Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (26 page)

I was fast, but April was faster. She skated ahead of me on my left, and as I sped up to catch her, she held her right arm back to me. She looked over her shoulder. “Take the whip!” she said. “I don’t just want to hold your hand!”

I pushed into the stride as hard as I could, and lunged clumsily for her dainty fingers.

“Tuck your wings in!” she said, and just in time—I might have swept her off the track with my wings out. I sped up measurably with my wings tucked, and caught her wrist. I grabbed it, and she took hold of my arm with a grip much tougher than I thought capable.

“Fly, bitch, fly!” she yelled, and she whipped my body forward so hard that for a second I thought I would have to open my wings to keep from wiping out. I wasn’t wearing any knee pads or a helmet. I didn’t exactly come prepared for a lesson in Derby 101.

For a few seconds, I careened wildly down the bank, and then I was rolling sideways in the middle, not sure how I’d gotten there. Everything happened in a blur of glitter and sweat.

April nearly stopped completely when she whipped me, and she rolled now, gently to the center of the track.

“Not quite ready for the banked track, I guess,” she said. “Not bad, though.” She panted a little, and took off her helmet. She shook out her hair, and it was drenched in sweat. For a second, she dropped the glamour and I could see her horns poking up through sweaty bangs. In her hand, she held a delicate crown, instead of a helmet. Some kind of talismans were wrapped around her wrists and elbows. The kneepads were real, I think. They stunk so badly, they had to be.

“Tomorrow we’ll work on the flat-track,” she said. “Go over the rules. Then you can meet the team.”

Chapter 30.5

Troll in the Dungeon

Harlow

Jag led me through the casino like a boss. I’d handed over the chainsword without a fight, so stunned at the revelation that my father was still alive, I’d lost my head. I was pretty sure an old-timer like Jag would be smart enough to sniff out the crossbow up my back and the iron-tipped arrows, but maybe he didn’t think I was a big enough threat, even with those weapons.

After all, his brother—my father—had always been the weaker one. I guess he thought I was just as easily controlled.

My ego raged. I wanted to fire an arrow right through his skull, but I squashed the thought. If he were truly taking me to see the father I’d thought long-dead, I was indeed powerless in his presence. I’d have given anything except Debra to reclaim my father.

“What about my mom?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

Jag just shook his head no, and kept walking.

I’d never been to the dungeons before. Those years I’d lived with Jag, thinking he was raising me, Dave and April and I never got anywhere near them. The moans and the smells were enough to keep us away, although April tried once or twice to send a guard inside to retrieve a lost toy.

All I’d ever seen of the prisoners were the glimpses of movement beneath the grates in the kitchen floor—as the slop rolled down, you could hear the scuffles ensuing over food. There were grates like that throughout the operation. There were no cleaning crews, per se, but over the course of time, objects hit the floor and would roll into the grates. Lost money, wallets, keys, glasses—whatever. If it hit the floor in the middle of a crowd, it was lost to the tide of moving bodies that would push all refuse into a grate, and then to the dungeon, forever. Precious objects and common trash, all the same. April was always losing toys that way.

It was the same with people, as far as I knew. No one had ever returned from “downstairs,” to my knowledge.

And here I was, about to willingly step inside. I was a damned fool.

We descended an old, wet, staircase carved out of stone. At the bottom, a troll guard slept in his chair, in antiquated troll guard attire. He must have been on the job for a very long time.

“Open the door,” Jag commanded, and the guard awoke with a start, his complement of skeleton keys rattling on an enormous silver ring. He did as he was told, and the heavy, wooden door swung open, into the dungeon. A roar went up from beyond, then, silence.

“Bring him out,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Jag said. “You’ll have to go in and get him.”

And then the guards were pushing me toward the entrance, their heavy torsos crushing the hidden bow into my back. Even if I could break away from their grip, I wasn’t sure I’d have time to notch an arrow before the dungeon door slammed behind me.

“No!” I screamed. “No! I just want to see my father!”

Jag laughed, his head thrown back in a hearty guffaw. The guards watched him, waiting for instructions.

He shrugged. “Take him to Othello,” he said. “What the hell.” He turned and jaunted back up the steps, before I was even through the threshold.

Chapter Thirty-One

Hell on Wheels

Deb

“Don’t drink the water,” they say, when they’re joking about Mexico. I don’t know who “they” are because no one I know has ever been to Mexico, but whatever. The same should be said of spending time in the lair of an evil drug lord. He told me the water would keep me under control, so I really should have known better, but I didn’t realize what he’d truly meant.

Day by day, I thought less of Gennifer, and of Harlow. I slept like the dead, and even though Derek was leaving me notes in my room, I barely cared.

“They’ll never let you go,” one said.

I’d see Derek around the complex, but I didn’t have much to say to him. He seemed paranoid, kind of useless. I had so many new friends to play with now, and I’d never liked him much to begin with.

