“They being stupid,” Olga said.
“Is the boy all right?”
She nodded. “He asleep.”
“Then what—”
“They want to know why he help,” Olga said, gesturing at Caedmon. Who was on his feet now, too.
“Why wouldn’t he? He had the power to spare—”
Olga started to say something, and then just gestured at them. Because yeah. Inside voice was apparently not a thing in trolldom.
We took off for the latest crisis, despite the fact that we could hear them from the porch. And so could half the neighborhood, not that they’d probably understand what they were saying. I sure didn’t.
But not because of the language barrier.
“Boy has no clan. No one pay for him. You get nothing!” That was the big troll with the scraped face, and yes, I’d been right. Now that we were in better lighting, I could see that it was definitely some kind of black, sparkly gravel embedded in his skin, from temple to neck, and glinting redly in the setting sun. The skin had grown back around it, in scarification-like swirls, as if it had been in there for decades. Because sure. Why pull it out, right?
I didn’t understand trolls at all.
And it looked like Caedmon didn’t, either.
“I don’t recall asking for anything.”
It was said mildly enough, but for some reason, it seemed to enrage the trolls, several of whom took a step forward. To the point that they were almost touching the shiny tips of the royal guards’ swords, which no one had lowered. And which a couple of the boys looked like they’d enjoy having an excuse to use.
Claire must have thought so, too, because she started forward, only to have Olga hold her back. It would have been funny under other circumstances, because Olga’s gesture was that of a mother reaching an arm across a child during a sudden stop in a car. But Claire wasn’t a child, and she didn’t look like she appreciated it.
Like, really didn’t.
And, suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.
“I have a grandson,” Caedmon was saying, apparently oblivious. “The boy is scarcely older. I wanted to help—”
“No Light Fey help Dark! Not for no reason!” Gravel Face looked pissed.
“He did. Boy fine. Go home,” Olga told them, but nobody was listening.
Possibly because a lot of them wanted a fight. The royal guards were bored out of their minds, with nothing to do all day but hang around Claire’s garden. And the trolls—well, I frankly didn’t know what their problem was, but they definitely had one. Making me wonder what the hell they had expected to happen.
“Did you want us to just let the kid die?” I demanded.
I didn’t really expect an answer, but for some reason, I got one.
“He too sick, can’t get to healer in time,” Gravel Face said, still staring down Caedmon. “Olga say she know another, so we come. But not to him!”
“But . . . he saved him—”
“And now we owe debt! He want us fight for him, die. We not die for Light Fey king! No more!”
The garden exploded with the chant, and with chest-beating and growling and half lunges toward the guards, who planted their feet and stood their ground. Even though the only thing keeping Dark Fey blood from smearing the tips of those swords was the thickness of the hide battering into them. Great.
“He doesn’t want you to fight for him!” I yelled, to be heard over the racket. I looked at Caedmon. “Tell them!”
“I’m always happy to recruit new auxiliaries—”
“Caedmon!”