The shade flew into motion quicker than a hiccup, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. He had his hands pressed to each side of Red Hat’s face, and I couldn’t tell if he was trying to squish his head like a grape or pull him in for a kiss. It didn’t much matter in the long run because as soon as he got that close, Red Hat drew a pair of long, narrow knives from under his short brown jacket and stabbed the shadow. He stabbed that shadow-dude musta been fifty times in a split second, then started to carving. There was no blood, but flecks of shadow drifted to the floor like it was meat off a prime rib at a carving station. With every flick of Red Hat’s wrist, more of the shadow guy’s substance flew away. After half a minute or so of them squeezing heads and cutting down opponents, the shadow guy let go of Red Hat’s gourd, spun around like a tornado made of smoke, and shot straight up through the ceiling. Red Hat turned to Mab, his hands suddenly empty, and gave a grand bow, whipping off his red ball cap and sweeping it to the ground in front of him. I noticed when he stood up, his hat left a smear of blood across the white marble where it dragged.
Me and the troll were the last match, and I needed it. Joe had been rubbing my shoulders, trying to get me back in fighting shape, but I’d had less than half an hour to recuperate from going one-on-one with an armored faerie knight, and now I had to wrassle a troll. The more I think about the dumb shit I’ve done in my life, the dumber it all seems. This time it wasn’t just me, for a change. It took two generations of bad decision-making for me to end up in unarmed hand-to-hand combat against a damn troll in Fairyland.
I nodded to Granny and stepped into the cleared circle in the middle of the crowd. I might have been imagining it, but it sure felt like there were a lot more people watching than in the first round. It was like everybody in the Winter Court wanted to see the mostly human get his guts ripped out by a troll. For me, I wasn’t so much looking forward to that part.
“Stick and move, Bubba!” Joe hollered as I stared at the troll. This was an ugly son of a bitch, no question about it. It would probably be a solid nine feet tall if it stood upright, but it walked all kinds of hunched over in this weird loping stride. It wore a loincloth, which was a blessing because as ugly as the rest of it was, I didn’t even want to know what troll junk looked like. It was covered in grayish-brown skin that glistened like it was oiled up, only the oil was like congealed pig fat or something because it was covered in this yellow slime that looked like nothing so much as if the universe had hocked a huge loogie on the thing, and it was covered in nasty yellow phlegm to go with its nasty gray-brown skin.
If its overall appearance wasn’t bad enough, it had long arms that dragged the ground and would probably have scraped the floor even if the thing stood up straight. It looked to have at least a ten-foot wingspan, and every foot-long finger was tipped with a grotesque hooked claw, also dripping with yellow sludge. I looked in its beady red eyes, and it grinned at me, showing off a jagged smile missing a few pointed teeth but with still more than enough shredding capacity to tear off big hunks of Bubba-flesh and shove them in its greedy maw. It probably wasn’t the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen. I mean, I did play Division I football. But this was damn close.
I got ready to rumble with the troll, wishing the whole time I had Bertha. Hell, at that point, I’d have probably used Skeeter as a weapon if he’d been handy. Just before the Master of Ceremonies announced us as the final bout for round two, I heard somebody behind me clear his throat. I turned, and the guard whose halberd I snatched in round one stood about three feet away. He extended his arm, big damn axe leaning down to me.
“I think you may need this,” he said.
I took the pole arm with a nod and twirled it around over my head like the little dudes in those kung fu movies. Or I tried to, but I gave up after I almost sent the axe swinging into the crowd. I just held it with both hands and pointed the business end toward the slimy monster.
The troll chuffed out what I guess passed for a laugh in Troll-ese and charged me. It ran in this weird kinda double-jointed lope, but it covered a shitload of ground, getting to me in just two steps. I swung at its side with the halberd, but it stepped inside the axe’s path and blocked with one gangly arm. I ducked as the other arm buzzed over my head, claws whistling through the air. A little bit of the yellow slime dripped onto the back of my neck and damn if it didn’t start to burn my skin!
