Under the Bridge

by Dawn, Autumn

  Under the Bridge

  By

  Autumn Dawn

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Autumn Dawn

  Under the Bridge

  Copyright © 2011 by Autumn Dawn

  www.autumndawnbooks.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Preface

  A freshly slaughtered animal has a distinctive smell. It’s not like supermarket chicken; bland, washed and neatly packaged. If it weren’t for the label, a girl might not even realize the two were kissing cousins.

  No, fresh entrails had a certain musky, earthy quality, highlighted by the scent of warm fur or feathers. Anyone who’d ever prepared a farm animal for the table knew that blood made the hair stick to hands and knives; Elmer couldn’t make better glue.

  And the smell! She could wash her hands, shower…blood scent took forever to fade.

  The troll had made no effort to wash away the scent of his kill. The carrion stink of it polluted the air, forced her to breathe through her mouth. Even then, she could almost taste the rot…

  1. Hush, my darling. It’s only the boogieman.

  “Not now, Lance.” Carrie pushed her boyfriend away, wincing at the alcohol reek of his beer breath. “I’m not going to make it with you under a bridge.”

  There was nowhere to do it, even if she’d wanted to. The concrete block walls looked cold—she wasn’t going to let him grope her on the rocky ground, either. She shouldn’t have let him drag her into the shadows here, but Yasmine had been all but pasting herself to him earlier, and he hadn’t exactly been fighting her off. If she wasn’t careful, Carrie was going to lose him to another cheerleader.

  Besides, it stank under here. Smelled like something had died.

  “Don’t be like that, Car,” Lance slurred. He pushed her up against a boulder, running his hand up under her short skirt. “Be nice.”

  “Lance,” she shoved him, aggravated. “I said no.”

  He grunted as he pushed her harder against the rock, fumbling with his fly. “Only take a minute,” he mumbled.

  She fought him in earnest then, angry, disbelieving. He was really going to do this? This wasn’t going to happen to her. “I said stop!” She smacked him hard, her palm stinging.

  He reared back, furious. He raised his fist. “You little b—”

  A low growl slid from the shadows under the bridge. Dark, hungry. A breath of wind brought a choking haze of stinking air; like the exhalation of a ravenous dragon.

  Lance froze. Fist still raised, he looked slowly over his shoulder—and screamed. The shadows moved, too swiftly to take in any details. Lance’s scream was abruptly cut off as an enormous hand reached out of the darkness and closed around his head. He was jerked into the shadows. There was a loud, wet crunch.

  Carrie was frozen for perhaps two seconds, but it was long enough for several things to fly through her head.

  On top of everything else, the most overwhelming, was icy terror. Lance was dead.

  The second was the biological imperative to run like mad: run or die.

  The third came as she was stumbling over the rocks in her stupid spike heels, in sight of the bonfire with its mob of milling teenagers. When she thought of the way Lance died, the last moments of his life, she felt a surge of satisfaction. She thought, good.

  2. Grandma didn’t raise good girls. She said they had poor survival rates.

  Billy fingered her Kubotan keychain as she watched the action on the library steps. The skater flashed a smile as he jumped his board up on the handrail, grinding the axles of both trucks on the edge of the stout pipe, raising sparks.

  Jason was all right. Not her type, but she’d give him an A for effort—he was really going all out to attract her attention. Too bad he was a punk. Flunking his second year of college as he partied away daddy’s money didn’t impress her. It made her sick, especially since she had to work her butt off to afford classes.

  Saturdays were not for play, not for Billy. Saturdays were spent in the library studying, and nights were crammed with the same. She’d been poor too long to waste a single moment. At twenty-one, she realized that life would not get better unless she fought for it. Guys like Jason had daddy’s couch to crash on if they failed at life. Her family was more likely to command their couch to eat her if she let down her guard.

  She dumped her overdue books into the outdoor slot and slung a leg over her bike. The hand-me-down Harley growled as she pulled away from the curb, garnering envious looks from the overgrown boys with their skateboards. She suspected half of Jason’s passion was lust for her dad’s old panhead; though she was willing to concede she looked hot in biker gear.

  Hey, it was a fact that chaps made anybody’s butt look good. Even scrawny ol’ Bubba the mailman could rock in a set of leathers.

  The protective gear was there to prevent road rash, but it didn’t make her job at the Flower Power Greenhouse any more glamorous, and it didn’t make her…mom’s… ancient farmhouse look like Cinderella’s palace. It did make the handful of miles to her house pass pleasantly, and the Harley dressed up the front yard.

  Not that the five secluded acres needed it; between her influence and mom’s, the land stayed in constant bloom. Pixies had a way with plants.

  She tended to get confused when she thought of “Gran” and “Mom”, but she was working ruthlessly to drill the truth home. The pixie that raised her had told her that she was her grandmother and that her mother and father had died when she was a child. She did it to confuse any emissaries of her old lover, the Summer King. If anyone asked, she wanted them to think that Billy was a mixed-blood grandchild, not a full-blooded daughter, heir to the throne.