The girls on the team became my life. April (or Alma, as I called her on the track), was the best friend I’d ever had. She taught me all I needed to know about playing roller derby on the flat track or the banked track. She taught me how to deal with the urge to use my wings, and how to strategically grow when I was delivering a hit, how to shrink when I was jamming and I needed to slip through a hole in the pack.

Glamour or no glamour, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Despite the discovery of my own fairy nature, I was fascinated with
her
magic. When she smiled, I felt my heart leap out of my chest. If she looked tired or agitated, I wanted to run to her side.

Gennifer had been a beauty queen, but Alma was a real princess. A fairy princess. I was deeply under her spell.

The other girls on the team were sweet, sassy, mean, or hilarious. Most of them had long, blonde hair, and a few of them recognized me from the Rustic Fog.

Angie, the girl who’d I’d first seen lying on the bathroom floor of the Fog, was a human slave like Derek. The girls on the team passed her around like she was Cinderella, but there was no ball for her to sneak off to. Angie didn’t seem to mind much, though.

“I’ve been here since the 1970s,” she told me once. She didn’t look much older than me, and I must have looked surprised. “It’s the junk—the faeth. Jag cuts it with something special, and I barely age,” she said. When she spoke of McJagger, her eyes grew rounder, darker, and I could almost see cartoon hearts floating out of them.

“You love him,” I said.

She snorted and went back to cleaning skates for the team. I thought she was going to say something, but Betsy Won’t skated by and slapped Angie hard in the back of the head. “Get me some water, bitch,” she said.

As Angie ran to the cooler, Betsy smiled at me. “You’re doing good, kid,” she said. “How long have you been skating?”

“All my life,” I said. The truth was, I had no idea how long I’d been skating. I couldn’t even be sure of my age, at that point. How long had I been with the Godsmackers? Was there life before roller derby?

Betsy laughed. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I started in the ‘70s, back when roller derby was all banked track and that troll Banana Nose owned it. God, she was one mean bitch!” Betsy shook her head, seemingly lost in her memories.

I had no idea who she was talking about, but Betsy didn’t seem to notice. Angie came back with a water bottle, and Betsy took it, downing the stuff.

“Remember the days, baby?” Betsy said to Angie.

Angie looked at her sharply, then gave up a smile. She didn’t say a word.

“This piece of ass and I used to skate, back when we were civilians. Somehow we got traded to Jag, and here we are,” Betsy said. She downed the rest of her water and threw the bottle carelessly on the floor.

“Stop messing with my girl.” It was Alma’s voice, behind me. I turned, elated.

“This your derby wife, then?” Betsy laughed, her heavily made-up eyes rolling cartoonishly.

April didn’t answer. She just took me by the hand and we skated to a different track, a flat oval on the other side of the cavern from the banked track.

“We’re working on a scissor drill,” she said. “You want to get as close to me as possible when you cross.” She skated to the outside of the oval and back inward, snaking around the track. “Now, you cut across my path, like the other half of a pair of scissors,” she said, looking over her shoulder and smiling mischievously over her derby booty. I understood why she went by Alma Steevil. She was my drug, my sole temptation.

The other girls tried to teach me things, on and off the track, but I really only had eyes and ears for Alma. I soaked in everything she said and forsook all others.

I didn’t know what a derby “wife” was when Betsy mentioned it, but I hoped I was April’s. I wanted to be with April always. I would do anything to make that happen.

Chapter 31.5

The Boys are Back

Harlow

The folk in the dungeon might have been beautiful fairies and fierce trolls once upon a time, but now they were weary animals. They lunged and jumped at me with jagged teeth bared, torn wings and missing tusks, ripped ears all around. Such a pitiful, ragged band of fae I’d never seen. They made the crowd of faeth-addicted souls upstairs look like a beauty pageant, in comparison. I pitied them.

The guards led me through the maze of pathways in the dungeons. One right, two lefts, two rights, one left, and we stood in a stone archway before a pile of dirty straw.

“Harlow,” a voice called from within the room. My father’s voice. “No, Harlow, don’t come in.”

But it was too late. I had stepped into the room, toward my father’s voice like a child. Bars slammed down in the archway behind me. I turned and grabbed the bars, lifting—and surprisingly, they budged. I felt like if I pushed a lot harder, they’d do more than budge.

But the guards didn’t notice. Rhinomen.

As soon as they were gone, I whirled on the room. “Come out! Othello Saarkenner, come out!” Anger shook my body, and I fought to control my emotions.

Slowly, a shape emerged in the darkness. Just a bit of movement, leaking out the cracks between the stones in the wall behind the hay, and then he was there. For the first time in fifteen years, I stood in the presence of my father.

“You son of a bitch!” I yelled, and hurled myself at him, fists flying, going for the throat. I expected him to fight back, to shield himself, but before I knew it, my thumbs were deep into his flesh, and I knelt above him on the floor, fighting the urge to shake him, pound his head into the dirty cobblestone floor with all my might. “How could you!?” I screamed. And then, without warning, came the tears. I sobbed like a child, no longer able to hold it in. “How could you?”