Page 26 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)
Erik…
Fuck me—and not in the good way.
Keeping my gaze focused on the troll’s face, I shift into reverse and hit the gas, but the troll grabs Bessie’s bumper and lifts the front end of the car off the ground.
The back tires try their best, but there’s not even a drop of sweat on the troll’s wide forehead, making it more than obvious that we’re not going anywhere.
The troll grins. Her pointy teeth are a particularly disturbing shade of puce. Then she waggles her bushy dark green eyebrows, dislodging a twig that had been stuck in them and sending it falling to the crunchy, leaf-covered ground.
I’m already halfway to casting a silent vanquishing spell when the sun catches on the gold amulet hanging from a chain looped around her neck.
Shit.
Next to me, LeLe—whose eyes are closed in concentration—takes a deep breath, and the air around us starts to smell like warm cake donuts fresh out of the oven. It’s one of the best smells in the world, but the scent of her magic means nothing but certain disaster in this situation.
Heart hammering in my chest and adrenaline rushing through my veins, I reach out to her before everything goes pear-shaped. “LeLe—”
Either she’s concentrating too hard to hear me or she doesn’t want to, because she starts her hex in motion. “Quod electrica inpulsa—”
I grab her hand and yank her out of spell-making mode before we both end up on the dark side of the moon or exiled to The Beyond.
“She has a presidium,” I holler.
LeLe’s eyes snap open and her wide and wild gaze goes straight to the amulet around the troll’s neck.
“Shit,” LeLe grumbles.
I couldn’t say it better myself.
“Well, it takes the fun out of things when a witch notices my little prize.” The troll pouts as she strokes the gold amulet.
“It’s always so much fun to watch a know-it-all witch’s magic bounce off me and land on them.
If you ever see a witch with an ear for a nose and noses for ears, tell Mick that Frieda says hi. ”
That sucks for Mick, but the fact that he survived means there’s a way out of this situation.
If there’s anything that growing up as a Svensen teaches you, it’s how to find the loophole.
And I am going to find it. I have to. The alternative is getting doused in Devil’s Horn BBQ sauce and squished between two halves of a witch-sized hamburger bun.
Sure, there are fates worse than getting eaten by a bridge troll—for instance, you could agree to be a test subject in one of Cy’s magical experiments that leaves you with a tiger’s tail and the inability to enjoy a cold beer on a hot afternoon ever again.
That said, this is pretty shitty. Like, fuck me, how in the hell am I going to talk my way out of being dinner?
We can’t outrun her since she’d catch up to us within two strides.
We can’t hex her, because she has the amulet.
Her little trick with the bumper showed that we can’t speed off in Bessie and leave her in our dust.
I shoot LeLe a reassuring look while everything I know about bridge trolls rushes through my brain at warp speed.
Average height nine to eleven feet.
Likes: campfires, riddles, and eating witches.
Dislikes: rules, regulations, and backing down from any kind of challenge to their sense of honor or hospitality.
All the synapses in my brain spark at the same time, illuminating the perfect loophole. That’s it.
“We request passage under the old rules,” I say as I give LeLe’s hand a squeeze to let her know I’ve got this.
Her sideways glance and eye roll tell me she has her doubts. She’s probably already working up a plan of her own.
With a huff of disgust, Frieda lets go of Bessie and the car bounces once before settling. Even from the driver’s seat I can see the set of brand-new troll-sized finger indents in her chrome front bumper.
“You lost the option of safe passage when you tried to hex me,” the troll says as she flexes her arms, showing off biceps the size of Bessie’s very generous trunk.
Locking my most charming grin into place, I relax back against the leather seats, willing my jackrabbiting pulse to calm the fuck down.
Just like when I’ve faced off against my father, there is no benefit to letting anyone see how I really feel.
Forget never let them see you sweat. Try never let them think you are anything other than a bored rich guy with absolutely nothing invested in the outcome.
“We would have,” I say, picking a nonexistent piece of lint off my sweater. “However, LeLe did not finish the spell.”