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I said. “You’re big, strong, ugly with razor claws, and you sweat acid! That ain’t even fair.” I swung the pole around to crack a rib or two, but the troll just snatched the halberd, snapped the long handle over its knee, and flung the pieces aside.
I bull-rushed the ugly bastard while it focused on my weapon, slamming a shoulder into its chest. The troll toppled over, and I kept right on moving, stomping one foot into its stomach and the other in its upper chest as I went over it. This time I did hear some ribs crack—three hundred fifty pounds of rampaging redneck are a lot for one sternum to handle. Didn’t help much, though, since by the time I got myself a little bit of breathing room and turned back around, the troll was already on his feet and running for me. I snatched the pole arm out of the hands of another guard, this time setting it for the troll’s charge like a pikeman against cavalry.
Leave me alone, I’ve watched movies. I know what a pikeman does.
What a pikeman doesn’t do is deal well with trolls because this one just stopped and reached forward, leaning over the huge axe blade and snatching another halberd out of my hands with its ridiculously long arms.
But I was ready this time. I planned ahead, and when I ran over the troll, I stopped right about where it tossed the last axe it broke. So when Slimy McAcidface jerked this one out of my hands, I bent over and picked up the remnants of the last weapon it broke. I grabbed the broken shaft first, picking up a three-foot pole about two inches around. I tapped the splintered end on the ground twice, squared my feet, and teed off with that stick like I was Jack Nicklaus at Pebble Beach. Now I ain’t never played gold, they don’t hardly make courses that’ll let me on in my work boots and blue jeans, but I have bashed a bunch of monsters in the balls with sticks. And that’s what I did this time. I hollered “Fore!” at the top of my lungs and cracked that troll square in the nuts with the busted end of a medieval weapon of war.
Now getting hit in the balls hurts. Getting hit in the balls with a stick hurts worse. But I have to assume that getting hit in the balls by a fat hillbilly who thinks he’s gonna die if he doesn’t whoop your ass right that second has got to hurt worst of all. And the worst part of it would be the splinters in your nutsack when it was over.
Judging by the look on that troll’s face, which looked like a cross between Fat Bastard from that Austin Powers movie and a Hungry Hungry Hippo with an air hose shoved up its ass, it hurt a hell of a lot. The big gray bastard clutched its jewel purse with both clawed hands, dropped to its knees, and opened its mouth to let out a screech of the most abject agony.
That’s when I picked up the other half of the broken halberd and chopped the poor bastard’s head clean off. It spewed eggplant-purple blood every which way as it rolled across the marble floor, leaving streaks of yellow acidic slime mixing with purple blood all over the place. Granny was gonna be real glad she ScotchGuarded the rugs with magic after this fight.
I looked up at Mab, sitting on her throne of ice all stone-faced and pissed-off looking, twirled the axe around a little, spraying the front row of bystanders with troll blood, tossed my weapon to the floor in a huge clatter, and said, “I think I win. Again. Who’s next Grann-o? You set ‘em up; I’ll knock ‘em down!”
Someday I’m gonna learn not to let my big stupid mouth write checks my ass can’t cash.
11
“Well, if Falarun wasn’t lying, the entrance to the princess’s tower should be behind one of the next two doors,” Amy said.
“If he was lying, he’s got a lot more willpower than I do. I can’t believe you actually di
d that to him,” Skeeter walked with both hands over his crotch, wincing at the memory.
“He could have talked at any point, Skeeter. We’re on a schedule, and he had information we needed.”
“Was this a ‘what would Jack Bauer do’ moment for you, Amy?”
“More like a ‘what can I do to a guy that would give Bubba nightmares’ moment.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you got there. I know I ain’t gonna sleep anywhere around you without wearing a plate mail chastity belt, that’s for damn sure. Is it this door or the next?”
“I’m not sure,” Amy said, putting her ear to the dark wooden door. “I couldn’t understand everything he said through the screaming.”
