Dad bod troll, p.1
Dad Bod: Troll, page 1
Dad Bod: Troll
DAD BOD: MONSTER EDITION
HATTIE JACKS
Copyright © 2023 by Hattie Jacks
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Editing: Polaris Editing
Cover: Talina Saine at Booking It Designs
Created with Vellum
Contents
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Vikki
Max
Vikki
Max
Vikki
Max
Vikki
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Vikki
Vikki
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Epilogue
Vikki
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Vikki
Istare at the email from my landlord. I’ve got twenty-four hours to come up with the rent I owe him, or I’ll be evicted.
Knowing Lord Bisleh—who owns my cottage along with the rest of the valley in which it’s situated, and beyond that, most of the rest of the county—he won’t bother with any niceties like a court order. He’ll just get some of his heavies to turf all my belongings out into the garden, followed by me.
A new notification slides onto my phone. My barista job doesn’t have the extra hours I asked for, and I don’t need to come in today. I slump back on my threadbare sofa and stare out the window at the lashing rain. In the grate, a small fire burns miserably, the only heating in this tiny eighteenth century cottage.
And once the coal in the coal scuttle sat next to the fire is gone, I have no more because I couldn’t pay the coal merchant either. To think I chose this place because it was cheap!
Turns out, it wasn’t cheap enough.
I contemplate my worn out boots. The ones I bought when I actually had money and prospects. I remember purchasing them, carefree and happy, no idea what was around the corner.
But that was two years ago. The stock markets, initially jittery at the newly revealed Lowerworld and the existence of magic and magical beings, had strengthened. I’d just sold my little house which had doubled in value since I bought it, with a view to spending the next two years pursuing the PhD in Upper and Lowerworld Relations, something which might have actually resulted in work and a new life. One where I didn’t have to scrape around for fixed term contracts in low paid jobs because my undergraduate degree was worthless.
My notice given in at the government department where I worked, one which wasn’t likely to exist for much longer given all the changes with our new monster filled world, I handed all my cash over to my financial advisor. A man who had advised my dad for decades before he had passed. A man who had helped me get my first mortgage. A man I trusted.
I was so wrong.
The day I got the call all my money was gone is even clearer than the day I bought my now battered boots.
It was the day everything changed, and nothing has been the same since. I’ve scraped by. I left London and ended up here in this tiny cottage without central heating, double glazing, or mains water.
“Still!” I announce loudly to myself, slapping both hands on my thighs. “Could be worse!”
Yeah, I could be twenty-nine and homeless, which I will be shortly.
I get up, because otherwise I’ll take root on the couch, and go into my little kitchen to make a cup of tea. I contemplate whether I can ask any of my friends to lend me the rent money, but those bridges were burnt long ago, like most of my fuel. It’s a funny thing when you have money then you lose it, how many people simply melt away.
The kettle boils merrily, and I’m pouring out the hot water into a mug when the letter box rattles, startling me. A thick flyer drops onto the mat.
I walk over to the flyer and stare at it as if it’s some sort of incendiary device. The cottage is isolated, and no one bothers coming all the way out here to deliver junk mail.
I pull open the door and stare up the path which winds through the garden up to the road. A small shape skips over the five bar gate and is gone. A goblin perhaps? There are so many different types of monsters, I’ve yet to come to grips with them all. But if the flyer has come from the Lowerworld, it might explain why they’re prepared to deliver to this isolated spot.
The Lowerworld has a portal nearby, I understand. I’ve yet to venture in myself as, apparently, for your first time you should go with a monster escort. One of my colleagues at the coffee shop has acquired a set of orc boyfriends, and she has offered to take me, but I haven’t taken her up on the suggestion. Yet
I’m much more risk averse these days.
Shutting the door against a cold easterly wind, I scoop up the flyer. It’s printed on heavy silky paper and in jewel colored inks. On one side is a classy photograph of the interior of what looks like a Victorian mansion staircase, all dark wood and classical columns.
On the other side is an exhortation:
Looking to make £££? We’re hiring!
Bar and waiting on staff required for shifts tonight!
Cash paid.
Along with a local telephone number.
Before I know it, I’m dialing. After all, what have I got to lose?
Max
“Coffee. Black. Plenty of sugar,” I snap at my longsuffering assistant as I stomp through the door into my office, shedding my outer coat and flinging my laptop bag across the room.
Sliding easily across the thick carpet, it makes an unhealthy crunch as it hits the blond wood cabinetry on the far side.
Peter shoves his head through the door and winces.
“I was aiming for the couch,” I growl, throwing myself down in my chair which creaks loudly, as if pronouncing on my weight.
I am a troll. One of the old families. The few of us who were left after the wars. My weight has nothing to do with the chair. It makes me growl again.
Peter bustles through, ignoring me, grabs the laptop bag, gives me a glare, and leaves, shutting the door carefully behind him.
I punch my password into my desktop and lean back in the offending chair, which decides not to protest any further. I glare out of the floor to ceiling window at the City below me.
The meeting could have gone better. The acquisition, or to put it less politely, the takeover, of the small motor parts manufacturing company, is being slowed down by one of the directors objecting to the sale. Having looked the human in his beady little eyes, it’s quite clear he objects to the sale on the grounds I am a troll.
