Troll or Derby

by Red Tash

  She smiled. “If you’re hungry, I can offer you something.”

  Never eat or drink anything offered by your fairy kin. Madame Zelda’s advice. Harlow had said the same thing—but could I trust him?

  “This licorice just looks so good,” I said. “Blue raspberry’s my favorite.”

  April laughed. “It is good,” she said. She winked at me, and I felt like I might not breathe ever again. “Go ahead, take a bag,” she whispered.

  When I skated back out the door, I couldn’t miss what was across the street. Flashing lights, neon signs, loud music, and a parking lot full of creatures and vehicles the likes of which I’d never seen. It was a bit like watching one of the remade Star Wars movies, with all the added CGI creatures running around Jabba’s lair, or clumsily inserted into the cantina scene. An enormous sign elevated above the roof of a large concrete block church read Bingo Hall.

  I squinted, and realized I could detect the glamour if I chose—an old metal farm silo, a dilapidated barn, and a small abandoned farmhouse were situated behind the casino. With the glamour on, the building looked like a run-of-the-mill concrete block church. Typical country stuff, to the mortal eye.

  When I stopped squinting, I saw the lay of the land for what it really was. It was a lot to take in. Squinting. Not squinting. Squinting again.

  I opened the bag of blue licorice and shoved a couple of the whips into my mouth. Where I was going, it wouldn’t matter if my tongue or teeth were blue. I was sure to see a lot worse.

  Bells rang faintly in the foreground, along with laughter both high-pitched and guttural. Was that someone crying, or the sound of kittens mewing? I could smell urine, beer, and blood—all under a haze of incense. A clacking sound, like carnival rides. Sizzling. People clapping, someone shouting—and the sound of wheels clattering on a wooden rink floor.

  And I hadn’t even crossed the street yet.

  Chapter 25.5

  Badabbaday, Badabbadabbaday, Hey!

  Harlow

  Interrogating a pixie isn’t as fun as it sounds. I tried to keep it nice, but the little guys are vicious biters, and I may have squished one.

  I know, I know, it’s horrible. Every day I find Disneyfied pixie stuff in the landfill. A smiling little blonde gal dressed in green, totally enamored of Peter Pan, spreading cheer with each tinkly step. As if.

  Most pixies are as considerate as a horde of fleas, as lighthearted as an angry hornet, and unless you’ve got them under a spell or well-bribed, they don’t give a moment’s pause for anyone else’s well-being but their own.

  Oh, yeah, and the reason Peter Pan can fly? High on faeth. Totally. Don’t kid yourself.

  The only thing you’ve heard about pixies that’s actually true is that you can clap them back to life. The question is, knowing what you do about them, would you want to?

  But I digress. Yet again.

  There were three pixies in that jar. Their names? Oh, you’ll like this. Tony, Toni, and Toné. Yes, really.

  I learned a lot from them. Not exactly what I wanted to learn, but still …

  Tony was from Oakland, California. Toni was fond of peaches, and of Tony. Or maybe she was calling Tony “Peaches.” It wasn’t all that clear, between the “tick tocks” and the random biographical information they were throwing at me between my questions.

  Toné wet himself a lot.

  What a joy they were, all squeaks and grunts, bites and tinkles. ‹/sarcasm›

  If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say “Tinkerbell” was a frequent wetter, herself.

  Finally, I held Toni over my open mouth. I thought that if I had to eat one of them to show the others I meant business, I should probably forego the one with the incontinence issues, and go straight for the one that was most likely to taste like fruit.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you what you need to know, giant!” It was Toné who spoke, surprising me. “Just put my sister down.”

  Pixies aren’t exactly sister/brother, by the way. More like hivemates.

  “Whatever,” I said, sitting her down on the table, before placing a glass jar over her.

  “Get talking, before the air runs out in there,” I said to Toné.

  Deb had several hours’ head start, but that wasn’t what concerned me most, once they told me where she’d gone. They really just confirmed my suspicions, anyway.

