My Impossible Journey: Trollmageddon, #2

By Darcy Callan

My enemies have found me.

 

 

Riding a dragon to a mystical island. A cross-country road trip with your amazingly-perfect destined mate. A hero's quest to help your best friend. Sounds amazing, right?

But what if the quest is doomed to fail, the road trip leaves a trail of tears, and those stupid dragons who started this impossible mission have an ulterior motive?

My life as a troll has not improved.

And now, I can never return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Somerwynd Services
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201721183

Book preview

Chapter 1

My parents are ruining my life.

I stare out my bedroom window, trying not to let tears fill my eyes. I can’t believe they would do this to me. That they don’t care what kind of repercussions this is going to have on my social life. That they care so little about my future that they decided to go out of their way to sabotage it.

My parents, my old, almost-forty-and-heading-downhill-in-a-hurry troll parents, are having a baby.

Life as I know it is over.

Rain slides in thick tear trails down my windowpane, and my breath creates little storm clouds on the surface. It’s getting colder as noon approaches; weatherman says the rain might even turn the roads to ice.

Yup. My life is hell, and it’s freezing over.

Part of my brain tells me I should go back downstairs; after all, the turkey only has another hour to baste, and Mom let me invite our neighbors, crazy Mrs. Baker and Crabby Mr. Kravitz, over for Thanksgiving this year. I should get down there and help with the potatoes and start mixing the dough for the biscuits, but I find myself scowling out into the dreary afternoon.

I pick up my cell and send a quick text to Nila, BFF extraordinaire: mom just told me she’s having a baby, and then immediately after pressing send, remember she hasn’t been the happiest with me since I accidentally turned her into a reaper six weeks ago.

Point three milliseconds later, my cell rings. Are you serious? Z, that’s incredible!

A wave of relief washes over me that, at least for the moment, things between us are okay. Are you kidding me? I respond. A baby? After all this time? I just know she sprang this on me today, knowing I won’t create a scene. Knowing I won’t sit upstairs, miserable, while the people she let me invite over ask where I am.

Bloodstone, I silently swear.

How far along is she?

I don’t know.

But Dr. Nila is on duty, and I hear her rattling off the months. I hope your mom is getting good care.

What do you mean?

I sense Nila’s discomfort. She’s kind of old to be having a baby, Z.

Tell me about it.

I mean, there are risks.

Now my radar pings, boomeranging me from my deep mope to heightened family concern. What do you mean?

It means, she needs to do everything her doctor says. Stay on her about her visits, okay?

Holy halite, I hadn’t thought about anything happening to my mom, only how this new development is going to disrupt my comfortable life as the shining apple of my parents’ eyes. I open my mouth to stay something utterly stupid when Nila interrupts with, People usually wait until twelve weeks to tell people. Your mom will likely be due May/June. That’s so exciting! Is it a boy or a girl?

Does it matter? I grouse.

No, Nila says in her thoughtful tone. I guess not. Are you going to bring it to school? Maybe for graduation? Oh! Do you think your mom will let me babysit? I want experience with pediatrics. Oh! Oh! Can I come baby shopping?

Nila’s excitement over this adds a level I hadn’t considered. I’m still trying to wrap my head around diapers in the house, so shopping for baby items is the last thing on my to-do list. Why would you want to do that?

She squeals. "Have you seen baby items? Adorbs. The rattles and bassinets and playpens, and the outfits? Oh, they’re insanely cute. I could blow my whole income on them."

Since I have a desktop computer, I hop online during Nila’s gushing and see she’s correct. There’s a ton of stuff that would be cute to have in the house.

If I have a hand in choosing it.

Will your mom have a baby shower? I can ask my mom about hosting. Oh, my gosh, Z, I’m so happy for her.

What? Oh, um, I don’t know. Baby shower? What the heck is a baby shower?

Well, find out, okay? And, oh, I can’t wait for the baby smell. Aren’t you excited?

I heave a breath, wondering what the halite Nila’s talking about. Certainly not diapers! I wasn’t excited at all until listening to you. Now I’m flat-out confused. I scroll through baby rattles and activity centers and U-shaped pillows and little hooded towels with teddy bear ears and agree they’re all really cute. Not sure turtle-shaped teething rings are going to make me gung-ho about turning into a big sister, though; not after seventeen years of solitude. Are you sure my folks aren’t out to sabotage my every free moment with babysitting duties?

She pauses. Well... maybe they did it to get you enrolled in college.

I hear a pan drop on the kitchen floor and realize Mom’s going to need my help. Conversation is getting a little weird, and I know she and I are still on some shaky ground. Halite, I better go. Happy Thanksgiving to you. Tell your family I said hi.

You, too. Man, I gotta git. I’m shadowing at the hospital in, like, an hour.

On Thanksgiving?

