Then the three exchanged glances again — and they all laughed.
“Good luck, little lady,” Ryan Reynolds said, and the three sauntered up the sidewalk, looking like three hunkalicious movie actors from a western set, not a monster movie. From the rear, they were an impressive sight in their jeans.
She turned back to the street ahead. With a chill that hadn’t been there before, she started walking again. Darn those guys! They might look like hunky actors, but apparently they liked scaring people as much as the monsters did.
The little dog growled low in his throat.
“I agree. The next time we see them, you have my permission to show them that your bark is not worse than your bite.”
“There’s a troll loose in the Black Lagoon Saloon. Causing a big problem.” Vera Rose Swenson, the Moonchuckle Bay Sheriff’s Department dispatcher, spoke over the radio. “You’re closest, Sheriff.”
“What kind of big problem?” Samuel Winston asked. “A mouthing-off-to-the-other-customers problem? A smashing-up-the-place problem? Or a breaking-people-in-half problem?”
The dispatcher gave an impatient snort. “Stop talking and get over there. Harris said it’s a troll he doesn’t know. A big green one. It’s starting to threaten the customers.”
“Be there in three minutes.” Samuel clicked off the radio and gunned his car down Make Believe Boulevard, shaking his head.
Stupid trolls. They caused problems whenever they left the boundaries of Troll Knoll. Big. Dumb. Strong. And had he mentioned stupid?
He drove past an extremely pretty woman walking up the sidewalk, holding what looked like a little dog. He gave her a quick second glance — she looked vaguely familiar — but he didn’t have time to spare. He had a stupid troll to subdue.
As he drove into town, he noticed the tourist count was high; probably no higher than normal for a June day, but there were still a lot of people. The last thing they needed to see was a troll on the loose. And the very last thing this town needed was to have a troll harm one of the tourists. He turned on his lights, flipped on his siren, and sped up.
The tourists cleared a path as he navigated carefully but quickly through the crowd toward the bar.
Sam double parked and locked his patrol car with his key fob as he raced toward the entrance.
He pushed through the large doors of the Black Lagoon Saloon and found himself looking at the depths of an actual lagoon or at least the illusion of one. The entire back wall was a huge fish tank swimming pool that made up the entire back wall. People paid extra to snorkel in the “lagoon” — and hoped one of the creatures there didn’t bite their toes. Tourists didn’t know there actually were little creatures in there, but the shy little water sprites stayed hidden among the water plants.
Five people were currently snorkeling there among the small, brightly colored fish.
On the walls, posters of the actors who’d played in the first several Creature from the Black Lagoon movies — Clint Eastwood in his first role in Revenge of the Creature, Paul Newman, and others, and women with hands up in silent screams.
The rest of the bar looked like a 1950s jungle bar, complete with strategically-placed palm trees in gigantic pots. Island-style fans spun lazily overhead, adding ambience and circulating the air conditioning.
And there it was, standing right in the middle of the room.
A Big. Stupid. Troll.
The eight-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound creature turned toward the sound of the door opening, and Samuel thought of the old joke: Where does a four-hundred pound troll sit? Anyplace he wants.
Samuel smiled. “Good morning, Sir Troll.” He uttered the polite troll-etiquette greeting. “I kindly request that you leave this place, without harming anyone or anything, and return to the boundaries of the Knoll, in accordance with the laws of both of our people.”
The troll smirked and put his large hands on his heavy hips. “Are you going to make me leave, little man?”
Samuel ran his hand over his face. Great. Not just stupid, but stubborn, too.
The troll took a step toward him, and his foot thumped against the ground. “I heard a rumor, Samuel Winston, that you are betrothed to Olivia Paxton, daughter of the Paxton pack alpha.”
Sam took a step forward, every nerve alert for any sudden movement from the troll. One hit from that sledgehammer of a fist would knock even a werewolf for a loop. He turned his attention back to the troll and said, “We’re just friends.”
