Nobody, in fact, was looking at him at all. The other fey were gathering around the child, who was still sprawled on the table and looking far from well. He had some very unnatural dents and bumps in his chest, some mottled skin on his hands and arms, and a jaw that still didn’t fit quite right on his face. But he was alive.
And, like me, nobody seemed to quite know what to do with that. Until Olga threw her head back, and spoke for us all. And roared.
Chapter Ten
“Well, that was intense.”
I’d given up on dinner, and was hanging off the back of the porch, a longneck in one hand and an ice pack in the other, because my head hurt.
Olga nodded. She was in the porch swing with her own beer, which looked entirely inadequate in those huge hands, but it didn’t matter since I’d brought a bucket full. It was sitting on the weathered boards between us, along with a pillow, some blankets, and half a dozen apples, because there was every chance I might not get up again today.
I hated convalescing, but if you had to do it, this was the place.
The late-afternoon sun slanted across the backyard, glinting off the ice in my bucket and striping the blanket where the boys were supposed to be playing, only they were running after fireflies instead. Or, rather, Stinky was, his long arms making the chase at least somewhat competitive, while Aiden was mostly falling on his ass. But he looked like he was having fun.
So did a horse over by the fence—Caedmon’s, presumably—which was poking fleshy lips between the slats, trying to reach Mrs. Luca’s roses. And Claire’s guards, who were roasting something they weren’t supposed to have over a fire pit and laughing with the boss. He’d recovered about as fast as you’d expect for a guy who kept a bunch of crazy fey wrangled most of the time. But he also looked like he’d be happy sitting around for the rest of the day, shooting bull and drinking beer, instead of performing any more heroics.
The king of the fey looked pooped.
“Fish, tracks, door,” Olga said suddenly.
I looked up at her. “What?”
“Fish, tracks, door. You understand?”
“No.”
I lay back against the boards. They were sun warmed and velvety smooth, the way wood gets after being worn down by weather and feet through the years. They went nicely with the buzz of bees raiding the garden, the creak of chains holding up the old swing, and the tinkling sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. It didn’t come down this street anymore for reasons, but still gave a melodic accompaniment to the scene.
Nice, I thought sleepily, and seriously considered taking a nap. Which I absolutely was not going to do, because dinner was almost ready. Assuming we had enough to accommodate all our extra guests, that is.
Because the trolls hadn’t left.
From what I understood, they were some big shots in the local troll community who had been at the fights last night and offered Olga their help. She had been glad to accept, since apparently all hell had broken loose shortly after I passed out. The slaver had ended up dead somehow, and as soon as they heard, the slaves had started to flee.
That wouldn’t have been so bad, even if most of them were new arrivals who had no idea how to navigate the human world. Worst-case scenario, they’d be picked up by the Corps, a bunch of nosy mages who think they’re the supernatural police, and sent back to Faerie. Best-case scenario, somebody like Olga would find them, and they’d get adopted into the local Dark Fey community. Or, at least, they would have, except the slaver’s assistants had preferred to kill them rather than let them escape and give evidence.
Hence the hell.
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.