Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale (24 page)

Everything in me wanted to storm the place, to take her back, kicking and screaming if necessary.

By the same token, I wasn’t worried about saving her, so much as I just wanted to be there for her. Be
with
her. Why fight it anymore? I had feelings for her.

But I was superfluous. Deb was a Wheeler, the strongest of all living Protectors. She didn’t need my help, physically. Not really—not once she learned how to use all her powers, anyway. I just hoped she wasn’t under the influence of any food or drugs. Surely everything in the Bingo Hall was spiked with faeth.

If only I’d had the time to tell her before she cut bait and ran away.

I could feel her wisdom teeth banging around inside my mojo purse. She was calling for me—something inside her wanted me at her side. No question—I had to go.

I wasn’t going in empty-handed, though.

Briefly, I considered the Troll Market. Should I double back, look for armaments, additional spells? I didn’t want to waste the time, and after how we’d left Dave, it was sure to be full of McJagger’s spies.

From my vantage point in the silo, I could see the number of trucks in the Big Blue store lot had dwindled to two. They had to be English customers, because the employees there were all Jag’s henchmen, and with the exception of Dave, most magical folk don’t drive.

As the last Cosmo had suggested, I sensed it was time I indulged in a little retail therapy.

Just as I expected, the store was deserted except for two older gentlemen talking loudly over one another, and laughing at their own jokes. They were each dressed in thick flannel jackets. One wore a John Deere cap, in bright green. The other wore a John Deere cap, in crisp RealTree camouflage.

They turned to look when the tinkling bell announced my arrival, but I’d glamoured myself, already. I’d hit my default, the blonde, street person version of myself. Mainly, I just hid the tusks, and tried to decrease my size a bit. Otherwise, my looks were pretty much the same.

But enough about makeovers, where to start on this shopping spree?

Obviously, there were the guns. Rifles, shotguns? Maybe, but those were all so bulky, and I was pretty sure the Bingo Hall would still have a powerful set of spells at the threshold designed to detect any such armaments.

I passed the weapons counter and picked a child’s compound bow from a display. It was tiny in my hands, and of course it lacked the panache of a crossbow, but I liked it for my purposes. It would fit well inside my jacket, and the composite material wasn’t likely to set off any counter-iron alarms. Next, I was off to find something I could attach to the arrowheads.

Ah, yes. I found the solution in the Home and Garden department. Wrought iron nails, meant to be decorative.
Perfect
. I would bind them to the arrows with a combination of spellwork and good old-fashioned baling twine. The only trick was making sure I didn’t touch them, myself. The Big Blue store didn’t carry gloves my size, so I was just going to have to improvise.

What else, what else?

The farmers got quiet. I hadn’t realized I’d drifted onto their turf until their chatter ceased. They paused for a second, then continued, as if I weren’t there.

“D’ya see that feller over in the firearms section?” said John Deere Green.

“Looks like a friggin’ hobo,” John Deere Camo replied. They cracked each other up.

“Looks like that Gee Dee Othello, is what he looks like.”

More laughter.

GD Othello. God damned Othello. The words rang in my head. They meant something, but I hadn’t a clue. Not the foggiest.

Deb was waiting. I came to my senses when I stumbled across the key to my grand entrance. A chainsaw, a machete, a tool set and a soldering gun—all I needed was a little magic, and I’d be set.

Thankfully, I knew more than a little something about
that
.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Bingo!

Deb

It’s probably worth mentioning that this was the second bingo hall I’d ever seen. The first was in Bedrock, and it shares space with a couple of hippie start-up churches. You know, the kind of people who sit barefoot on a concrete floor, Indian-style, strumming guitars for Jesus, while their kids beat the snot out of each other running duck-duck-goose style around their prayer circle. When it’s not being used for worship, the place smells like cigarette smoke, stale beer, and desperation. Old people congregate there by the glow of the fluorescent lights to chase away their boredom or win back their pension money, I don’t know.

Mom was into Bingo for a while, but she was banned from the Bedrock hall after she got caught sleeping with the guy who called out the numbers. You could say the guy didn’t just have balls—he had a whole cage full. We soon learned Mom wasn’t the only one he was sleeping with in exchange for an inside track to winning, but Mom was the only one who got banned.
Hoo, doggies
. That was rough.

She showed up drunk the next night and slugged a hippie Christian in the middle of a Kumbaya. The sheriff brought her home and I listened to her rail about it for days. I don’t know if she was more heartbroken over the break-up or over losing her connection to all that Bingo money. Probably the money.

Anyway, McJagger’s casino had about as much in common with the Bedrock hall as Las Vegas has with the Indiana State Fair.

It was packed with bodies and rancid smells, but also shrieking neon fae, and light radiating from their bodies in all imaginable shades—and some I’d never seen before.
Was that ultraviolet?
I didn’t have time to ask.

There wasn’t much Bingo going on, from what I could see, but there did seem to be a lot of dart games—more like arrows—shot at bound fae. Slot machines. Arcade games. And so much noise—bells, buzzes, screams—it was overwhelming.

The floor was carpeted, but sticky, and I could have been treading on spilled drinks or even blood. There seemed to be plenty of each.