There was no official betrothal, but the rumors had circulated all his life, since both he and Olivia were pups.
The troll took another step toward him. “I’m going to hurt her. I will break her like a twig.”
Samuel rolled forward onto the balls of his feet, preparing for a fight. “No, you won’t, because if you do, I’ll hurt you worse.”
“You can try, little man.” The troll laughed — and rushed at Samuel.
Samuel’s reflexes were quicker than the troll’s, but just barely. He rolled under the troll’s arm and ended up behind the beast. Jumping, he landed on the troll’s massive back.
The troll roared in rage and slammed his fists over his shoulders and around his sides in an attempt to reach him. Samuel kept changing positions to avoid those fists, so the troll only managed to hit himself, howling in pain and outrage each time.
After sixty seconds of self-pounding, the troll stopped. “Get off my back.”
Samuel pulled the bespelled restraints out of his pocket and, with a quick leap, he wrapped the restraint around one of the troll’s massive wrists. “Gotcha!”
The troll roared again, but even his strength couldn’t break the magic that held his arms together behind his back until the second handcuff-like restraint clicked around his other wrist. Then all fight went out of him.
Samuel huffed in victory. He loved magical restraints.
The tourists in the saloon clapped, thinking it was a movie stunt show.
Samuel loved this town, where a real-life troll takedown was disguised as entertainment provided by the nearby movie studio.
Playing the part of an entertainer, Samuel took a bow and smiled.
“Let me buy you a beer, buddy,” said a rotund man with a Midwest accent.
“Sorry, sir, but I’m on duty.”
“Oh, sure, staying in character. I get it. Good work. Good show.” He patted the troll’s arm. “And this guy is so lifelike it’s amazing.”
“Yes.” Motioning the man away from the troll, Sam pulled out his phone. When Vera Rose came on the line, he said. “Contained. Need transport.”
“Almost there,” she said simply.
Three men in lab coats arrived a few minutes later, one of them Deputy Larry Knight, with an extra-large magic-enforced stretcher. Samuel smiled at the tourists and explained, “Animatronics Repair Team.” To maintain appearances, the deputies kept a variety of props, including a lab coat, on hand for just such instances.
“Oh,” said several people. They nodded as if this made perfect sense.
Samuel followed them out — just in time for the troll to sneeze and spray both him and Larry with troll slime.
Larry retched and Samuel wrinkled his face in disgust.
He pulled a blanket from the trunk and covered the front seat of his patrol car, climbing in and waiting until the disgusting troll was loaded into the heavy-duty ambulance. Then he followed the vehicle back to the station.
He was going to make sure this troll made it all the way into a reinforced cell designed specifically to contain creatures with superhuman strength, both physical and magical. The three men maneuvered the stretcher past the main desk where Samuel’s Uncle Fred sat. Fred stood. “Good work, Sammie, my boy.”
Samuel hated that nickname.
Wrinkling his nose, Fred said, “You stink.”
“Troll,” Samuel said. “What do you expect?”
“Go take a bath,” one of the men told Sam and Larry, giving them wide berth.
Fred walke
d beside him down the hallway, through an employee-only door, and opened the special holding cell. After the troll was put inside and the three men came back out, Fred locked the cell.
“Stupid trolls,” Samuel muttered.
Not softly enough, for the troll’s eyes widened and he roared in rage.
“You shouldn’t have said that.” His uncle shook his head and hit the button, enabling the Isolation Charm, so now they could still hear the troll, but he could no longer hear them. Fred started to clap a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but caught himself before his hand landed in troll snot. “You know trolls. They’re dumb, but proud. You’re going to have to apologize eventually.”
Yeah, he totally would have to. They didn’t need species problems, on top of everything else. “Fine. I’ll let him calm down overnight. Let me know when he’s awake in the morning, and I’ll come apologize.”
His uncle smirked. “It was unwise, but I still enjoyed hearing it. It’s too bad that the Troll Council will have him free by tomorrow afternoon. Now go home. You stink.”
