part actually did trust him. I wasn’t sure which side was winning.
“Start talking,” I said.
He laughed. “Bossy, bossy. You know, I’m breaking a lot of rules by having you here.”
“Start with ‘here.’ Where are we, exactly? Then tell me about these rules. Whose rules?”
Harlow stood up and walked slowly around the room. “This,” he said, opening his arms wide, “is my mansa, my mound. My home.”
“Are we underground?” I wondered why it was such a sunny place.
“We are. I put a lot of skylights in, though.” He pointed to the circular ceiling, where mismatched windows hung. “Never was a fan of dark, cold places. We’re all going to end up underground, eventually, right? I’m not in a rush for the darkness.”
“Are we very far from … the Fog?”
“Far enough, yeah. They couldn’t follow us even if we were right next door. When you took the vow with me, you sealed yourself away from any harm at their hands. Only your own people can hurt you, while I live and walk by your side.”
“God, you make it sound like we’re married or something.”
Harlow looked chagrined, but said nothing.
“But that’s impossible, right? I mean—thanks for saving me and all, but I don’t want to marry you.”
Again, he was silent.
“Harlow, come on … I can’t be married to a troll. I’m a human!” I wanted to grab my skates and make a break for the door, but I knew I was never going to find the answers to my many, many questions if I didn’t hear him out. I sat cross-legged on my bed and waited. Something deep within me knew what he was going to say next.
“You’re not as human as you might think, Roller Deb.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, many reasons, really. For starters, how about the glamour you were wearing at the High School Homecoming thing? Cowboy boots? Really.”
“I, uh …” I wasn’t sure what to say. How did he know I’d imagined myself in cowboy boots?
“The Coach told me all about it. You know, I know you had a head wound and everything, but, really. That’s just not your style, is it? I heard the belt buckle was amazing.”
“How do you know the Coach?” I instantly knew the answer, before Harlow could say it. “He’s a troll, too, isn’t he?”
“He is. He’s been watching you for years. Longer than me, actually.”
“Exactly how long have you been stalking me, then?”
“Stalking’s a strong word, Deb.” He rubbed his beard, deep in thought. “Geez, I don’t know how to explain this, exactly. You still feel like getting out of here?”
“Forever?” The look on his face told me I said it a little too eagerly.
“No, not forever—just for a field trip. There’s someone you need to meet.” He handed me my shoes. “No need to take your backpack with you,” he said. “It’ll only slow you down.”
“But my skates,” I said.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But where we’re going, the last thing you want to be seen doing is skating.”
He held open the door flap of the mansa. Fading sunlight glowed pink and orange outside. “Magic hour,” he said. “Best time for travel, anyway.”
I put on my shoes and joined him at the door. “After you,” he said.
The smell of curdled garbage hit me like a tsunami. “Your place is a dump,” I said.
“In a dump, my dear. In a dump. And the proper term is ‘landfill,’ these days.” A discarded refrigerator lay on its side, nearby. Harlow opened the door and gestured for me to get in.
“You’ll fall for a minute, but you won’t land hard,” he said.
I stared into the fridge—despite the light of the sunset, the inside was black and foggy, like looking down a well filled with smoke. I started to ask Harlow how exactly I was supposed to get into the thing, when he pushed me.
I fell headfirst through the black fog—and for the second time on this journey, I did so fully awake.
Chapter 14.5
The Way We Were
Harlow
So far she was taking it as well as I’d expected, if not better. She hadn’t bolted yet, although I could see it in her eyes—she wanted to. The way she hungered to save her sister felt familiar. Was it possible that she was pledged as her sister’s Protector, the way I was hers?
The memories crowded and mingled in my mind, catching up with themselves like old friends at a loud party. I wanted to shake my brain and scream “Wake up!” to the part of my psyche that someone had stolen from me. Now that it was back, I needed to remember it all—fast—so I could figure out what to do before it was too late.
A few things were very clear to me:
1. I was Deb’s Protector
2. We were now married
3. All of this was as prophesied
4. Deb is a full-blown fairy
5. She isn’t aware of any of this
The nervousness over what Zelda would say next made me sicker than the ride down the Fridgerator Shoot. It’s the reason people stay away from her, you know? Nobody wants to hear that he’s going to die, or that his brother will turn on him—my Dad sure didn’t.
And there it was. A memory.
My mother and father, and me. Mannox and Marnie Wheeler, and their baby. I was so young, I didn’t have my tusks yet. Just flowing golden hair, fine as any baby’s. Where were we? The Wheeler’s home?
And the Wheeler baby—Debra—so tiny and willowy, she’d looked underfed by human standards. Her mother held her in one arm, and with her free hand, she lifted me up. She was so strong, and so stark. Her skin was as white as bone, her hair an ebony fountain of sheen. She smiled, and her ruby lips parted, dazzling pearlescent pointed teeth in what I’m sure would have been a menacing smile to anyone unaccustomed to the look of the fae.
How could I ever have forgotten? She spread her black leathery wings wide, and wrapped them around us. Her husband Mannox spread his, and encircled her, with Baby Debra and me in the center, like the heart of an artichoke. There was chanting—my parents’ voices pierced my heart, as if this memory had been bottled fresh just yesterday, opened today, exploding everywhere inside me. The smell of incense, a pinprick of blood, the baby’s tears—and then all was a cascade of laughter, warm sunlight, and there was so much flying!
Mannox Wheeler held me against his chest, his powerful wings lifting us above the small town below. I could see ou
r house—not a mansa, but a real house—from these heights. I could see the Wheelers. I could see the vegetable garden that Marnie and Mom had put out, the magical haze of their special herbs rippling in the summer breeze.
And then the baby. We were on the ground in an instant, the moment I’d seen her. I was little—far too little—but I’d have dropped like a stone from any height to be by her side. I must have tried, because Mannox panted behind me as I clung to Marnie’s knee, reaching for my Debra.
“She’ll never know any different,” my mother said, her good-natured husky laugh like the sound of water rushing over stones. “Wherever she goes, Harlow will be right there.”
And then there was the black fog. A bony black hand reaching out to grab my neck.
And that’s the last thing I remember from that day.
Chapter Fifteen
Troll Market
Deb
I landed on my seat, bouncing a little on the wet grass. Harlow was about five seconds behind me, landing in a crouch and springing upright, instantly.
He held his hand down to me, and I grasped it. “It gets easier with practice,” he said.
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” I said. I looked around automatically for my backpack, to collect it. Back at the ranch.
“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 i
nto 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?
