Chapter One
Portland, Oregon
GRÜSH
“Great show tonight, Grüsh.”
I give the driver a nod as I reach the bus’s top step. “Glad you enjoyed it.”
Same interaction every time. Maybe the man’s being genuine, maybe not. After a year of back-to-back shows on the road, all I know is that it’s getting old.
Not just the generic back-and-forth with the bus driver after every stop on the tour. All of it. Superficial fans more interested in connecting with my troll anatomy than my songs. The “it’s tried-and-true, so don’t so much as tweak a single note” set list. The monotonous routine. Most of all, though—the endless noise that’s replaced meaningful sound.
Never thought I’d be happy for a tour to end, but I’m looking forward to a few weeks off after we wrap up in California next weekend.
Dropping into the custom-made seat designed for my troll-sized physique, I close my eyes, breathe deeply, and tune out the rest of the band as they board the tour bus. Conversation slows the process of getting underway. The faster they’re settled, the sooner the driver can hit the road. Ten, maybe eleven hours until we reach the next stop on the tour schedule, where, if I’m lucky, I’ll get a few hours’ sleep in an actual bed before I have to be at sound check for tomorrow night’s show.
This is the life I wanted. Free to see the world, perform in front of crowds, earn a living doing what I love. Stuff I never expected to become reality all those years I secretly strummed and sang in the woods, in the time before monsters stepped out of the shadows and integrated with human society. I have everything I dreamed of.
Not everything,whispers the irritating inner voice that refuses to let me forget the one thing my life is missing.
But that was something I hadn’t dreamed of having, so it doesn’t count.
The empty space inside me that no amount of success ever fills stretches wider, and I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to close the chasm, or at least buffer it. Futile, like every other time.
The memory of her laughter rises from the hole, winding through me like a melody I could never tire of hearing, yet wish I could forget.
“Looking forward to the Cali shows? Fans there are always veryenthusiastic and grateful, am I right?” Benny asks from nearby.
I keep my eyes closed and ignore his questions, as if he’s talking to anybody else, because why would he start a conversation with someone who’s clearly not looking to engage? Or talk tomeabout hooking up with fans. When he nudges my booted foot, I ignore that too.
But I can’t ignore my phone when it buzzes in my pocket. A ringtone I rarely hear. The one I chose for my brother, my only living family. Ogram hasn’t called me in…a long time. I’m equally to blame for the disconnect. The last time we spoke was when I told him about this tour. Over a year ago.
We’ve never had much in common. Ogram had no desire to leave Harmony Glen, before or after it became possible to integrate with humans. He’s the traditional, perfect troll—steadfast, quiet, solitary. Connected to the land, with an affinity for making things grow. Farming was all he ever wanted to do, and he now owns a large working farm. We’re both living our dreams, different as they are.
As it rings again, I bring the phone to my face. “Hey. Been a while. How’re things in Harmony Glen?”
“Everything is perfect.”
Did not expect the enthusiastic answer, and definitely not the happiness and lightness in his voice. Trolls are serious by nature. We don’t dolight.
“Perfect is a damn high bar. Did you win the lottery and buy more farmland?”
A rumbled laugh filters through the line. First the upbeat tone, now this? Something’s changed.
“Better than that,” he says.
I canhearthe smile on his face. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I found my mate.” The words are barely out when he chuckles again. “Her name is Hope, and she’s shaking her head at me because technically, she found me when she walked into the farm market while I was working.”
“Congratulations. Happy for you, brother.” I am. Genuinely. Yet my stomach churns in a way that has nothing to do with physical condition. “Nice that more trolls have moved to the area and you met someone,” I say, pushing the unwelcome feeling aside.
“Hope is human.”
It’s as if a bomb went off inside me and my chest is caving in. “I’m glad you met someone and you’re happy, but a human can’t be your mate.” I’m a prick for shitting on his news.
“Hopeismy mate. I also wouldn’t have thought it possible to be mated with a human, but the moment I met her, I knew. It’s a truth you feel with every cell of your being. Heart, soul, body. I don’t expect you to understand. I didn’t until I experienced it.”
