Troll Or Derby, A Fairy Wicked Tale by Red Tash Page B

also no idea how to get out of this creepy-ass bar. Who was this decrepit old guy, and how did he know me? He called me “Roller Deb.” Did he know the Coach? And what sort of purpose did he have in mind for me, that I would “do quite nicely”?
    I shuddered, and he left the bathroom, laughing.
    Angie was back. “Don’t be scared of Jag,” she said. “He’s weird, but he’s okay, and he’ll look out for you.”
    Her eyes were bloodshot, and there were stitches along the hairline of her stringy blonde hair. My eyes flicked quickly to the crook of her arm—sure, enough, needle tracks. They flickered and shone like dollar-store rhinestones before disappearing. Same thing with her hair, her eyes, the stitches. Dirty beautiful.
    “I’m not so sure I want to be taken care of by the likes of … Jag, was it?”
    “McJagger,” she said.
    “Mick Jagger? Same as the guy from the Rolling Stones?”
    She laughed. “Sorta. Spelled different, but, yeah. We say it the same.”
    I was finished dressing, and sloshing around in my soaked tennis shoes. My backpack was still in the corner. I knew I would make a quicker getaway without toting the skates along, but there was no way I was leaving them behind.
    “Tell the truth, Angie. What’s he want with me?”
    She shrugged. “Hard to say for sure, but he probably wants you to skate. Rumor has it you’re pretty good, and with your blood, I’m sure you’ll be able to keep up with the full fae, with a little training. Don’t get your hopes up or anything,” she said, pushing the bathroom door open and leading me by the shirttail to an open seat closer to the stage.
    Her words were mumbo-jumbo. Made no sense at all.
    “My blood? The full what?”
    She gestured at an empty table, the only one in the bar, right beside the stage. I was mere feet away from McJagger, his black aura snaking toward me through the air. It smelled sour, like mold on an orange peel.
    The singer gestured and suddenly the band was blaring again. It took me a few seconds to recognize the tune—Rob Zombie’s “Dragula.” It should have been creepy, but for some reason, the singer made it seem perfectly safe. While “Jag” and the rest of the band seemed to be completely engrossed in their own personal darkness, the singer actually sort of glowed, for lack of a better word.
    He leaned my way during the bridge, slinging the microphone far away from his body in a typical “rock star” move, and we made eye contact for one brief second. I couldn’t help but gasp. He smelled like yellow daffodils, sunbeams, clean fresh linens—I choked, and saw Jag smirk.
    There was only going to be one way out of the Fog for me—don’t ask me how I knew it, but in that breath of fresh air between the third verse and the chorus, I knew I would follow Mr. Sunshine through hell or high water—and definitely out of this place, if he would help me.
    The song wound down, and he made a quick jerk of his head toward a door at the side of the stage. The band got up and the piped-in opening stanza of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” boomed from the corner jukebox. I leapt from my chair—this was it, I was sure. We were going to make a break for it.
    A hot hand closed down on my shoulder, pushing me back into my seat.
    Moe’s scraggly beard brushed my cheek. “Not so fast, Harlow,” he said in a whisper. I pulled away from him, and followed his gaze. He may have been holding me down, but he was staring straight at the dreadlocked singer.
    “Harlow?” I said.
    “Don’t say his name!” McJagger yelled. He jumped across the stage equipment, knocking a rickety front-row table over, spilling drinks across the laps of the blondes that sat at his feet. Both his tiny black arms reached for me.
    Seriously, the man was head-to-toe in leather. At that age?
    “Harlow?!” I yelled again.
    The golden singer smiled at me, his eyes goading me on. Say it again, I could practically hear him thinking.
    Moe’s hand closed over my