The fight had quickly devolved into two camps, although not exactly the way you’d think. Some of the slaves had sold themselves to the slavers in order to escape the wars in Faerie, which were even more likely to get them killed. They’d been promised money and a new start if they survived so many fights, and those nearing the end of their contract had been persuaded to help the slavers in return for an early payoff.
Others had sided with the slaves, like the big scarred guy, who had torn a swath through the slavers’ initial advance. Larger trolls like him had given the smaller ones—mostly water boys and cut men there to help with the fights—a chance to flee. But the slavers had called in reinforcements from their compound in Queens, and somebody else had called in the Corps, which caused a panic, since a good percentage of the spectators were just as illegal as the fighters.
The lot had quickly turned into a knock-down-drag-out—literally, the Corps had been dragging people out—which explained why Olga was still in her sparkly pink outfit. She hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. She and her guys had been on a mad scramble to find the slaves before the slavers did, while somehow avoiding arrest, since not all of Olga’s people were exactly legal, either.
Fortunately, she’d had the charms to help with the latter and the former had been simpler than one might expect, because we’re talking trolls here. Young, hungry trolls—because the bastard slaver had only fed the guys who were going to fight and needed to bulk up. So, of course, every escapee had made a beeline for the nearest source of food.
Olga’s group had fished one guy out of a mom-and-pop grocery, where he’d been going to town on the produce. And a couple more who’d popped open a semitruck and were helping themselves to a bounty of Tastykakes, wrappers and all. Olga said their digestion would take care of it. I had decided not to ask what that meant. And a third group who had broken into a local brewery, and been found with bellies so distended by all the beer that they’d had to be carried out because they could no longer walk.
So, yeah, she’d welcomed help from the Elders, which was the best translation of the big guys’ titles. Together they had managed to recover a number of slaves, including the tiny one currently asleep in the trundle bed in the boys’ room. However, relations appeared to have soured all of a sudden. I wasn’t sure why.
I just knew that the boy had been carried upstairs by Olga herself. And that, when the other trolls tried to follow, they’d had their faces smashed into a ward that she’d flicked on as she went past. That had not been appreciated, especially by Gravel Face, and a somewhat . . . lively . . . conversation had thereafter taken place in the middle of the hall. It was still going on, only without Olga, who had left halfway through.
I didn’t blame her.
Those guys were dicks. . . .
“It what child say,” she told me, suddenly.
I jerked back awake, which was a surprise, since I hadn’t recalled drifting off. “What?” I stared around. “What is?”
“Fish, tracks, door.”
I frowned, trying to get the brain to work when it didn’t want to. “What child? The troll child?”
She nodded.
“Just now? When he was about to—” I blinked. “What did he say, again?”
She repeated it. I sat up. The motion made me dizzy, which pissed me off. I drank some beer and told my body to deal with it already.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Olga shrugged.
“Well, it must have been important.”
“What’s important?” Claire asked, coming out of the back door.
I looked up. The sun was setting in her hair, making it almost look like it was on fire. “Fish, tracks, door.”
She frowned at me, like maybe I’d hit my head harder than she’d been told. “Are you all right?”
“More or less.”
She frowned some more, put down the crate of dishes she was carrying, and started pawing through my hair. “You have quite a bump.”
“It’ll go down by tomorrow.” If she’d stop poking at it, I didn’t add, because she was trying to help.
“I can get you an ice pack,” she began, before I held up my dripping one.
“Got it covered.”
She seemed to accept this, because she let me go. “They want to see you,” she told Olga, who sighed, but got up and lumbered inside.
That left the swing free, but Claire sat down beside me instead.
“Are we eating soon?” I asked hopefully, eyeing the dishes. They were for the picnic tables that we used far more often than the dining room, since it was nicer out here in the garden, and we couldn’t fit everybody inside anymore, anyway.
“As soon as the pizzas arrive.” She shot me a chagrined look. “No way to stretch soup that far.”
I nodded. I’d seen trolls eat. And those were what I was coming to view as normal trolls, instead of the hulks I’d been encountering lately.
“How many pizzas?” I asked, feeling like I could eat a whole one all by myself.
Claire didn’t answer.
She had one of those faces that was in turns perfectly plain and completely beautiful, all depending on her mood. When she was in a temper, the emerald eyes flashed, the ivory skin flushed, and the bright red hair, only a shade or two off from Olga’s fiery locks, seemed to have a life of its own. She was almost half human, but I swear, when she was really, truly angry, she didn’t look it.
She wasn’t angry now. Now, the eyes were a dull olive, the cheeks were pale and pinched, and the freckles on the long, thin nose stood out clearly. The hair reflected her overall mood, sagging dispiritedly around her face.
“Want a beer?” I asked, and passed one over when she nodded.
She looked like she could use a bit more than that, like maybe a shoulder to cry on for some reason. Only I didn’t know how to offer one without making things worse, because Claire could be touchy. Comes with the territory when her recent history involved almost being killed by her slimy cousin, who’d wanted to inherit the family business; being spirited away to Faerie by a handsome prince; getting pregnant; having a kid; having said kid almost killed by a murderous fey court who didn’t like the idea of a part-human heir; and escaping back to earth, where she was now living in a crazy house with a dhampir, some adolescent trolls, and a bunch of royal guards camped out in her backyard, stepping on all the vegetables.
It was enough to make anyone cranky.
But she didn’t say anything, just drank half the beer, like she could use it, then narrowed her eyes at the fey across the yard. “What are they cooking?”
I tried on an innocent look. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“Don’t lie.” She leaned forward a little, and the sharp eyes narrowed on a pile of something that I don’t think she got a good look at, because a fey flicked a cape over it a second later. She started to get up, then sighed and sat back down again. And drank the rest of the beer.
“Are you all right?” I asked, because Claire always took care of everybody else, while often forgetting to do the same for herself. And it was hard to remind her, because sensible people backed off when she said “I’m fine” in that certain tone, and her eyes flashed.
Of course, I’ve never had much sense.
“You don’t look fine,” I said idly, and passed over another beer.
She looked at it. “I’ll get drunk.”
“Off two beers?”
“Off an empty stomach and two beers.” She took it anyway. “And a truckload of stress!”
“Why are you stressed?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. If storm clouds could grow a face, that would be it. And, okay, stupid question.
“Oh, I don’t know, Dory!” she said, throwing out an arm. But she didn’t say anything else. Just chugged the beer in a way that would have won her another round in any campus bar, then set the bottle neatly by the porch post, where I’d been piling mine.
And lay back against the sun-warmed boards, her hair going everywhere, like she enjoyed the feel, too.