Frieda narrows her eyes and crosses her thick arms, revealing a large tattoo of three vines climbing up her sinewy forearm. “Only because you stopped her.”
There’s something about the tattoo that seems familiar.
“Tonor vine,” LeLe whispers, her words barely perceptible.
That’s it!
About ten years ago, Tonor the Troll successfully campaigned for the trolls to go vegan.
A few trolls remained carnivores, but the majority became herbivores and, as part of their pledge to stay the vegan path, got a three-vine tattoo.
Oh sure, all trolls still threaten to eat witches and other magical creatures for breakfast, but for most trolls it’s all talk.
Instead, they just spend hours tormenting and teasing their prey before extracting a gift and sending them on their way.
I give her a discreet nod in acknowledgment and then relax back against the seat, keeping my body loose.
Sure, they may not eat us, but that doesn’t mean we’re out of danger.
When it comes to trolls, you gotta play the game or you could be stuck under their bridge for a while, and we have a spell book to return to the secured facility before the Council catches up with us.
“There’s nothing in the Knoxville Accords that states a partial spell negates passage,” LeLe says, her tone chipper.
“There’s nothing that says it doesn’t either,” the troll grumbles.
“So you’d like to appeal to the full tribunal?” LeLe asks, bringing up the group of twelve magical creatures that pretty much no witch or troll wants to deal with.
I don’t bother to keep the grin off my face. There is something incredibly sexy about watching LeLe meld a situation to her liking.
“Those stiffs?” Frieda grimaces. “No one wants to leave their fate up to a bunch of anal-retentive bureaucrats.” Frieda contemplates for a second, watching a red-tailed hawk fly toward the setting sun before letting out a long sigh and focusing back on us.
“I’m not conceding it’s a loophole. You’re just lucky I’m in a good mood because Walter got a line on some pixies, and nothing goes better with peanut butter cookies than deep-fried pixie wings. ”
LeLe flinches and I barely manage to cover the automatic gag caused by the mental image of de-winged pixies. “Understood.”
“So we do this the old-fashioned way—with a riddle.” Frieda narrows her eyes at us. “You only get one chance to answer the riddle correctly. Fuck it up and I’ll be picking my teeth with your bones after breakfast.”
LeLe lets out an offended huff and says, “The Accords grant us three answers.”
Frieda grins, showing off the remains of whatever breakfast had been in her teeth. “You wanna go appeal it to the tribunal?”
When neither of us says anything, Frieda plucks us out of Bessie—so much for there being no downside to a convertible—and then uses her foot to nudge the car onto the shoulder of the road.
I have enough time to double down on the protection spell keeping The Liber Umbrarum safe while we deal with the troll.
Frieda holds us tight and heads deeper into the forest on the side of the highway. “You can bunk up at our place tonight, but in the morning you’d better have the right answer.”
“Why not just give us the riddle now?” LeLe asks.
“Because it’s more fun to watch you squirm,” Frieda says as she clomps through the trees toward a campfire’s light by an old bridge. “Plus y’all are going to have to tell Walter that you’re not for dinner. He’s going to be disappointed.”
Once we get to the clearing, there’s a huge bridge troll wearing a backward ball cap, jorts, and his own presidium amulet leaning against what remains of a rusted-out suspension bridge that probably hasn’t been used since Bessie hit the highway for the first time.
The road on the other side of the bridge is covered in forest overgrowth.
On the side closest to the campfire, vines and tree limbs have been bent and shaped into a house complete with a wraparound porch, bay windows, and a second story, all of which lead up to a thatched roof.
Even in a world full of magic, the troll’s home looks like something out of a fairy tale.
Frieda sits us down on a wooden platform covered in intricately carved wards that’s attached to a pulley system hooked to a tree.
“Wow,” LeLe says, her eyes round with amazement as she peers closer at the house’s second-floor bay window. “This is amazing craftsmanship.”
“Oh yeah, Walter has a true talent,” Frieda says, her chest puffing up with pride. “We have a DIY WitchyGram account. You should give us a follow— if you make it past breakfast.”