Samuel caught a hint of troll funk in the air and then remembered that it was coming from him.
“That’s a good idea.” He headed toward his car, the tension from the takedown draining from his shoulders. Time to go home, shower, and change clothes. And maybe burn these clothes.
The Tin-Man
IT HAD TAKEN AMBER THIRTY minutes to walk to Samuel’s house — longer if she counted the puppy pit stops along the way.
She’d fashioned a leash and collar out of her scarf, and the little dog took turns bouncing along at her side, and trying to bite at the scarf. “Go ahead,” she told him. “It’s pretty old. You can’t hurt it much.”
She leaned down to pet the puppy, and he nipped her. Not hard, just playing, but those were extremely sharp little puppy teeth. “Hey!” she cried out, pulling back her hand, “Knock it off! Until we find your owner, this will be the hand feeding you. And you’re never supposed to bite the hand that feeds you. Were you born yesterday or something?”
The puppy barked.
She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know your name, but I really need to call you something until we find your home. What do you think of Spot?”
The little dog sat on the ground and heaved a big sigh.
“Seriously? You don’t like it?” Amber studied the little muddy mess. “Pig Pen? No?” She started running through names. “Sparky? Beast?” He didn’t move until she said, “Wolf?” and then he jumped back up, waving his tail.
“Really? You’re pretty small for a wolf.”
Wolf danced around her feet, barking, tail wagging, and looking for all the world like he was smiling.
She shrugged. “All right, Wolf, let’s keep walking. It’s pretty hot out and I already look like I haven’t had a bath for two days. I have, but that’s beside the point. I hope Samuel will be kind enough to put us up for the night, at least, and let me use his tub. Maybe he’ll know who you belong to. If not, I’ll need a ride to a pet store to buy you some food. In the meantime, I’ll share my jerky.”
The little guy barked so excitedly that his front feet came off the ground.
With the puppy bouncing along again, they made better time.
She kept to the shade of the big trees lining Black Cat Drive.
Finally, they arrived at a gate with a guard seated in a booth next to a sign announced that they’d reached Wolfsbane Lane.
She smiled at the guard, hoping he wouldn’t give her any trouble. “I’m here to see Samuel Winston. He’s a military buddy of my brother’s.”
The bearded man studied her, then nodded. “Sign in here, please.”
“Sure.” She approached the guard station and signed her name on the sheet.
“How long do you expect to be here?” he asked, and made some almost delicate sniffing noises. Did he have a cold? Allergies? Because if he didn’t, that was just plain weird.
“I’m not sure. That depends a lot on Samuel Winston.”
He nodded again and then winked at her. “Good luck.”
Surprised, she smiled back. “Thanks.”
She and Wolf continued up Black Cat Drive, glancing at house numbers as she went. Samuel’s house was 5203. “Almost there, Wolf.”
She only walked for another five minutes or so before arriving at his house.
It couldn’t be called a mansion, but it wasn’t small, either. It looked like a comfortable, older home that could — and should — house a family with children. There was even a tire swing hanging in a huge oak tree in the front yard. The house had two stories and a wraparound porch. A waist-high white vinyl fence enclosed the expansive yard. Very pretty — and it looked like the fence might even contain a mischievous little puppy.
Amber looked for any indication that Samuel was home. The garage door was closed, but there was no vehicle parked on the street or in the driveway. Nothing left to do but knock on the door. Her mouth went dry at the thought.
Why had he stopped responding to her emails? Because he didn’t want anything to do with her? Or maybe the only reason he’d seemed to like her was because she was the sister of his best buddy, and when that buddy died, there was no more reason to pretend? She’d know the answer soon.
She sighed, and the little dog sat on its haunches beside her, his face lifted to hers. She looked down and sighed again. “Just give me a minute to remember why I’m doing this,” she told the little dog. Wolf barked an encouraging response.
Amber squared her shoulders. She could do this. Taking another deep breath, she started walking and didn’t stop until she stood on the porch in front of the door. She paused, and then forced herself to push the doorbell.
