Part One
The Dog Formerly Known As Prince
Chapter One
Virginia rested her elbows on the windowsill and leaned into the breeze. If she closed her eyes halfway, the trees in front of her looked like a vast forest: cool and green, filled with possibilities and adventure. Sometimes she sat there for hours, imagining herself a princess trapped in a tower, waiting for some handsome prince to emerge from the woods, find the key, and set her free.
She touched her brown hair, wrapped in its neat bun at the back of her head. It wasn’t even long enough for her to pull a Rapunzel on the guy—no way could she let down her hair and have him climb up it. The strain of that would be too much. She didn’t even like having other people brush her hair. They pulled too hard. Imagine how it would feel to have someone climb it.
As if it had heard her thoughts, the breeze tickled a loose strand of her hair. She leaned even farther forward, hoping to catch a bird’s call or perhaps the roar of a wild beast.
Instead a siren wailed in the distance.
Virginia blinked and opened her eyes the whole way. The trees before her weren’t part of any forest. They were a small grove on this side of Central Park in the middle of the most urban environment in the world—New York City, land of the concrete jungle, a place where sunshine was rare and exhaust fumes ruled.
She could smell them now, toxic and foul. A bus belched on the street below, and some passerby, caught in the cloud of black smoke, yelled an insult. Her tower was really her apartment, the one she shared with her father. They were on the edge of the Park not because they were rich—they weren’t even close—but because he was the janitor in this building and the apartment was part of his pay.
Her bedroom was tiny, like the rest of the place, but at least it was hers. She glanced at the alarm clock beside her bed and sighed. She’d daydreamed the afternoon away. Her shift would start soon, and she wasn’t ready for it. Her feet still ached from the last one.
She worked at the Grill on the Green, a restaurant at the edge of the park. She liked waitressing; it allowed her to meet people. Sometimes it was a trial—like last night, when the place had been full of tourists looking for the New York experience—but mostly it got her out, seeing things, and forgetting where she was at.
So many women in the city were just like her: dead-end jobs, no hope for advancement, no way to make new friends, and no way to meet anyone. Last night, one of the tourists had said to her, “It must be great to live in New York.”
She’d had enough of that kind of talk. She’d been late to work because some joker had grabbed her bike in the park and she’d had to kick him away with her foot. The cook had spilled a jar of jelly on her in the kitchen, and the shirt she’d swiped from the boss’s closet in the back had been several sizes too big. She’d had to go through the entire night holding a tray in one hand and her shirt front in the other.
Great to live in New York? The comment was like putting a flag in front of a bull. Still, she restrained herself.
“Great?” she’d said. “Close your eyes.”
The woman, a middle-aged bottle-blond from some Midwestern town, did.
“Now,” Virginia said, “imagine the most boring day of your life.”
The woman nodded. She had a little smile on her face.
“Right,” Virginia said. “Now you have my life in perfect focus.”
The woman’s little smile faded. She opened her eyes and looked confused. And Virginia had walked off, tossing her cocktail tray up and down like a baseball.
But she hadn’t been lying. Lately she’d been saying to herself that after a woman reached a certain age—and was still living with her father!—nothing exciting would ever happen in her life. The best she could hope for was finding a partner and opening a restaurant of her own.
As if that was ever going to happen. It’d be as likely as opening the front door and finding a satchel of cash.
Virginia grabbed the window frame by its peeling paint and tugged the window closed. Then she left her room to make sure her chores were done before she left. Her father spent his evenings in his fake leather recliner, drinking beer and punching the remote. If she didn’t leave him dinner, he wouldn’t eat at all.
She hurried to the kitchen, then stopped. There were potato chip packets and empty beer cans in front of the armchair. The mess would be worse if she left it for the morning.
With one hand she grabbed the foil wrappers, and with the other she picked up the cans. She carried them into the kitchen and dumped them in the trash. Then she pulled open the ancient white refrigerator—the thing was so old that it groaned—and stared at the frost-covered freezer door, which was at her eye level.