McJagger took his hand from my shoulder as we weaved through the crowd single-file, and I lost my balance. I bumped into an ogre at least twelve feet tall, hunched over the kind of toy-dispensing game that children flock to at convenience stores. Instead of losing his money fishing for cheap stuffed animals, he pounded the glass when the crane dropped an orb filled with translucent powder.

“My blow!” he rumbled. I stole another glimpse at the machine. There were syringes and what I guessed were crack pipes inside. I wondered what else it contained. Something crawling.

The ogre looked like he could crush the glass with his bare hands. He swung at it with a club, and it bounced, rebounding into a crowd of at least a dozen fairies, as he bellowed in frustration. The throng pounced on him, and a swarm of pixies rained down.

Pixies. My tooth sockets ached again.

The crowd was thick until we reached the pool tables, where the floor turned from sticky carpet to stickier concrete. A bar window distributed draft beer and tall blue cocktails with glowing ice cubes. A man in a trucker hat and a Freddie Mercury moustache nodded to us as McJagger led the way. A sign read “Free Drinks for Billiards Competitors Only.” Hand-lettered below read “All others will
pay
.” It was written in blood. I could tell because a red fairy with what looked like black insect wings was writing it at the time, with his own dismembered finger.

“What would you like, Miss Wheeler?” McJagger asked.

That threw me. “What was that?” I asked.

McJagger smirked. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Miss
Breedon. Would you care for something to drink, Miss Debra Breedon
?”

I felt like he was making fun of me, but I didn’t know how, exactly. I’d been called “Wheeler” twice that night, and it was strange. Not exactly an insult—but it sounded like someone’s family name. Mine?

Mom had said I wasn’t her child—so that meant I really wasn’t a Breedon, after all. Was I a Wheeler, then?

My jaw ached and I wished Harlow were with me. Why had I left him? Why hadn’t I trusted him? It seemed so rash in hindsight. He might have been short on answers, but he’d honestly been the most help to me of anyone since Gennifer’d been kidnapped.

But I had to be close to finding her now.

McJagger pushed a beer into my hand. I was thirsty, but I wasn’t sure I should drink it, after the licorice incident.

“It’s safe,” a voice said behind me. A familiar voice.

I turned, spilling beer on the concrete floor. “Derek! You’re okay!” I put one arm around him and hugged him, even though he flinched and tried to pull away.

“You’ve got wings,” he said. He stared at them, his body frozen. Except for his eyes, he was very, very still, just like at the Troll Market. It gave me the creeps.

“Yeah,” I said, “weird, huh?”

“And they’re black, like a Protector’s,” he said. It seemed he couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

I waved my hand in front of his face. “Hey, eyes right here, buddy!” I said, but this time he didn’t laugh. He was freaking me out. I leaned in and whispered, “What the hell is a Protector, Derek? No one will tell me. What’s a
Wheeler
?”

Before Derek could answer, Dave stepped between us.

“You say something about protection? I’ll use protection, baby, if that’s what you want.”

I recoiled, and McJagger put his hand on my neck, gently, the way a father might grasp his toddling child—lovingly, but with purpose. I didn’t like it, but it seemed useless to try to slouch away.

“The meeting room cleared?” McJagger asked Dave.

“Sleeping Beauty’s out, if that’s what you mean.” Dave looked at me again and laughed, and I fought the urge to claw his eyes out. Who was Sleeping Beauty?

Dave pushed Derek hard in the back. “Go get the Wheeler’s room ready, understand?”

Derek nodded and took off, weaving his way through the crowd of revelers like a rat in a familiar maze. I’d never cared for Derek all that much, but now I felt so sorry for him, and so deep in his debt for trying to help me, I swore to myself that if we ever got out of here I’d treat him as nothing less than a brother.

All eyes were on me as I rolled between McJagger and Dave through the smoky crowd to a dark doorway in the rear of the room. I held my head high, and jumped on my skates a little, dancing side-to-side on the sticky floor. I don’t know why I felt like showing off, but for some reason the impulse was unstoppable. Sparks shot up from my wheels and the crowd opened wider to let us through.

I didn’t know exactly what these black wings meant, or what powers I might have, but I confess I was enjoying my effect on the fae—and I figured if I were going to negotiate with McJagger for my sister’s release, I shouldn’t be showing any fear.

What an idiot I was.

Chapter 28.5

Luck

Harlow

There are spells for lots of things. Food, love, protection, various glamours, charming beasts, even dabbling with the weather isn’t beyond our grasp. With the right glamour, you usually don’t even need other spells, so that’s usually the go-to magic trick for fae.

But luck? A spell for luck is a toughie. I don’t know if there are any potions, talismans, or chants combined that are strong enough to undo the hand of fate. That’s my experience, anyway. Most fae don’t seem to put stock in the idea of fate anymore, and forget about trolls. They’re into food and sex and not much else.

That’s how McJagger lucked out, so to speak. He was a schemer, and an adept one, at that. Maybe I should’ve asked
him
about luck. He seemed to have plenty to spare.

I mentally added that to my to-do list. I envisioned him tied in a chair, an iron arrow pointed at his brow. Ah, the power of positive thinking. (That was the title of another publication that showed up at the landfill a lot.)

To hell with luck—I’d make my own. I reached into my mojo bag. Teeth of my wife. Hair of a gnome. Mushroom spores. I rolled them in my cupped hands like dice, then dropped them back into the sack. As they say in Entertainment Weekly, this @#$% was about to get real.