Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (23 page)

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 much 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.

“A Protector!” someone said. “A Wheeler!”

I turned in a tight circle, and April ducked to keep from being slapped in the face by my wing. “What did you say?” I called out blindly to the crowd.

Their faces were a vignette of extremes, like a fancy French painting I’d seen in a movie once—
Amélie
. So many emotions, but blown way out of proportion. Beastly curiosity, glowing giddily in delight. More than one giggled, with oddly-long fingers splayed in front of their mouths. Blue raspberry licorice fingers.

“Roller Deb,” McJagger said. “Are you in—or aren’t you?” He plucked the dead bird from April’s hand, and shoved it into my face. “Have a bite. C’mon, tastes like chicken.” He put his arm around my shoulders, and though I hated his touch, I didn’t pull away.

Oh, Gennifer. I never had a choice.

As I sunk my teeth into the raw flesh, the vague aching in the back of my jaw where teeth had once been exploded in agony, like fireworks breaking open the night sky. Was Harlow looking for me? Could he find me here? Would he even try?

The crowd cheered, applauding like mad. Hovering fae seemingly tethered to me by curiosity, ushered me forward toward the gates of this weird den.

“Step inside, Deb,” McJagger said. “The toll is paid.”

Chapter 27.5

Retail Therapy

Harlow