Maybe she’d add a new frost-free refrigerator with side-by-side doors and ice and water dispensers. Or, if she got extravagant, a stand-alone freezer instead of this puny one that barely fit ice and two days’ worth of leftovers.
She took a frozen dinner out of the freezer, shoved the door closed with her hip, and placed the food beside the microwave. Then she went back into her bedroom and got her bike.
It was a used model her dad had found in a pawnshop, although he’d lied and said he’d bought it from one of the bicycle places in the Upper West Side. She let him have his fiction. It made him feel better. She’d been in some of the bike shops. They wanted to see the rider so that they’d sell a bike that fit her frame. She was petite, and the bike he’d bought was a little too big. She was used to it now, but another of her small dreams was to ride a bike that fit.
As she wheeled the bike out of the bedroom, she steered to avoid the tools and paint cans stacked against the hallway’s walls. A couple of times, her dad had spilled nails here and hadn’t bothered to pick them up. After blowing one tire, she’d learned to be careful around her father’s workspace.
Before she went out the door, she checked to make sure she had her keys. Then, with one hand on the hard seat, and another on the handlebars, she wheeled the bike into the hallway.
Her dad was standing by the elevator. His bright blue uniform stood out in sharp contrast to the brown-and-tan flocked wallpaper. He had the call box open and wires dangled from it. The elevator doors were jammed open with his toolbox.
And her way to the street was effectively blocked.
He didn’t notice, of course. “Look at this,” he said. “Feast your eyes on this.”
He held out a wire for her to study. She peered in as if she were interested. “This,” he proclaimed, “has been gnawed.”
Oh, great. Rats eating the wiring. She wondered why she hadn’t seen any furry electrocuted bodies lying around if that was what they were really doing, but she wasn’t going to ask. Her dad would have a theory.
He always had a theory. The guys down at his favorite watering hole seemed to love his theories and sometimes she did too. Tony, they’d say, what do you think of, then give him a topic and sit back. When he expounded, his brown eyes lit up and his familiar rumpled face lost some of its perpetual disappointment.
But she didn’t have to prompt him to tell her this theory. He already had a speech prepared. He’d just been waiting for an audience. ‘ ‘This isn’t my job, you know. This is an electrician’s job. But who has to fix it?”
That was her cue. She was supposed to say, You, Dad. But she missed her entrance.
He shoved the wire back into the box and frowned at her. “Where are you going?”
“To work, Dad,” she said, sighing. “Like I do every day.” Tony snorted, stuck an “Out of Order” sign on the wall above the open wiring box, then motioned for her to get in the open elevator. She wheeled her bike in and turned it around, giving him room to follow her in and get to the control panel. It too had the cover
off and old wires were exposed. His toolbox was open on the floor under the panel.
Tony studied the mess of old wiring for a moment, then stuck his screwdriver inside, and with a clank the doors slid closed and the elevator started down.
“Take the stairs on the way back,” he said, staring at the exposed mass of wiring in front of him. “Just in case.”
She nodded. She’d been planning to do that anyway.
With one hand still holding the screwdriver, Tony reached into his toolbox and grabbed his emergency can of beer. He wasn’t supposed to drink on the job—it was a firing offense— but Virginia had long since stopped warning him about that. All he had done was learn to sip the beer in a new way, hiding the can, and trying not to slurp. That, at least, was an improvement.
His hand slipped on the screwdriver and the elevator jerked. Virginia braced herself. He reestablished the connection, then shook his head as if the blip were the elevator’s fault.
“You know, I’m starting to think the only people they want in this country are people like me, guys who’ll work for scraps, who’ll do anything, six jobs, who will basically bend down and take it.”
Virginia nodded, just as she was supposed to do. She had her responses to this speech memorized. She heard it almost every day.
