Troll-y Yours (15 page)

Alek nodded in agreement. “Well, we can’t send Hippy. Maybe Patience, she has mediation skills.”

Bomoni shook his head and chuckled. “That would be like inviting the Remedy Maker over for a palace-wide castration. You know how protective he is of his wife.”

True, marriage had joined the couple at the hip. They did everything together these days—or not at all. Rhycious and Patience were in love. Aleksander couldn’t be happier for them, even if he was slightly jealous.

“I have to check on Ella.” Alek slapped his hands on the desktop and pushed with his rear hooves to stand. The sudden need to see and touch her grew until the pressure pinched his chest. “Let me mull over who else we can send in, and I’ll get back with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Bomani saluted, then spun a precision turn and left like the whirlwind he arrived in.

Alone in the office, Alek took a moment to close his eyes and breathe. To slow his mind and cool his stallion lust. The potent need for Ella had surprised him, engulfing him when he least expected it. He opened his eyes and looked down at his clenched fists. Desire hooked its barbs deep and pulled him from behind the desk.

He managed to close his door without catching his tail in the jam, and then headed for the mess hall to pick up a late dinner for Ella. Securing a decent meal, he asked a few stall cleaners which room Hippy assigned her.

Now, he stood outside of Stallroom Five. Nervous as a green colt, excited at the same time. Hell, his smile alone was responsible for weakening the spreadable knees of mythic females.
You are Kempor Aleksander. You fear nothing and no one.

Except for a certain little Troll on the other side of the door who seemed to hold all his power.

Nineteen

D
rop…dead…gorgeous.
Not her, but the clothes Kempor Hippolyte found for Ella to wear.

The reflection in the bathroom mirror didn’t lie. Form fitting cargo pants in olive green, hugged her curvy hips like the banks of the Boronda River, the style flattered with its many pockets. A cropped, short sleeved silk blouse in the most amazing shade of topaz floated in a dreamy drape to touch the top of her waistband. The only clothes she’d ever worn had been whatever her mom gave her, and the occasional present from a friend.

Never, had she slipped into anything as beautiful—or sexy.
Ever.
Is this what Centaurs wore when lying around their stalls? Lucky mythics!

Ella pulled the brush through her unruly hair, wishing her body matched the clothes. If she had hairpins, she’d sweep every strand and knot the red mess on top of her head. However, the bathroom drawers were empty. Only the thoughtfulness of Hippolyte provided the hairbrush and clothes.

She laid the brush down and nearly missed a soft rapping at the room door. It would be Al she surmised, because the nice female guard had left saying she’d see her tomorrow.

One last look in the mirror, and she turned away.
It is what it is, and it doesn’t get any better.
Ella placed her hand on the doorknob when she thought of Al’s stallroom intruder. A Troll in the Centaur palace wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for many of the residents who lived here. Precaution may benefit her best.

“Who is it?”

“Kempor Aleksander.”

Ella smiled. “Who?”

“It’s me, Alek. I brought you a late dinner.”

“Aleksander Hedson?” She stifled a giggle with a hand over her mouth.

A heavy hoof stomped on the other side of the door. “
Gamó̱to!
Open up, Ella.”

Ella even felt the percussion under her feet. She smoothed her hair one last time, then pulled open the door. A covered white platter caught her eye first and she followed the attached arm to the broad chest, past his smirking lips, to twinkling brown eyes that gazed down at her. He let out a soft wolf-whistle.

“Hi, Al.”

He drew in a breath and heaved a great sigh. “I asked you to call me Ale—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ella tugged him by the arm into her room. “Get in here. That food smells fantastic.” Loud and boisterous, her stomach pinched and gave a growl as spicy seasoning teased her nose.

When he’d moved past the threshold, Ella swung the door closed.

“Watch the tail!” Al tucked his hips under him like a scalded pup and bolted forward.

“Tsk, quit whining. You’re fine.”
My, oh my. Yes you are.

Al placed the platter on the only table in the room.

Though tall and café style, the table was small and circular, the platter oblong and large. Another discontented snarl erupted from her empty gut.

“Hope you like pizza, because that’s all the kitchen had at this hour.” When he lifted the tray’s shallow lid, warm smells of yeast and herbs drifted in steamy spirals.

The scent of oven hot food caused her mouth to salivate. Unabashed of her hunger, she swallowed.

“All we need are a couple of icy suds and this meal is complete.” Ella passed him a napkin and plate.