Extra credit. I hear her sigh. Hey, tell your mom congratulations from me.

I will. And Nila?

Yeah?

She’s given me a lot to think about. Thanks for, well, just thanks.

She makes a sound in the back of her throat as we hang up. I’m feeling a little confused and off-kilter after that call. I tell myself I can do this; I can put up a good front and pretend my parents aren’t evil beings intent on destroying my high school career. I shove away from the window and— since Mom still expects me to be in a sour mood— I SLAM my door and stomp downstairs and open a cupboard for the mixing bowl and SLAM it shut and open the pantry for the baking soda and flour and SLAM that one closed too and grab the butter out of the fridge and SLAM that closed, even though the rubber suction detracts from my satisfaction.

Okay, I got it out of my system. For now.

Mom putters around the kitchen, holding her baster like a magic wand as she beats a path between the sink and oven and pretends she’s oblivious to my mood.

It’s her survival skill.

No wonder she’s been so chipper these last few months; all this time I thought it was because Mr. Alexander— AKA Varian, former Mythology teacher and my alleged destined mate who I kept ignoring in hopes I would be able to have a normal dating life— had been hanging around trying to win me over, but maybe she had this secret two months ago and decided to spring it on me today.

Part of me is secretly a teeny-tiny bit happy; I’d always wanted a kid sister, and this might be my only chance. It’s just that, well, I’m old enough now to get a job, or start applying to some colleges, and I just know— KNOW— my folks are going to assign me babysitting duties every night and weekend.

Some part of me is suspiciously convinced they stooped to this level just to stop me from dating Pierce Roderick.

I don’t even think my troll history books mention having babies as a way to stop one’s only daughter from dating a dragon.

But then again, maybe I’m the only troll child brave enough— or dumb enough— to try such a thing.

Or maybe ultra-popular, ultra-cute Running Back dragon Shifters didn’t exist in the schools my ancestors attended.

Too bad. They never knew what they were missing.

I tug down the tired old recipe book and flip to the well-worn page and start mixing ingredients for the biscuits. Mom comes up behind me and kisses me on the head, her teeny tiny baby bump brushing against my back. Thank you, Zell.

Zell. Zellie. Ozelle. Awful, no matter how many nicknames are assigned to me. Okay, maybe not Ozzie. I like when Pierce calls me that, and the wolf Shifters. It’s kinda got a ring to it, a note of fear/respect. I feel my body tense up as I acknowledge an entirely awkward conversation about to start. Do you even know what it is?

Not yet. Too soon. I can tell she’s smiling, but I don’t want to look at her. Besides, I might overdose the baking soda, and that would create biscuit tragedy.

I remember what Nila said about risks and ask, You’re going to your doctor visits, right? All of them?

Of course. Next appointment, we might be able to tell what it is. She smiles and adds, But we might wait ‘til the end and find out the old-fashioned way, just like we did you.

You’re going to make us wait that long? Whoops, that makes me sound eager instead of annoyed.

She only gives me that serene little smile again, the one I’ve been seeing for months, and resumes her humming.

It’s grating to the extreme.

So I try again. I hope you’re not going to pick out another horribly inappropriate name. If it’s a girl, please name her something like Leah or Mary, or Joe or Mike if it’s a boy. Subjecting another innocent child to a name like Ozelle Bandercock should get you arrested.

You have a lovely name.

Wryly, I respond with, I heard it was a top ten name in Bahrain in 1940.

I don’t even know where that is.

Precisely my point.

My retort earns me a flat look. We will come up with a lovely, strong name for the baby just like we did yours.

The baby doesn’t want a lovely, strong name. The baby will be happy with a nice, normal one. Can you do that? Please? Pick a normal name for this poor, innocent child?

She pats me on the cheek like I’m five and grabs the oven mitts and pulls out the turkey to baste again. I start blending the butter into the flour mixture and then knead the dough. Trust me; I noticed she didn’t answer.

I look up from my bowl at Mom. Nila wants to come baby shopping. If you want us to.

Now Mom grabs my face with her plush mitts and smooshes a kiss on my cheek.

Mom! I squirm away.

There’s nothing I’d like more than to have the two girls I love most in life join me for baby shopping.

Okay, despite my desire to grumble, that felt nice. Congratulations, by the way.

Mom beams as she pulls a casserole out of the fridge and readies it for the oven.

I get the muffin tins filled and ready for baking, then focus on the potatoes to mash. Before I know it, the doorbell rings, and Mrs. Baker is here, holding her bowl of fresh strawberries in a marmalade sauce sporting fresh mint on top, which goes with absolutely nothing on the table. She had agreed to bring cranberry sauce and fruited Jell-O.

Had she actually shown up with either of those, I would have been surprised, which is why I didn’t bank on it.

Ha. Dad totally owes me five bucks.