“Ten, fifteen years tops, and this country is finished as a democracy, as a caring society, as a place where people do things for others.” Tony took another swig of his beer. ‘ ‘We’re finished. We’re gone. We’re out of here.”
She didn’t believe in a caring society. She’d learned early on that other people were trouble. Her philosophy—often thought and never stated (unlike her father’s)—was Stick with yourself and you won’t get hurt. That had proven true for her more often than not.
Her dad had stopped talking. She wondered how long he’d been silent. Rather than letting him start with another speech, she said, “Your barbecue ribs are on top of the microwave.”
Tony frowned—perhaps she hadn’t given the appropriate response—and then the elevator jerked to a halt. As the doors started to open, she realized that the frown hadn’t been for her. It had been for their stop.
The third floor.
Tony crouched and hid his beer in the toolbox. He was still rummaging through it as Mr. Murray and his eight-year-old son got on.
Mr. Murray owned the building and somehow believed that gave him the right to be a petty tyrant. Virginia braced herself for some unpleasantness. She didn’t even smile at the boy as she used to do. The kid was beyond hope. And who wouldn’t be? He was wearing a tiny suit that matched his father’s, and their faces had the identical expression, as if they had both swallowed something bad.
Her dad stood at attention. Mr. Murray both frightened and angered him. Frightened because Tony knew that Mr. Murray could fire him on a moment’s notice, and angered because Mr. Murray was usually unreasonable.
Virginia had heard her father lecture on this topic ever since they moved in here. And on this topic, she agreed with him.
Mr. Murray was frowning at the open box with its dangling wiring and the screwdriver stuck into the mess. “Tony, I’ve been calling the elevator for half an hour. I thought you’d fixed it.”
“I had,” Tony said, “but it’s broken again.”
“Well, don’t spend all night on it,” Murray said. “You’ve got to look at that boiler. It’s driving everyone crazy. There’s air in the pipes.”
“I know,” Tony said, but he spoke softly. Virginia wondered if Mr. Murray even heard him.
“The system’s got to be drained and bled.”
“I’ve just got to do the drip in number nine, then I’ll be on the case.” Her dad had a tone in his voice when he spoke to Mr. Murray that Virginia never heard at any other time. It had a hint of eager puppy dog mixed with an edge of annoyance.
Murray Junior pointed a stubby finger at Tony. ‘ ‘That man’s breath smells, Daddy.”
Virginia closed her eyes for just a second. The beer. She had warned him. But apparently, Mr. Murray wasn’t concerned with Tony’s breath.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Mr. Murray said. Once a day was more like it. Virginia resisted the urge to mouth the next part with him: “There’s an awful lot of people who’d like your job. An awful lot of people.”
Virginia clenched her fists, but Tony only smiled and nodded.
The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open. Mr. Murray and Murray Junior got off. Even their walks matched.
Tony waited until Mr. Murray’s back was turned and then gave them the finger.
“Drain the system. Drain the system,” he said in a singsong voice. “I’d like to drain his system.”
Wouldn’t everyone? But Virginia knew better than to agree with her father. That might launch another theory, which would mean she’d be late for work.
“I’ll see you later, Dad.” Virginia rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, and then wheeled her bike out of the elevator.
She thought she had made good her escape when her father said, “Don’t go across the park.” Every day he said that. Every day she ignored him. “You hear me? You promise?”
And as she did every day, she said, “Sure, Dad.”
She was almost to the door.
“Have you got a jacket?” Tony called.
He should have looked earlier. Of course he hadn’t. Too wrapped up in his own problems. She didn’t bother to answer.
“What have you left me for dinner?”
The same thing she always left him. But she didn’t answer that either.
The doorman at the front desk gave her a look of sympathy. She wheeled past him and out the front entrance. The moment she stepped out the door, she took a deep breath.
Exhaust fumes. Uck. The concrete jungle.