  After years of hiding out from McJagger and tailing Dave for my own protection, I was going to have to walk into the ogre’s den, like it or not.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I Believe I Can Fly

  Deb

  I don’t know how long I stood outside waiting for April. When she came out, it didn’t matter. I’d have waited a year to see her again.

  She took one look at my hands and broke into giggles, her horns showing through the glamour again.

  My hands were sticky and blue, and all the licorice was gone, except for one piece.

  “A little messier than Twizzlers,” I said.

  She grinned, looking simultaneously mischievious and angelic. “Those weren’t Twizzlers, hon,” she said. But the way she winked when she said it was so appealing, I didn’t care.

  Could I trust her? A part of my mind wondered if Harlow would find me. What had I done? What if I needed him? A part of me screamed that I didn’t need him to rescue me. That I didn’t need anyone. I was the girl who took care of my alcoholic mother and my druggie sister—surely I could take care of myself, for once.

  I threw the empty licorice bag on the ground. No, wait, there was one piece, and something on it was reflecting light back at me. I bent to have a look. A golden ring. What a weird thing to find on a piece of candy. I shoved the whole thing into my pocket, wrapper and all—maybe I’d ask April about it later, or find a trash can, anyway.

  “Take me to your leader,” I said.

  April took off like a shot, gliding on her skates over the asphalt as if it were a smooth rink floor. I didn’t hesitate—I just took off after her. It felt so good to skate, I didn’t mind the bumpy texture of the road beneath my wheels. I felt a breeze as I got up some speed, and we careened around the crowded parking lot outside the Bingo Hall. I heated up so much, I threw my jacket on the ground. Some creatures—fairies and trolls, and others I wasn’t sure about—rushed over and whisked it away, immediately, one pressing it to its face as if the smell were intoxicating.

  Skating outside on the county roads had made me strong, and dodging traffic in town had made me fast, for sure. There’d never been anyone who could keep up with me at the Coach’s rink. But I could barely keep up with April now, as she dodged creatures with multiple arms and legs, then jumped several feet in the air above a cart full of what looked and smelled like pickled human body parts.

  She landed, so light on her feet it was jaw-dropping. She twirled on one leg and skated backward to me like she wanted to chat me up, but I wasn’t going to stand still.

  I skated backward, as well, building up speed as I went. I flipped around front-ways and pushed hard into the stride, running as hard as I could in my skates. Up, up the handicapped ramp outside the Bingo Hall.

  I don’t think McJagger’s is accountable to the Americans with Disabilities Act, per se, but wasn’t that thoughtful of him?

  I wanted to keep sailing upward, off the ramp and into the night sky. Flap. Flap, fly!

  And then I felt them—wings. My wings. My shirt squeezed tight around me, then tore in two, and in an instant, I was topless except for my sports bra, the cold night air wicking away my sweat, my whole body trembling as I took my first flight.

  Or, my first series of falls. It was kind of like getting a kite into the air on a mildly breezy day. I was up and then I was down, skinning my knees and elbows on the parking lot. I’d skate a few steps, then go aloft once more.

  “Fly!” I shouted, and the wings—my wings—grabbed air hard. I hung three feet above the ground before I landed on the rail of the handicapped ramp. I hit my hip, hard, but I didn’t want A
pril to know. I grabbed the rail and sat, hoping I could pass this off as an Urkel moment. Wasn’t he the guy who said, “I mean to do that”? Or maybe that was Pee Wee Herman. Anyway, some geek from TV reruns said it. Now it was my turn to play geek.

  Then I saw them. I stole a glance over my shoulder—looming black leathery shapes scared me so badly I nearly fell off. Are those wings?

  I wondered why they weren’t translucent and dainty like the ones the pizza boy from the flea market had.

  All around me in the parking lot of the Bingo Hall, creatures of all colors and shapes were closing in. There were bird people, green fairies, more of those obnoxious damned pixies—and all of them had translucent wings of some kind. Nearly all of them resembled butterflies, moths, dragonflies, or birds. There was a tree bark fairy with wings like crinkly autumn leaves, orange and red and yellow.

