Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (9 page)

Chapter Nine

You Better Run

Deb

I ran toward the vague hum of traffic, shoving Dave’s shit into my jacket pockets and wishing I could make less noise than a hungry rhino on the stampede. I could hear him shouting. I hoped I’d blinded him, because if he caught up with me, I didn’t think I could fight him off.

Wings still blared from the car, and I ran until I couldn’t hear it anymore. Wings. That’s what I need. Some wings to fly away from here.

I stopped to catch my breath, and heard a crunching and thudding in the woods behind me that had to be Dave. I ran harder until I tripped, falling facedown into the mud.

Fuck! So close to the highway!

The orange lamplight of the interstate was so close, but I was afraid to get up and run—afraid Dave would see me in the light and catch me. I was still thinking it over, weighing my options, when the thing I dreaded happened.

Dave’s car horn echoed through the trees behind me. La Cucaracha. Were they out of “Dixie” at the custom auto shop that day?

More importantly, was he driving into the woods now? If he was in his car, who was crashing through the woods behind me, on foot?

He ran toward me—I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him. I jumped up, pressing hard into the mud for whatever traction I could get, and sprinted up the landscaped embankment for the highway, praying that someone would stop and help me.

God, just let someone be there. Anyone.

I didn’t stop running as I caught a glimpse of what I could only describe as a hulking troll clambering up the embankment behind me. He was backlit by the headlights of Dave’s Caddy pitching erratically through the underbrush. I just ran.

Push, push, push! You have to get away! It was just like my dream.

The flashing lights of a police car filled the air. I saw the symbol for the State of Indiana on the side of the car, and breathed my first sigh of relief all night.

But I didn’t stop running. At the top of the embankment, I found traction on the pavement and I sprinted away, across the southbound lanes, and onto the shoulder of northbound 37. Maybe some Bloomington hippies would pick me up, if I was lucky.

Looking back, I couldn’t see Dave following me anymore, so I assumed the police were talking to him—maybe even taking him away to jail. I hoped, and I ran.

The cop car shrank at the bottom of the hill behind me, and still Dave had not found me.

Cars sped by me, but no one stopped. But why would they? Who runs away from a cop car? And even if there hadn’t been red and blues lighting up the darkness, who would pick up a dirty delinquent in the dead of night, anyway? No one in his right mind.

Fortunately, those who ride at night aren’t usually in their right minds.

A line of bikers snaked up the highway behind me, passing me on the left and waving as they went. A white-haired man with a matching beard to rival Santa’s pulled in front of me onto the shoulder, and gestured for me to climb onto his bike.

“You in trouble, kid?” he asked.

I tried to answer, but just stuttered over the words. “I, uh—he, well …” I pointed to the police car in the distance.

He laughed. Not exactly a “ho ho ho,” but not far off.

“Climb on. Name’s Moe.” He revved the engine and threw his head back in a cackle, as I hopped on back. “Fuck the police, that’s what!” he yelled, and we rocketed away, and my face pressed into the greasy patches on the back of Moe’s jacket.

I let myself breathe.

Chapter 9.5

More Than a Human

Harlow

It wasn’t long before Dave recovered his keys, and I could hear him crashing through the undergrowth behind me. Son of a biscuit probably used a summoning spell. He wasn’t going to let me catch up with Deb if he could help it.

Ahead of me, I could hear her panting, and although I could have reached her in two or three strides, I stayed back—I didn’t want to scare the girl to death, I just wanted to protect her. I figured if I could keep her moving at a good clip, and hold off Dave, that would give her time to make it to Interstate 37—and maybe from there some kind soul would pick her up and whisk her away before Dave could catch up.

This girl was turning into an awful lot of trouble. I sincerely hoped Zelda planned to give me a good reason for looking after this chick, because contrary to what you may have heard about trolls, chasing women through the woods at night isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Neither is being pursued by a homicidal drug lord.

I could hear Dave cursing over the strains of “Dreamweaver,” and I knew he was catching up with me. That didn’t bother me a bit, but I wanted Deb to have a head start to safety. I knew it was an old-fashioned trick, but I gathered some dust from my mojo and threw lightning straight back at the car. The silver streaks ran a jagged line through the air, connected with his tacky hood ornament, and sizzled up the frame of the car.

The car stopped, and Dave climbed out, lunging awkwardly through the undergrowth. His headlights shone into what was left of the woods, and into the grassy strip of land between the highway and the road.

I don’t know how long we were fighting, but Dave must have given Deb up for lost, because he went at me like he needed to end me. We traded blows, mostly because I couldn’t take the time to get to any of my magic.

When the police car pulled up on the shoulder, I hesitated, then kicked Dave hard in the chin, knocking him off his feet. I was prepared to glamour anyone heading our way to nose around. Even if the cops wouldn’t arrest me, Dave’s cops could sure make my life more difficult. Jag’s cops, anyway.