I croon over the beautiful berries and guide her into the formal living room, where my dad holds down the throne. The furniture has been rearranged, some extra chairs added, so that we can sit in an oval and stare awkwardly at one another.

I pour Mrs. Baker a glass of clear carbonation and introduce her to my father. We’ve lived on this street for years, but my folks barely know anyone, courtesy of that whole distrust anyone who’s not a troll philosophy of theirs. They nod politely, and then Mrs. Baker fetches one of her berries and drops it into her glass before toasting Dad. What a lovely home and wonderful daughter you have.

Dad seems a bit flustered, so I let him sweat it out while I go back to the kitchen and pour milk into the potatoes to whip. I return them to the stove while Mom starts the gravy. The doorbell rings, and I dash down the hallway and find a wet Mr. Kravitz wobbling on our stoop, a bag of baked rolls dangling from one hand. Come in, Mr. Kravitz. Welcome to our home. Without thinking I reach for his elbow to steady him, and he shrugs away from me and says, I don’t need you helping me, you hear?

Just like always. Of course not. I take his drippy coat and the rolls and indicate the living room with a sweep of my arm. This is my father, Ivo Bandercock, and my mom, Laiken, is in the kitchen. And do you know Mrs. Baker, our neighbor? I wait while my dad shakes his hand. Can I get you something to drink? It takes him about seven minutes to scoot his way into the nearest chair. This is why I bring him his mail; how long did it take him to get here, in the rain?

Coffee, please, oh, never mind, I’ll get it.

But Dad gets me off the hook this time. Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of making a guest fetch his own coffee. How will you take it?

Black.

Dad nods and heads into the kitchen, and I ask Mrs. Baker if she knows Mr. Kravitz. They shake hands cordially, and he settles himself into my dad’s favorite overstuffed chair.

This ought to be fun.

Dad halts when he returns, stopping so fast I swear the coffee was about to slosh over the rim, but he recovers and delivers the brew.

The talk turns to local events, and I still need to help with setting the table, so I head back into the kitchen. Mrs. Baker joins me, and Mom puts her to work. I start taking down plates, adding one more as per family tradition.

Nothing gets past Mrs. Baker, though, for she asks, Will someone else be joining us?

Mom smiles at her. We always have one extra setting for the holidays. Just in case.

The table looks lovely, adorned with a small cornucopia and various gourds, things that never usually make their way into our home. We lay out the decorative serving ware and get seated, giving Mr. Kravitz plenty of time to settle in. He took Dad’s chair again at the head of the table, but I pretend I don’t notice.

Dad does.

Who’s that for? Mr. Kravitz demands, pointing his gnarled fingers across the sliced turkey at the empty setting.

You’ll see. Dad pats him on the shoulder and begrudgingly heads to the foot of the table. It’s almost musical chairs while we all scramble for seats.

Once per year, Mom prays before dinner, and today is the day. We take her cue and link hands. I close my eyes while she says the familiar words: "We give thanks daily for the blessings in our lives, but today we say them aloud. Thank you for the bounty before us, the family beside us, the love within us. May we cherish those in our lives and remember there are those with no kin.

And for those who have passed before us, and those who have yet to come, we leave one place setting. You are gone but not forgotten, absent yet forever loved.

I’m sure Mr. Kravitz recalls happier times before his wife died, for I notice him giving that chair a longing look. Mrs. Baker breaks the chain to dab her eyes with her napkin, and I know she’s envisioning her late husband in that seat. Who knows, he might actually be there, since she’s told me numerous times that Hubert visits her from Beyond.

Even started a fight at her house once with another ghost.

Once per year, however, I am reminded of the fact that my parents lost a child; I don’t know how I know this. It may have been from my cousin Bodo, because I doubt my parents ever shared the fact with me. All I know was that he was older than me and was never mentioned growing up. We don’t even have a single photograph of him, which makes me think he was stillborn.

Sad thoughts for a day of giving thanks.

Maybe that’s why Mom waited until today to spring this whole baby thing on me, to make sure I remember the sibling that is gone but not forgotten.

And also the one who is yet to come.

I’m thinking of one other person who is gone but not forgotten, my annoyingly-perfect destined mate, the one who usually shows up whenever Mom has me set out an extra plate.

The one who would be perfect if he wasn’t six years older than me and my former teacher, which would land him a good fifteen to twenty if anyone pressed charges.

The one who kept trying to break me up with Pierce a few months ago, which ain’t gonna happen.

And, oh yeah, he blew up my last school.

He told me all that right before he disappeared from my life, like I didn’t even matter to him.

We start passing the dishes around, and just when we’re all getting comfortable with the present company, the doorbell rings.

My heart kicks up a beat.

I’m terrified to answer it.