“Look behind you in the cold box.” He motioned to a wooden cabinet at hip height which sat squatted against the wall on the floor.

Ella pulled up on the metal latch. Sure enough, inside were four dark bottles, just waiting for their caps to be popped. She pulled out two and nudged the door closed with her knee.

Beautiful clothes, breathtaking palace, and mouthwatering food. “I like this place, more and more. You guys have it all.”

Al laid two huge slices of pizza on her plate, the cheese leaving a connecting line to the tray. He opened her beer, then dished a couple slices for himself. “Creature comforts. I can walk the palace boundary in less than a day. You, on the other hand, have the whole Boronda Forest. I would never tire of that.”

They ate in companionable silence, broken only by her occasional sighs. Inside her mouth, Ella’s taste buds were throwing a party. She’d had pizza before, but never like this. Gourmet, with goat cheese, spinach, and mushrooms. Sure, it was vegetarian because in true form, that was all Al could eat. However to classify her dinner, she ranked it in the out-of-this-world category.

“Sweet-thing, you look gorgeous.” Across the table, he leaned back and let his gaze drift over her. While chewing, he smiled and winked and make her insides flutter.

It bothered her how his eyes kept returning to her hair, which caused her cheeks to warm under his scrutiny.

Al swallowed a sip of beer. “Have you worn your hair in any other style?”

Oh gods…it is my hair. My awful red mess! Where’s the nearest rock to crawl under?

“I sometimes wear it pulled back or braided. Otherwise, no.” Suddenly, the pizza tasted like algae in her mouth, and the portion she’d eaten churned in her stomach. She laid aside her unfinished slice. “Why do you ask?”

*~*~*

“Courtesy of the palace, my ass,” Ella mumbled under her breath. For two days, she’d wined and dined on the queen’s generosity. Been briefed and brought up to speed of radical rebel activity in the Centaur kingdom that she had no idea existed. Additionally, delivered to her room the next morning, along with cosmetics and fragrant soaps, were more shoes and clothes.

Al had been little more than a militant specter who drifted in and out of her days. No time for tender rendezvous or steamy nights, the phantom enchanter was all business with a serious goateed face.

Ella ducked under a pine bough, careful to avoid the dewdrops clutching the tip of each spiny needle. Water spots on the tan linen jacket covering her mahogany dress—bad deal. The stylish heels of her ankle-high boots sunk into the moist ground, creating an aerated trail of embedded square impressions behind her.

Plagued by nerves, she forced herself to move her anxious thoughts away from the salon where she was headed, and instead remembered the first night’s stay at the palace.

After they’d finished the pizza and each downed a couple beers, Al had reassured her for the motive behind his question of her hair. At the time, he labeled it a win-win situation.

Through the eyes of her Troll naivety, perhaps it was. However, now that she’d gone through a crash course in espionage, her mouth dried up. She didn’t know if she could do this. It wasn’t that eavesdropping on someone’s conversation was frightening, not at all. Neither was asking questions to divine an answer.

It was the fact that she’d never been in a professional hair salon that scared the
Tartarus
out of her. The slow turn inside her belly twisted a little tighter.

Tucked safely inside her jacket pocket, lie the wad of money Al had given her to pay for the hair appointment. Disbelief at the high cost of female maintenance rode on Ella’s shoulders. Never having a professional hairstyle before, she found the expense hard to believe for a simple cut.

At home, the trims were free.

Right where Al described, she found the entrance to the beauty salon. Faint female chatter came from within, interspersed with an occasional laugh. Ella took a deep breath to settle her nerves and checked the surrounding woods before pulling open the door disguised as a green profusion of lily-of-the-valley, and stepped inside.

Movement and gossip hit her at the same time as the sweet scents of henna and hairspray. Bright cheerful colors of orange, green, and red painted the faux cave walls. Poster-sized pictures of smiling models with elaborate hairstyles hung in shiny frames. They were glamorous women with modern cuts that mocked her from behind the clear glass, their hair more manageable than hers.

She could never look like them.

Straight-backed chairs hugged the wall in an L-shape to her right, a low coffee table neatly stacked with fashion magazines, positioned in front of the seats. Two females, a Minotaur and Satyr, sat in the chairs at opposite ends, flipping pages at a rapid rate. Above them on clear shelves were bottles of hair products lined in precise rows.