Surprised, she heard a song playing. When she identified it as Werewolves of London, she smiled. When the singer howled, Wolf joined in. It stopped after the first verse.
How appropriate for this town.
Samuel couldn’t help but hear that.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited. She studied the shaded porch, admiring the swing and the small wrought-iron patio set. There was a small statue of a howling wolf arranged on the small, round table. The seating area was cozy and relaxing — but there was no way she could relax right now.
After a moment, she rang the bell again.
After repeating the ring-and-wait process for 5 minutes, she finally conceded defeat. She picked up the little dog, and plopped herself into the swing. “I guess now we wait.”
Amber hated waiting.
She pulled out her tablet and pulled up one of her favorite games. It would at least keep her mind off the insane thing she was doing.
Samuel stank. He didn’t need his enhanced werewolf nose to know it. He kept the windows of his pickup rolled down and cranked up the A/C blower. He’d share cold air — and his stink — with the whole town. He’d moved the blanket from his patrol car to the truck; it would need to be washed or tossed, too.
Trolls were disgusting. He couldn’t wait to get home and shower. He’d taken the time to wash his hands and face before he left the precinct but there wasn’t much he could do about his clothes until he got home.
He climbed into his cruiser and thumbed the button. “Vera Rose? I’m going home to wash up.”
The sound of her laughter crackled through the line; word had already made it back to her that he was a walking troll hankie.
“If you’d like, I can drive back to the station and you can see just how not funny this is in techni-smell.”
She tried to sound serious; she knew he’d come in just to get her back for laughing at him. “Troll snot? Stay away! Go shower! Three times!”
Sam grinned. “That’s what I thought. I’m done for the day.”
“I don’t blame you, honey. Yikes.”
She started laughing again and Sam could hear more laughter in the background when he hung up his mic. He pulled onto Mane Street, then left onto Imaginary Friend Way, right on Play-Acting Drive, and left onto Black Cat Driv
e. Almost home. He could hardly wait for that shower.
He pulled his truck into the driveway and parked. He was going to wash off with the hose before he went inside, so he didn’t bother with the garage.
He climbed out, careful not to touch anything with his troll-snot-coated skin. Yikes was right. There was nothing much worse than troll snot. Maybe skunk spray.
As he headed for the hose coiled up in front of the porch, he noticed a woman sitting on his swing holding a scruffy-looking little dog.
Was that the same woman he’d seen walking up Mane Street earlier? He thought it might be. Curious, parfum de troll forgotten, he headed toward the porch.
As he approached, the dog growled at him. Samuel raised his lip, and the dog quieted. Know your place, little dog.
The woman stood and sat her dog on the porch. She held some sort of wildly colored leash. She raised a hand and gave a hesitant wave. “Hi Samuel.”
His heart pounded as he recognized her. “Amber?”
Samuel struggled to make sense of the situation. She was here, at his house?
She smiled tentatively. “Yes.”
Her eyes, with their slight slant, were an exotic green, and her long dark hair floated around her shoulders.
He stopped. “What are you doing here?”
His tone sounded harsh and he cringed internally. He was just surprised.
She shrugged. “Per my brother’s instructions, I’m delivering a letter from him to you after your return home from Afghanistan. The letter he wrote to me gave me precise instructions. I haven’t read your letter. It’s still sealed.”
He looked down at his hand. “I can’t take it right now. I’m pretty gross. I’ll need to go clean up. Maybe you can set it on the swing.”
She shook her head. “I’m supposed to place it in your hand and then wait while you read it. Aloud.” Her voice cracked. “Adam’s instructions. I don’t understand it any more than you apparently do.”
Adam. Guilt struck him like a freight train. His buddy Adam, who’d saved his life on at least two occasions, but whose life he’d failed to save. They’d been part of a group of four Marine buddies in Afghanistan. Only three of them had come home.
The Artist Cries Wolf Page 2