  Billy had found out the truth the summer after high school. Gran had dragged her to Underhill for a little education. When she tried to leave at the end of summer, Gran and the “suitor” she’d selected had tried to force Billy to stay. She wanted Billy impregnated before the Summer King could interfere.

  For the fae, offspring were rare treasures. As with any treasure, the one who had the most won. Billy had been the means to producing more treasure. Like any red-blooded modern girl, she’d objected…with bloody results.

  Billy parked in front of the house and considered the black BMW lurking there. It was fall in Spokane, early enough that the weather was pleasant. Maura didn’t need the car heater, so that wasn’t why she sat there on her expensive leather throne. Since Billy had taken over the house, the property had become her turf. Maura might be her sister, but she was weaker. She wouldn’t exit her car until Billy invited her.

  Billy let her squirm. Maura had never liked her, and she showed it in many little ways. Though Billy was first-born, her mother had drugged her into an enchanted sleep until Maura could mature and provide an effective decoy for her baby “niece”. The product of a union with a human, Maura was only a half-blood; second best in her mother’s eyes.

  She’d taken it out on Billy every
chance she got.

  Billy waited until Maura’s fingers began to drum on the steering wheel. “Come out, then. Wait on the porch; I’ll fetch some tea.” It was even more important to cling to protocol when another fae was your enemy. Billy offered it now because she was thirsty. Besides, someday she might need to poison her.

  “How is school going for you? You have several classes with Carrie, don’t you?”

  It was a dig. Time had flown while Billy was Underhill. When she’d emerged, it had been three years later. Her mother’s house had been musty with disuse and Maura’s bratty little girl had aged three years, putting her in the same freshman classes as Billy. Made in the same mold as her mother, Carrie lived to aggravate Billy. They got along best when they ignored each other.

  Billy sipped her tea as she waited for Maura to state her business.

  Maura sighed. She sounded frazzled, tired. “Carrie had a…difficulty last night.”

  Billy snorted softly. “Yeah? What’d she do? Get in a chick fight over her deadhead football player?” She smirked. Even though she knew Carrie would win such a fight, she was amused to think of Carrie having to break a nail to defend herself. Or glory—maybe she’d be sporting a fat lip at school tomorrow. Though with her face, she’d probably end up looking like Angelina Jolie. Ugh.

  “She ran afoul of a troll. It ate her boyfriend.”

  Whoa! Billy lowered her drink. If Carrie were dead, Maura wouldn’t be so calm, so she moved on to the next question. Cautiously, she asked, “Did anyone notice?” It wasn’t as crazy a question as it sounded. Most humans had a way of blocking out the supernatural.

  “Of course not. Once Carrie collected herself, she acted as if nothing had happened. As humans do, their friends came up with their own ideas about the boy’s disappearance. No scandal will attach itself there. It’s the troll I worry about.”

  Billy considered that. “Trolls stink, right? How did Carrie miss that?”

  Maura’s mouth tightened. “Carrie ignores what her senses tell her. She’s made such a habit of it that she probably deluded herself into thinking the smell was just river stench. Her boyfriend may also have been distracting her. It didn’t sound as if she would mourn for him.” The rage was unmistakable. Whatever the boy had done, he’d stirred Maura’s wrath. No one messed with her child.

  He was probably lucky the troll got him. Pixies were big on revenge.

  Billy didn’t worry about what might have happened. Even as a quarter-blood, Carrie was capable of throwing some major pixie juju at anyone who ticked her off. She considered the problem of the troll. “Okay, the troll killed her boyfriend. They were trespassing. Neither of them paid a toll…” She frowned. A troll would not take that lightly.

  Maura nodded. “I tried to track him down and offer a forfeit, but he was no longer under the bridge. He may well decide to hunt for her.” She worried her thumbnail, a nervous habit she’d mostly broken with expensive manicures.

  “I’ve given her some of my good gold to wear. He may eventually accept it, but he may decide to cause mischief first. Trolls don’t often leave their haunts, but once they do, they sometimes linger a while. The hunting is so easy…”

  Billy drew a deep breath. If the troll was the big, bad cat of the fae world, then that made everyone else the mice. “Maybe it would be easier for Carrie to skip town.”

  Maura gave her a hard look. “This is not a joking matter,” she said sharply. “This is our territory. It belongs to our family. We can’t afford to concede it to a troll.”

  Billy set her drink down the railing and hopped up on it. “So you’re going to kill him off?” she asked politely, knowing full well what was coming. Maura didn’t have the power.

  Maura stared at her.

  “I don’t want to be asked,” Billy said firmly. “I have too much to do as it is.” Between work and school, she barely had time to breathe. Troll hunting was out of the question.

  Maura’s eyes tightened. “Mother is gone. You are the strongest of us. It’s your duty to take care of this.” The hatred in her voice advertised how much she regretted it. Maura was neither strongest nor eldest, and if it had been in her power, she’d have murdered Billy and gleefully stolen her birthright. She craved power like a junkie craves her next hit.