Chapter 2

Death. All she could think about for the last two months was death, and it kept getting worse. Nila held her clipboard to her chest and moved to the next ward in the hospital along with the other girls in her class. Since no one was allowed to carry a cell phone during the work study program, Nila opted for a wristwatch, something she was told she’d need anyway if she wanted to pursue a career in nursing.

She tipped her wrist. One-thirty, Thanksgiving Day, and she was still here. Working for free.

Yes, she knew this was what she wanted to do with her life, but today, she really wanted to get out of there. The Charpentier family gathering already started, and she was going to be the last one in, which meant cold turkey, cold potatoes.

First dibs on pie.

The RN stopped at the foot of a patient’s bed. This patient was admitted last night with the following symptoms: three-day history of abdominal pain ranging from chronic to acute, slight fever, and tachycardia. Patient also stated upon admission that eating was painful. For those of you hoping to become doctors, this is for you: diagnosis, please?

Nila waited, looking at the students who boasted how much they knew and waited for one to pitch in. When no one said anything, she raised her hand and asked, Does the patient smoke or have a history of drinking?

The RN smiled and looked down at the tablet in her hand. Yes, patient admits to both.

Nila nodded like she guessed as much and said, Then my first move would be to rule out pancreatitis.

The RN smiled once more. Good job. This patient has been diagnosed with acute pancreatitis. What would your next step be?

Since the RN’s eyes were locked on hers, Nila ran through her schooling. I would check BP for elevation to determine if pain meds are necessary. Fluids, either IV or PO, are mandatory, as is a liquid diet. Um, without alcohol, which causes an inflammatory response. Pain meds. She didn’t know what else, so she stopped.

Not bad. I would hold off on any fluids by mouth though, to allow the bowel and pancreas time to heal. Her eyes narrowed. Aren’t you in the nursing program?

Nila nodded.

The instructor scrutinized her for an uncomfortable moment, making Nila want to squirm. Did she do something wrong?

I hope you’ll consider becoming a doctor. Nurses don’t diagnose, only note symptoms for the doctors.

Her face heated from the comment. I know that, but—

The instructor cut her off with an encouraging smile. Good job. She waved them along. Now, let’s move on to our next patient.

Nila exhaled a deep breath and smiled. She was getting this, to the point that the instructor wanted her to pursue a doctorate. What would her parents think of that!

As the group headed for another patient, Nila heard a penetrating voice in her head. He’s not coming. She gritted her teeth and growled through it. Ever since she died, ever since her best friend turned her into a freak, Nila couldn’t escape the voices. They were always worse in the hospital, though.

They headed into a short wing, and He’s not coming blasted into her brain again. Then she heard drums, beating over and over.

No, they weren’t drums; they were heartbeats. Coming from everywhere. Sweat broke out on her lip. She heard the girl’s heart next to her, pounding with excitement as she looked at the cute patient in bed. The guy’s standing next to her, the one aiming for doctor level, pounding in fear as he tried to answer the question. They surrounded her, badgered her, crashed into her like oceanic waves smashing against the shore.

Taking a step back didn’t stop the audible onslaught, but it did something else; she felt herself getting drawn and tugged into a room opposite from where the RN wanted them to be.

Nila hovered in the doorway, listening to the subjective and objective patient review as background noise to the cacophony of erratic heartbeats as she backed across the wide hallway and into the room that beckoned her. One heartbeat, sploshy and feeble, now filled her head, mixing with that voice again, He’s not coming. An old man, covered with his hospital sheets, remained in bed, the TV on the wall droning in low tones. He looked Stage IV, and a glance at his whiteboard on the wall showed a medication chart consistent with end-stage liver disease. The voice barked on inside her head, and as Nila drew near, she saw a photograph, obviously old and from his wallet, on the end table.

Father and son.

Maybe twenty years faded and torn.

The man looked up at her, hope and mist thick in his eyes. His swooshy heart picked up in pace. Have you heard back yet? Has he called?

Now it made sense. Nila bit her bottom lip, found her head shaking no as she fiddled with the training badge on her black lanyard. The voice barked on, He’s not coming. Finally, Nila opened her mouth and held his hand as she repeated them. He’s not coming.

The man’s bottom jaw squared up as he turned from her, but she noticed it wavering. His heart pounded faster and faster, the tired leaky organ struggling to keep up with his emotions. She knew the man wouldn’t cry in front of her, but he no longer had a reason to hang on. The man shuffled lower into his bed, tugged the covers to his ears.

A hand landed on her shoulder as Nila watched the man’s back tremble with unshed tears. This patient is not on our circuit today.

As the RN guided Nila back to the rest of the group, she whispered, We try to stick to cases with better outcomes for high school students.

I know he’s end stage, Nila said after they were out of hearing range. I, just, wanted to make him comfortable. Something primal compelled her to turn back, to face the man’s room. She couldn’t have walked away even if she’d wanted