Page 23 of Thunder Road

Vic waved as Ross drove away and walked toward his motorcycle. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, and he had a strong sense of being watched even though he didn’t see anyone around.

His right hand went to the gun on his hip, while his left touched the silver charms Simon insisted he wear. When nothing moved and no one stepped out of the shadows, Vic headed toward his bike, parked near a shoulder-high brick wall. Vic climbed on the Hyabusa just as a loud cracking noise drowned out its engine.

A deep crevice appeared in the wall and spread along its length. The bricks tumbled, denting hoods and breaking windshields of the cars parked close.

Vic zoomed out of the way just as a brick sailed past his head, landing with a thud on a car right behind him.

That brick didn’t fall. It was thrown.

Car alarms blared, and people poured from the headquarters building, swearing over their damaged cars and pointing at the strange damage to the wall.

Vic stuck around to answer questions and scan for clues, but he couldn’t provide any information beyond what he had seen. He didn’t know much about building walls, but nothing about what had happened seemed normal.

Does the troll know I’m Simon’s partner? Would it have a way of knowing we’re looking into the disappearances? Was that a warning—or an attack—meant for me because we’re asking questions? Or was it a way to get to Simon by hurting me?

Vic drove more cautiously than usual, alert for danger on his way home, but he only encountered normal traffic. He beat Simon to their blue bungalow, so he got the mail and started making a quick dinner. Vic thought about the fallen wall, still not sure what to make of it; he’d check the police report in the morning. Until he had a better idea of whether it was shoddy workmanship versus anything supernatural, he decided not to mention it to Simon.

Being comfortable enough to cook a good meal was one of the many things Vic loved about being married versus dating. He still wanted Simon to think well of him and tried to do nice things just because, but Vic no longer felt the need to make every dinner or evening out a memorable occasion.

When they were both tired, take-out or spaghetti was perfectly acceptable. And if they were exhausted after a day atwork, crashing on the couch with a favorite show was better than a fussy date.

Tonight though, they had plans to check out the local Boo and Brew event on the boardwalk, even if they didn’t stay late. The seasonal programs were fun, and Simon felt an obligation as a local business owner to be supportive and visible.

We’re not complacent. We’re real. I never understood the difference before, but now I do. And I absolutely love what we have together.

5

SIMON

“Thanks for granting me access on such short notice.” Simon followed the special collections librarian at St. Cyprian College down a long, narrow corridor in the stacks of the research room.

“Thankyoufor brightening up my rather dull shift,” Mrs. Ames, the research librarian, said with a conspiratorial grin. “It’s not every day people come looking for information on trolls.”

Simon fought the urge to cringe and looked around to see if anyone was listening. He still couldn’t quite believe the turn this case had taken. “I appreciate you taking my request seriously.”

“Our saint is the patron of occult and mystical practice,” Mrs. Ames replied. “It takes a lot to surprise us.” She leaned toward him. “My hair didn’t used to be gray until I started working here,” she added with an impish grin.

Mrs. Ames looked to be in her late fifties, with dark skin and short-cut silver hair. “I like a challenge, and this isn’t a topic anyone’s ever asked me to look into.”

To Simon’s relief, she didn’t ask the reason for his interest. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the possibilities himself.

“You know, I always think of trolls as European entities.” She led him deeper into the stacks. “I forget they’re organic to the world, not to any particular geography. They show up under one name or another in pretty much every folklore.”

As they passed the carefully shelved books, Simon swore he could sense glimmers of power from some of the tomes. When he concentrated, it sounded like voices whispered on the edge of his hearing. Along the wall, special runed boxes and carved wooden cases fitted with elaborate locks made him wonder what dangerous books or materials they held.

Mrs. Ames brought him to a section across from a large wooden reading desk with an antique brass library lamp.

“Here you go—these three shelves should be our collection on trolls. Most of the books are in English. None of them require special handling—arcane or otherwise. Did you bring acid-free gloves?”

Simon nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Plus plenty of pens and paper.” Graduate school had trained him in the etiquette of rare book rooms.

He already felt at home in the archive. The air smelled of wood, aged leather, and the very particular tang of old paper.

“Very good. Come get me if you need anything. I’ll reshelve the books—just leave them on the desk.”

“Do you have any favorites on this topic? Somewhere you’d suggest I start?” Simon had learned long ago that librarians were the Indiana Joneses of hidden knowledge, and a few good questions could save hours of frustration.

“Unless you’re looking for general background, I’d focus on the accounts based in Canada and the United States. Of course, the Kaplan Turner books are classics, but they take a rather broad brush and so while they’re good for background, I think you’re looking for something a bit more focused.”

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