  Then there was me. My wings were black like a bat’s. Evil. Flap! Flap, fly! The carnival light of the Bingo Hall signs filtered through, and I saw pastel colors, like a hidden stain-glassed window inset in each wing. Not so scary, after all, maybe.

  The absurdity of my own thoughts hit me hard. Did I really have wings, and was I truly concerned about how well they fit in with the rest of a crowd of fairy people?

  Maybe April had drugged me, given me something psychotropic when she let me have that candy. Wait, it wasn’t candy, was it? Candy doesn’t wear jewelry and grow fingernails.

  Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe Dave slipped me something and I never really left his car at all.

  A sticky liquid misted my face and brought me back to reality. A batlike fairy with white pointy teeth bit into a soda can, and thick, carbonated liquid bubbled out like a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and blood. The “soda” was misting me everywhere, and it felt really gross. The fairy smiled, and inched closer, slurping her drink.

  A cold draft was settling over me, and I shivered. I was glad my wings had only torn my shirt, and not my bra. What a nightmare that’d have been, on top of everything else.

  “Hatchling has her wings!” a voice roared. “Should we sacrifice her like a chicken?” Laughter. Dirty, greasy laughter.

  McJagger’s laughter.

  Chapter 26.5

  Sympathy for the Devil

  Harlow

  Only a fool rushes into the troll’s den without a plan. I climbed up a grain silo overlooking the hall, and watched the spectacle below. In the distance, I could see daylight breaking. It had taken me almost a full day to find her, and once I’d gotten here, it was so obvious. Of course she’d come to McJagger. Of course.

  Below me, the Bingo Hall’s back doors overflowed with garbage and bodies. A green fairy with enormous black eyes like a fly’s rolled around atop white garbage bags, swimming in the litter. The poor bugger was in heaven.

  Across Highway 37, the lights of the Big Blue store twinkled. Warm light spilled out through the front windows, and I could see a variety of farm trucks in the lot. A display of windmills caught the breeze in the parking lot. Of course, the place belonged to Jag, just like everything else in the vicinity. Most of the farmer clientele were hard-headed enough to resist his siren song, but the storefront kept a good stock of general purpose supplies, in case something was needed at the casino.

  The casino. I hated the place. The memories were coming in hard now, a squadron of kamikazes crashing into the battleship that was my sanity. If my amnesia had begun as a spell, perhaps its staying power was self-inflicted. There were so many things I didn’t want to remember about this place.

  The smell of the air here was one of those memories. Popcorn, blood, greed, sweat, stale whiskey—and worse. Death.

  The Bingo Hall always smelled of death, even on Sundays when the glamour was heavy and the handful of humans showed up for “church.” It was a mystery to me how no one had ever noticed that newcomers to the “Church de Vine” became completely lost in their Kumbayas, never to be heard from again. Didn’t they have families, out in the English world? Maybe not. McJagger probably chose them because of it.

  Inside the Bingo Hall, the concrete-floored, smoke-filled room was better lit than any legitimate place of bingo ever dreamed of being. Black walls, red satin wall sconces, and a wall of slot machines beckoning in the back room, behind a barely-parted matching red velvet curtain. Black and red plush carpet spilled out over the edge of the threshold. Of course the English couldn’t help themselves. They might have come for church and stayed for the Bingo, but if they walked through that curtain, they were lost to the labyrinth forever.

  It was tough for trolls and fairies, too, once faeth came into the mix. It wasn’t just the allure of the feast, the excess, and the entertainment anymore. The drugs were every bit as addictive to the fae as they were to humans. Entire generations of fae were born and died inside this casino, mutating and procreating in insanity the likes of which is impossible to describe to a mortal. Impossible, irresponsible, and immoral.

  But I would have to face them all now. I would face anything for her.

  Oh, Debra. Semi-sweet, fifteen, and not a clue. Even if I’d wanted to leave her to her fate (and most trolls would, don’t kid yourself), I had her teeth in a pouch around my neck. She was mine. I’d named her, I’d claimed her.