“Well, hi there. May I help you?” Behind a reception counter, a Satyr with vivid blue streaks in her light brown hair glanced up from whatever she’d been doing at the desk. She chewed her gum like a Minotaur chewed cud, causing the delicate ring in her lip to flash in the light.

Fake it ‘till you make it.
Nerves stretched to their limit, Ella walked to the counter and pasted on a smile. “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Cherrie.”

The Satyr’s dazzling smile went full voltage, her big blue, kohl lined eyes sparkled as she came out from behind the desk. “You must be Ella. Hi, I’m Roxy.”

Ella held her hand out, as was polite.

Instead of accepting the hand, Roxy reached to wrap her arms around and gave a big hug. “Thanks for coming,” she whispered, then continued in a normal tone. “Cherrie has her station right over here.”

On hooves tall enough to be called platform, Roxy turned her killer figure and led the way to a chair, tucked next to a slotted room divider. Ornate tattoos decorated her bare arms, and her fashionable clothes rocked the house.

They stopped next to a comfortable looking black chair with a chrome footrest.

Roxy turned toward another Satyr, who stepped quickly in their direction while tying on an apron. “Hey Cherrie, here’s your ten o’clock.” She returned her high voltage grin to Ella and said in a singsong voice, “Have fun.”

There was about a six-inch height difference between Cherrie and Roxy as they passed each other.
Hooves make all the difference.

“Have a seat.” Cherrie’s cheerful smile prompted one back as Ella sat in the padded chair. The Satyr’s nimble fingers lifted Ella’s hair, playing with the length and testing the thickness. “Wow, you have some awesome hair. What did you want to do today?”

The beautician’s stark red hair couldn’t be natural, but it looked fabulous on her. Layered all around, it floated with animation whenever she moved her head. Ella watched their reflection in the mirror before the chair.

Gathering the mass with experienced fingers and holding it in an upsweep, the piercing green of Cherrie’s eyes met hers in the mirrored reflection.

Ella’s reflected pale blue eyes looked uncertain, even to her. “Can I trust you to make me look better?”

Beautiful was out of the question, and anything would be better than how she looked now. Nervousness slowly receded, excitement building in its place. She was sitting in an honest to goodness professional hair salon, about to alter her most dreaded feature.

“Honey, you’re already gorgeous. I’m just going to enhance that.”

Cherrie’s warm smile loosened the last of Ella’s reservations and she relaxed into the chair.

A towel wrapped around her neck, followed by a shocking pink animal print drape that covered her body. “Let me brush you out, then we can get started.”

A few minutes later, Ella laughed at her reflection. Her hair was parted in four equal sections, as if her head were a detailed map.

Cherrie took a long tailed comb and separated out thin strands with a weaving motion. She shoved a small square of foil under the section, painted the area with a flowery scented solution, then bent the foil over to wrap it and moved on to the next area. Over and over the procedure repeated, her nimble Satyr fingers flying in her work.

They made idle conversation during which Ella waited for an opening to start gathering
intel
, as Al put it.

In no time at all, Cherrie finished by wrapping Ella’s treated hair in a large warm towel.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Need a magazine?” Meticulous by her Satyr nature, Cherrie straightened the workstation.

“No thanks, I’m good.” In the reflection of the flat glass, she watched her stylist retreat into a room behind a wall. Ella crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. How in
Tartarus
was she supposed to bring the topic of rebels into a conversation?

Around the salon, the sound of small hooves tapped against tile floor. The lathe privacy screen blocked the view of the front desk.

Ella wanted to attract Roxie’s attention to ask her advice or start a conversation; anything to get this moving along. Anxiety of impending failure built like water behind a beaver dam. Without even starting to gather intel, she’d already let Al down—heck, the whole Centaur kingdom. Ella thoughtfully chewed her thumbnail, bouncing her leg on the footrest, waiting for inspiration to hit.

In the station next to her, a Minotaur in desperate need of a forelock trim filled the chair. While the Satyr stylist decked the female out with the latest in draped chic, their excited chatter climbed over each other. Obviously, the two shared some salon time together.

A depressive weight settled over her shoulders as familiar self-pity made itself at home. It must be nice to enjoy regular appointments in an upscale shop like this.

“Time’s up, Ella. Let’s get you over to the wash rack.” Cherrie led the way to a row of shiny white basins. Sleek black chairs backed up to each bowl. “Have a seat and lean back.”