“Yeah, especially when it got real high-pitched.” Skeeter turned the knob. “This ain’t locked.”
Amy pushed the door open, and the pair slipped inside. They stepped into a large room full of books. Shelves lined every wall from floor to ceiling, and the smell of old paper and leather book bindings wrapped them up like a warm cocoon. Six long tables sat in the center of the room, each with eight padded chairs and lamps for reading. A pair of ladders hung on tracks that ringed the room to reach the top shelves, some fifteen feet off the floor. Moonlight cascaded in through huge skylights, bathing the deep wood tones in cool blue illumination.
Glowing orbs of yellow hung in midair, suspended and lit by some type of magic, floating lamps to provide general lighting in addition to the table lamps and skylights. The overall feeling of the room was peaceful, a marked contrast to the edginess throughout the rest of the castle.
“Wow, look at some of these titles,” Skeeter said, running his finger across the spines on one shelf. “Care and Feeding of Chimeras, Gryphon Breeding for Humans and Other Idiots, History of the Mongrelization of the Fae…wait a minute!”
“What, you thought racism was just a human thing?” Amy asked.
“No, but this is kind of like finding a copy of Birth of a Nation in the White House. I just didn’t expect it to be all out in the open like this.”
“You’ve seen the way Mab looks at Bubba. I don’t think she’s happy to have a half-human grandson.”
“Well, be honest. If Bubba walked into your dining room and announced to all your friends that he was your long-lost relative…”
Amy laughed. “Yeah, it might take some adjustment.”
“Is that why he hasn’t met your family?”
Amy’s eyes turned cold as she whirled on Skeeter. “I don’t have any family. And it’s not something I talk about. Ever.”
“Seriously?” Skeeter didn’t quite hold back the snort. “Do you remember who you’re talking to? Amy, my adopted mama threw a ‘Kwame’ into the middle of my name so I wouldn’t forget I was black! I grew up in Dalton frigging Georgia! Do you think there was ever a single second that I forgot I was the black kid in my class? And look at Bubba. We are in Fairyland looking for his kidnapped half-sister because his mother comes back after twenty years and announces, ‘Hi honey, I’m the Heir to the Winter Court of Faerie. And that’s not even getting to the fact that he killed his daddy and his kid brother, both of them werewolves! If you’ve got something that can beat that, I’ll give you a pass. But otherwise, spill it, girl.” Skeeter stood there, arms folded, jaw set, staring at Amy until she let out a huge sigh.
“Okay, fine. But you are not telling Bubba this. I’ll tell him. In my own time. Which might be never. He does not need to meet my family, and they do not need to meet them. Frankly, I don’t ever need to see most of them again. When I left home, I swore the only way I’d ever come back was in a tank, guns blazing.”
“Sweet Jesus, girl, who are you kin to?” Skeeter asked.
Amy didn’t speak for a long time, just walked back and forth between two of the tables, chewing on a thumbnail. Finally, she stopped and turned to Skeeter. “No laughing. No questions. And no telling Bubba. Deal?”
Skeeter mimed taking a key out of his pocket, locking his lips, and tossing the key over his shoulder. Then he crossed his heart and nodded.
“Okay. My father…is Franklin Hargroves.” She said the last in a rush, like she wanted to get the words out before they could linger on her lips.
“The televangelist?”
Amy nodded.
“The ‘God will destroy America because gay people can get married’ guy?”
Another nod.
“The dude that protests the funerals of American soldiers holding up signs that the deceased is going to burn in Hell for supporting the liberal gay agenda in America?”
“Yup, that’s dad. The most famous asshole in America. My father.”
“Well, there’s still Rush Limbaugh. I think he’s more famous. But your pop’s right up there.”
“Thanks. That’s the little ray of sunshine I was looking for.”
“Whatever,” Skeeter said. “Let’s go find the princess’s bedroom. She obviously ain’t in here, and if she shares much DNA with Bubba, she likely ain’t ever set foot in a library.” He turned and started for the door, but Amy reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Wait, that’s it?” she asked.