  On every level possible, save one, she was mine, and I was not going to let her be consumed by my uncle or anybody else. I’d already lost my parents, already lost the Wheelers, and although a Thunderbird is a good friend to have in a pinch, I’d been alone in the world until Deb came into my life. No matter how recklessly I’d done it, I’d stumbled back into what felt like family, and I wasn’t going to let that go.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Why the Chicken Crossed the Road

  Deb

  “So glad you could make it, Roller Deb. I see you’ve met my daughter, April.” McJagger swaggered toward me like the cat who ate the canary.

  My wings may not have been cute and feathery, but I still wasn’t so sure the guy didn’t intend to eat me.

  “I didn’t come here for you, you old piece of skunk,” I said. “I want my sister back.”

  “Gennifer?” he said. He turned and regarded his playhouse, lights ablaze against the dark country night. Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” blasted out from tinny speakers. The dewy air swirled into a mist around him, a pink and orange neon aura, and all his many signs seeming to magically point toward him. “Free Drinks!” “Bingo!” “Girls! Girls! Girls!”

  “Yes, Gennifer,” I said. “What do you want for her?”

  McJagger laughed. “You want to trade?” he said. He wiped a little drool from the corner of his mouth. “I suppose we should talk about this inside. I see April brought something to sacrifice,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

  Instinctively, I flapped my new wings at him, hard, and he pulled his arm away, laughing.

  “Black—nice,” he said, laughing again. “I like your style. Really—they suit you.” He guffawed. Mother fucker seriously guffawed. “But no need to take them out of their case, sugar. I didn’t mean you.”

  April raised her hands, laughing. A wriggling, squawking chicken tried to fly free of her grasp. “You want to go first, Deb?” she asked.

  “You’re going to kill that bird?” I asked. “For what?”

  “Pay the toll to the troll,” she said, and shrugged. “Daddy’s rules. Nobody comes in without some kind of blood sacrifice. Keeps the Big Blue store in business, anyways!” She giggled, and twisted the bird’s neck.

  A cheer went up from the crowd around us. So many people watching—if you could call them “people.” Green skin, horns, goat faces, cowboy boots, a couple of Amish trolls I recognized from the party at Graber’s Farm, a blue beanpole of a fae that I couldn’t tell the gender of, and more—and all their greedy, fearful eyes were on me.

  I looked down at the filthy waitress pants I’d scored from the Rustic Fog, my dirty skates, and glanced backward at my enormous black & pastel wings. I’d never m
uch cared about how I looked, but I definitely didn’t look or feel up to a night in a casino. The ones I’d seen in James Bond movies were so elegant.

  Also, I didn’t want to end up the next chicken with a wrung neck—not before I brought Gennifer home to Mom. I was sure that good deed would be punished, but I knew Gennifer wasn’t equipped for whatever McJagger was putting her through inside that place.

  April skated over to me, the bird’s limp body swinging from her fist. Round and round she twirled it, the crowd laughing. She skated toward me fast. I held up my arms to shield my face. My wings rose reflexively around me, as well.

  April laughed. “Put your guard down, silly. You’ve got to spill its blood.”

  “You’ve already killed it,” I said. “What more do you want to do to the damned thing?”

  “Not me, silly,” April said. “YOU.” And then she leaned in close to me and whispered in my ear again, and the air shot full of rainbows. I thought I saw a unicorn galloping down a fluffy hill of clouds, and golden sparks spiked the air around her head. “You want your sister back or not?”

  Something about the look on her face reminded me of the girl with the bloody apple at the Troll Market, but I couldn’t help myself.

  Never accept food or drink from a strange fae. Harlow had said that, before he took the apple from my hand. But that was an apple, right? It definitely wasn’t licorice. Definitely not pre-packaged, airtight-sealed candy from some nice, safe Chinese factory.

  I pulled the licorice wrapper from my pocket, my hands shaking. A long, blue finger with too many knuckles was still in the bag. The finger wore a blood-stained ring.

  I felt the wheels sliding out from under me, and the crowd shouted with laughter. I refused to fall on my ass, though, no matter how April had tricked me.

  I stood up as tall as I could, and threw my shoulders back. My wings spread wide behind me. The crowd gasped and giggled as they scrambled out of my way.