  Billy laughed grimly. “You want to head the clan—be my guest. Best the troll, and take it off my hands. You and Carrie can be a clan of two.” Because Billy would be dead before Maura ruled over her.

  Despite her words, the troll was not a problem to be ignored. Billy’s mother had trained her in fae lore since she was a toddler, carefully teaching her the power order of the fae world. Pixies weren’t lightweights, but they ranked waaay under trolls. A full-blooded pixie could do some serious damage, and she had king’s blood. That did not make her a sure bet against a troll, however. What was she supposed to do, challenge the troll to a duel? He’d have her for lunch—literally. Human bones were the equivalent of Wonder Bread to a troll.

  She’d seen pictures of trolls. Hulking, dirty, smelly, matted, in dire need of dental work. They reminded her of several of the freshman on campus, in fact.

  “If you won’t do it for your family, consider the humans. How do you think they’ll fare with a troll on the loose?”

  Billy blew out a breath. She’d been trying not to think about that. “If they catch him, he’d be vulnerable to bullets.” Maybe. Trolls had horrendously thick hides. A rocket launcher should really screw him up…or piss him off.

  “If they catch him. They won’t know what to look for. You do.”

  Grr. Guilt sucked.

  “Besides, you could always ask for help,” Maura pushed, as if sensing victory.

  Billy looked at her askance.

  “I meant from your friends,” Maura said, offended.

  Of course. Even though she was asking Billy to risk her life, Maura wasn’t about to offer help. Not only would it make her useful, it might imply she actually cared.

  “Fine.” Billy hopped off the rail. “I’ll keep my eyes open. If the troll tries to eat Carrie, I might do something about it.” She looked pointedly at Maura’s car.

  Taking the hint, Maura rose and smiled politely. “You’re a credit to your clan.”

  Uh huh. If she were the head of said clan, then that made Carrie a pustule on her bum. Unlike Maura, who was too powerful to be a pustule. A cancer, maybe. She’d have to think about it.

  She watched until Maura’s car was out of sight and sighed. She really was going to have to kill that woman some day.

  Pondering the scandal of the day, Billy headed for the house. Not for the first time, she was dreading school.

  3. Ugly things come in pretty packages.

  Billy leaned against the wall the next day and contemplated the bottom of her travel mug as she listened to Nickleback do their thing. She wasn’t worried about missing Carrie’s arrival; her shiny red mustang had been known to make grown men quiver like pointers on a scent. If that wasn’t enough, Carrie’s micro miniskirts had a way of making them stand at attention. When the natives got restless, she’d know Carrie was here.

  The troll was another problem. She hoped she’d smell him. He should have a unique scent, even in human glamour. If she found a good candidate, she could always risk the drain and try to see beneath his disguise. Since that would be a waste of energy that she might need in a fight, however, she figured she’d just watch Carrie. If any new guys started orbiting her, it would make them a good suspect for the troll.

  Though given Carrie’s usual taste in men, a stalking troll might not be that obvious. Her circle of friends included several guys Billy wouldn’t like to be in a locked car with.

  Once she knew who he was, it didn’t matter what he truly looked like. She’d still have to deal with his supernatural strength, and she hadn’t decided on the best way to kill him.

  She wasn’t sure what approach she should use, either. A direct challenge didn’t seem too bright. Maybe she could just watch him, se
e what he did. He wouldn’t do anything obvious in a crowd—fae weren’t big on exposing themselves to humans. Even something as powerful as a troll would probably have difficulty with a stomach full of bullets. Cops and guns and searchlights did not a party make.

  Better yet, he might get shot in the eye. Now that had possibilities. She lost a few moments in a happy daydream about a posse taking care of her problem before reluctantly acknowledging reality. Like cleaning the bathroom, this was a dirty job that nobody was going to do for her.

  She’d taken precautions that morning; donning a suit of pixie armor her mother had given her on her nineteenth birthday, just before they’d gone Underhill. Woven of ironweed, bindweed and the morning dew of a white rose, it sheathed her body like a silver body stocking, invisible to mortal eyes. It should provide some protection if the troll took a swing at her.

  Of course, if he were that close, he might choose to simply bite off her head. In that case, she was screwed, dew or no dew.

  A gleam like freshly washed cherries caught Billy’s eye. She looked up as Carrie slid out of her car, one Barbie doll perfect leg at a time. She wasn’t tall, but Carrie was perfectly proportioned. She also knew how to use her enormous self-confidence to wrap herself in rock star glamour. Today there was an air of dark tragedy about her, and her friends flocked to her, cooing soothingly. They’d been waiting for her, far more interested in the local drama than they were in getting to class on time.

  The official story was that Lance had been drunk, tumbled on the rocks, and fallen in the river. Carrie had run to get help, but of course no one could see much of the river in the dark. His parents were hoping his body would wash up so they could give it a decent burial. Only Carrie and her family knew that the body would never be found.