“That’s what? Your dad’s an asshole. I wouldn’t piss in his mouth if his guts was on fire. If he was piloting the last lifeboat on the Titanic, I’d rather drown with Leo than get in a boat with that douchenozzle. If I had to choose between a root canal without Novocain or a twenty-minute car ride with your daddy, I’m be in the dentist’s chair faster than you can say ‘homophobic shitnugget.’ But that ain’t got a damn thing to do with you.”
“But he’s my father. And he’s said and done all these terrible things.”
Skeeter’s usually smiling face went solemn, and he looked in her eyes. “Amy, I have no idea who my birth family even is. All I know is my mama gave me up for adoption because she couldn’t afford to give me the kind of life she wanted for her child. I never looked for her, and never will. What I got instead was a bunch of straight white rednecks that couldn’t possibly be any more different from me. I’ve got an uncle that never spoke to my mama again after she brought home a black baby and a cousin who’s a Pentecostal preacher that can’t be in the same room with me at a reunion for more than five minutes without going on about praying for me to change my sinful ways and hoping Jesus will show me the right path. We all got assholes in our relations; that’s why we build our own families when we grow up. That dickhead that donated some of your chromosomes ain’t no more your daddy than Mab really is Bubba’s granny. That’s just blood. You, me, Bubba, Joe—we’re family. And that counts for a whole lot more than some accident of birth. Now can we get to looking for some clues before Bubba screws up and wins this tournament? I know we’re southern, but marrying your mama is a little backwoods even for our people.”
Amy let out a relieved laugh and scanned the room for something that might give an indication about Nitalia’s location. “What’s this?” she asked, walking over to a book sitting alone on a pedestal at the front of the room. It was a small book, no bigger than a drugstore paperback, but bound in blue leather and trimmed in the whitest silver. Amy picked it up, and a spark crackled from her fingertips.
“Ow!” She dropped the book but picked it back up immediately. “This is not normal, Skeeter.”
“Did you miss the glowing portal we stepped through to get here and all the dudes with pointy ears?” Skeeter walked over to stand beside her.
She slapped him on the arm. “Smartass.”
“You know it. Now what’s that?”
“It’s called a book, Skeeter. It’s where people stored information before the internet.”
“Now who’s a smartass?”
“Turnabout’s fair play.” Her face turned serious. “I don’t know. I can’t read the words on the cover, and it shocked me when I picked it up.”
“So why did you pick it up again?”
“I guess I’ve been hanging around Bubba too long. Come on, we need to find the princess’s chambers. Let’s ge
t out of here.”
“You still have the book in your hand,” Skeeter said.
Amy looked down at her right hand, and sure enough, there was the book, still right there. “Huh. That’s odd.” She set the book down on the pedestal and stepped away. After three strides, Skeeter spoke up.
“Amy…” Skeeter said.
“Yeah, Skeeter?”
“Look down.”
The book was back in her hand. Amy flung it across the library this time, and both of them ran for the door. They sprinted across the dark wooden floor and out into the hall, slamming the heavy oak door behind them. “Okay,” Amy said, her back to the door. “That was weird. Now let’s find Bubba’s sister, or at least some clue as to where she might be, and figure out how we’re getting her out of here.”
“I think we might need to find something else first,” Skeeter said.
“Yeah, what?”
“An exorcist. Look in your hand.”
Amy looked down, and there was the little blue-and-silver volume, nestled in her grip. “Son of a bitch!” she shouted. “I guess now we’re looking for a librarian to tell us about this stupid book. Crap. Why did I touch this thing in the first place?”
“It probably has some kind of spell on it to make people pick it up. But I’m all about finding a librarian. I got dibs on Christian Kane. I’ve had a crush on him ever since Angel.”
“I don’t know, Skeeter. I have to admit, I’m kinda into John Laroquette,” Amy said.
Monsters, Magic, & Mayhem: Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 4 Page 16