She got on her bike and rode across the busy street, dodging cars on her way into the park. The trees made her day worthwhile. The trees and their valiant struggle against the bad air, the graffiti artists trying to carve their love lives into the trunks, the dogs fouling the exposed roots. If those trees could survive in this place, so could she.
Virginia veered off the path and took a shortcut, rising over a small crest until she reached another path. She couldn’t see her building from here. She couldn’t see any part of the city.
She loved it here. It was her reward for the sameness of her everyday life.
His feet hurt in the magic shoes, but the rest of him felt pretty good. Pretty dam good. Relish, the Troll King, resisted the urge to chuckle as he made his way down the hall in the Snow White Memorial Prison.
Getting inside hadn’t been hard. A little pink Troll dust, the magic shoes, and he was through the main door. Only the vulture outside—the real one, the one sitting on the sign—had seen him cross the manicured grounds to the drawbridge. And that bird wasn’t going to confess nothing to nobody.
The corridor was wide and dimly lit. The shadows were dark. Every few yards, however, there were squares of light, with bars, as a bit of moonlight came through the grated windows. The torches on the walls burned brightly, but they couldn’t dispel the gloom.
He liked it gloomy. And darkness suited his purposes. He would do well here.
He held his hand out in front of himself. Nothing. The shoes were doing their trick. No one could see him. And if he was careful, he’d accomplish his mission without anyone being the wiser.
He turned into another corridor. The stone walls seemed even wider here, but the ceiling was lower, giving the place a tunnel effect. A warder carrying an iron lantern was going about his rounds. He was tall for a human, with a face so mean it could almost be a Troll’s. His skull was shaved. It looked like a pale, shiny globe of light flashing through the shadows. He wore the dark green uniform of all the officials in the Fourth Kingdom, and it looked as ridiculous on him as it looked on the rest of them.
The warder stopped. Obviously he had heard Relish’s footsteps. Then the warder shook his hea
d and continued on. Relish walked behind. The magic shoes he wore over his boots made soft footfalls.
The warder stopped and turned. Relish grinned, knowing the human couldn’t see him.
“Who’s there?”
Relish waited as the warder did. Then the human shook himself as if berating himself for imagining things, and started down the corridor again. Relish followed, picking up his pace. He was close to the cell now. He wanted to get there before the magic shoes took away all of his self-control.
The warder stopped again, obviously spooked. “Who’s there?”
This time, Relish continued forward, hand in the pouch of pink Troll dust. The warder shrank back from the sound of the footsteps, but Relish was moving too quickly. He rushed up to the warder and threw a handful of pink dust in his face.
The warder’s eyes widened and he looked as if he were going to sneeze. Then he fell backwards, body tangled in a heap. Relish peered at him. Pink dust covered the human’s face. He’d be uncomfortable when he woke up. Especially from the way that arm was bending. Pins and needles and maybe a pulled muscle or two.
Relish grinned. He bent down and grabbed the warder’s keys. Then Relish carried them to the cell where his idiot children had gotten themselves imprisoned again.
The cell door was sturdy, made of wood with metal strips reinforcing it. A thick wooden bar covered the front and was held in place by the lock. Relish stuck the key in the lock, turned it, and raised the bar, pulling the door open.
His idiot children got off their cots, whirling and turning until they lined up in front of the door. It wasn’t even a good defensive position. He couldn’t believe how little they had learned of the things he taught them.
They had lined up in age order. Burly and Blabberwort were seven feet tall—the perfect height for Trolls. But Bluebell was only five feet tall. He crouched beside his sister Blabberwort and looked even more pathetic than the other two.
Relish frowned at his children. What a motley crew. Burly had pulled his black hair away from his face, revealing his excessively pale skin—like his father’s—-and his gray eyes. His two lower canines rose like fangs, nearly touching the steel bone he’d pierced through his nose. He wasn’t as ugly as a Troll could be, but he was close.
The 10th Kingdom Page 1