I roared, and that took the attention away from Deb, as the cop spun his spotlight down the embankment to where Dave and I were tussling.

A young State Trooper stumbled down the embankment toward us. The look on his face when he saw Dave sprawled over the hood of the Caddy told me as much about his character as the dark stain growing on the front of his trousers. Sure, these state cops are tough—but two brawling trolls in the middle of the night is a little much for even the Indiana State Police to deal with.

Dave groaned and sat up, rubbing his head and his ass simultaneously. His tusks protruding, gruesome and obvious, he glowered at the officer. To the trooper’s credit, he only went white—he didn’t pass out. While Dave enjoyed looming large over the man, I glanced in the direction of the highway. About a mile away, Deb was cresting a hill. I could barely see her, even with my enchanted vision. Bikers. Lots of them.

“We’ll have to glamour him,” I said to Dave.

“Or eat him,” he replied. He grunted, then added, “Asshole.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so,” I said. “But I’m your asshole.”

Dave laughed. We’d never been close, but it didn’t hurt to mess with him.

“You admit you’re an asshole, though?” he said, chuckling.

“Would you two assholes like to tell me what the hell you two are doing driving through these woods in the middle of the night?” the Statie interjected.

Dave reached out, put his massive pot roast of a hand around the Statie’s neck, and squeezed, laughing. “Sex, drugs, and rock & roll, man,” he said. The Statie fell to his knees first seemingly in pain, then unmistakably glamoured. Dave unzipped his fly. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”

Rock and roll. Yeah, that was going to be the ticket.

I knew I shouldn’t have left the trooper in Dave’s clutches, but I needed to catch up to Deb—and finally, I saw my opportunity to maybe get ahead of her.

Before Dave could stop me, I summoned a thunderbird who owed me a favor, and I was off to the west, to the land of the Fog.

Chapter Ten

The Rustic Fog

Deb

We rode for a few hours before Moe and his gang stopped for a break. I checked Dave’s phone—he’d lied about Gennifer’s call. According to the history, she hadn’t called him for days. Not from her own cell, anyway.

I tried to call her, but all I got was her voice mail. When we were stopped, I was surprised the phone even had service—I wasn’t sure we were in Indiana, anymore, truth be told. We’d pulled off a highway into a gas station in the middle of nowhere, best I could tell—and the highway numbers meant nothing to me.

I’d never left Laurents County before.

As we rode farther into the night, I saw flashes of a small river through the trees, and I thought it was probably the Wabash—not that it mattered. It was dark and cold, and I felt certain I was getting farther and farther from Gennifer, but I needed time to think—needed inspiration, I suppose, to figure out how to get past Dave and his thugs, preferably with my life and my virginity intact.

What was he doing with Gennifer? Was she still alive?

My head went to crazy places—white slavery, the tattooed seats of Dave’s car—but I had trouble believing anyone could be sick enough to destroy a girl as beautiful as my sister. Then again, we were talking about Dave.

We turned off the two-lane highway and headed down a rough road. The pavement worsened, and the motorcycles slowed until we were crunching over gravel in a single-file line of rumbling night hogs.

“You’ll like this place. It’s real homey,” Moe said, slinging his head sideways to chat. Tusks, red in the taillights of the bike before us. Did everyone have them now, or was I suffering some mass hallucination? “Try not to get your wings clipped,” he said.

“My what?” I was sure I hadn’t heard him correctly.

We rolled past a weather-beaten whitewashed sign with a faded cartoon frog in mid-leap, across the top. Beneath it burned orange-pink neon. Clearly, it used to say “The Rustic Frog, All You Can Eat FROG LEGS! Most Saturday Nights.” The “r” in “Frog” had burned out, and it now read “The Rustic Fog.” How fitting. My hair and clothes were getting soaked from it, and I could barely see beyond Moe’s front tire.

We came to a stop on a patch of soggy grass, and Moe killed the bike. His friends moved about in the mist, gruffly laughing and stumbling into one another like they’d already had too much to drink. I hopped off the bike and checked the phone—no calls.

I followed Moe and the sounds of a crowd toward the bar. Vertical beams of light spilled out from between cracks in the plank wall, into the night. Neon beer signs lit the front porch. A tin roof damp with moisture reflected a neon green frog hopping along the roofline toward the word “Open” in enormous flickering letters. I did a double-take, and realized that the letters “OPEN” were the teeth in the mouth of a gruesome metal sculpture mounted to the roof.

Cigarette butts and beer bottles completely littered the front porch of the bar—there were a few benches and bar stools pulled out onto it, with less-than-welcoming types glaring into the darkness.

“What, Cracker Barrel wasn’t open?” I asked Moe.

The bar was packed. A guy about seven feet tall with glowing blonde dreadlocks screamed into a microphone that he obviously didn’t need, and the band behind him beat their instruments so hard I thought they’d break their guitars in half.