This city, this country, was founded on trolls, if the humans could be bothered to find out our history. We fought for it long before they came down from the trees, long before they spilt their own blood onto the carpet of soil and crops spread over the British Isles.
Humans owe us. They owe all of the Lowerworld, but they owe trolls more.
My assistant knocks on the door but comes in without any further ceremony, carrying a tray which he puts on the edge of my desk.
“IT is checking your laptop. You’ll have it back in fifteen,” he says.
Peter has absolutely no interest in whether I am a troll or not. Which is fortunate, because he’s one of the best assistants I’ve ever had and, in fact, the only assistant I’ve kept for more than two weeks. I would not part with him for all the gold in the Lowerworld.
What can I say? I’m a troll. We’re not known for our easygoing nature. It’s what makes us excellent at being corporate. As for all the rumors about trolls being stupid? Anyone wanting to tangle with me will learn the hard way that the mythology around us is there for a reason.
We don’t play well with others. And when you’ve been hunted by a god, you learn to keep your attributes well hidden.
“You have the meeting with finance at three, and then you’ll need to check your email to see if you want to accept your evening invitation,” he adds, producing a thick paper file which he places in front of me.
I grunt. It’s times like these my real troll comes to the fore. The one who did battle with the Underworld dressed not in a bespoke Saville Row pinstripe suit but in nothing but a battle kilt.
Still, being that troll didn’t get me my multi billion pound businesses, being the troll in a suit did. Which is why I sit at the head of Quake Industries today.
“Fine.” I pull the tray with the coffee towards me, noting, with some satisfaction there is also a plate of biscuits.
A short while later, I’m up to speed on the issues within finance and the sweet treats are gone. I brush the crumbs from my suit, noting my paunch with some satisfaction. A troll of my age should carry some additional weight. It gives me gravitas. And in all other ways, I am very much in shape. I could still swing a battle axe and not break a sweat.
At three pm precisely, the finance team arrives.
At four forty-nine precisely, they leave. At least one of them is in tears.
Yet another meeting I did not enjoy as it seems, currently, no one can do their job properly, and it brings out the big, bad troll in me.
In my now empty office, I check my emails, forwarding anything I don’t need to deal with to Peter. It’s then I spot the name in my inbox.
Vulzal Goroksson.
CEO of Primal Enterprises and my biggest business rival. It’s only the niceties of business and the need to keep one’s enemies close I have anything to do with him. That and he is a member of my club, the Arcane.
Which is what his email is about. There is a reception at the club tonight. All of London’s wealthiest monsters will be in attendance. It is absolutely the last thing I want to attend, and given the late invitation, he clearly doesn’t want me there.
Which means I have no choice. I pick up my handset and dial Peter’s number.
“Is my tux back from the cleaner’s?”
Vikki
Ihad just enough petrol in my tank to make it to the city center. The person on the end of the phone who hired me on the spot said there was a staff car park, which means I don’t have to pay for parking. (Not that I could have done anyway). It’s cash in hand for tonight, so I’ll be able to put fuel in my car to get home at least.
The car park is well lit in the mid November darkness, and I make my way over to what is clearly market as the staff entrance where, as soon as I buzz the intercom, I’m let in.
Inside the door is dark and I wipe my sweating hands on my pants.
“Hello, hello, hello!” A bright pixie, complete with glittering wings, greets me at a hundred miles an hour. “You are…?” She flicks over a page on a clipboard.
“Victoria Graham…Vikki,” I reply, doing my best not to look at the paperwork.
“Ah, yes. New tonight.” She gives me a megawatt smile. “I’m Alyssia.” She must see, or maybe sense, my nerves. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Come with me and we’ll get you your uniform.”
She turns with a tinkle, and I follow her through the dimly lit passageway, up a set of steps, and through a set of double swing doors.
“Okay, here you go,” Alyssia says as we enter a room filled with lockers. “You are…number six.” She points with her pen down the rows. “Your uniform is inside, so if you want to get changed and then come meet me back outside when you’re done.”
I do as she says, finding my “uniform,” which consists of a little black dress so figure hugging it basically shows what I had for breakfast (not much) and a pair of super high heels.
I don’t wear heels as a rule. I’m five nine in bare feet and for most men, me in heels is intimidating, so I got out of the habit of wearing them.
But for the money I’m going to make tonight, I’d walk on broken glass. I totter out to find Alyssia, who is, fortunately, waiting for me.
“I’ve got you down as working in the snug tonight, if that’s okay?” she says, leading me through a maze of corridors I’ve no chance of navigating on my own.
“Sure,” I reply. “Whatever you want. Like I said on the phone, I’m happy with bar work or waiting, whichever you prefer. I can even do silver service if you need me to.” I add helpfully.
“I’ll get Nevvik to run through with you what you can and can’t pour, once you’re established, we’d like it if you could prepare drinks as well as server. Gives more of a personal touch with our clientele. They’re a mix of human and monster,” she says, unnecessarily.
This club is clearly very expensive, and it’s well-known most monsters are well heeled. The Fae for instance are all royalty of some kind and have wealth beyond the imagination of most humans.
“You don’t have a problem with serving monsters, do you?” Alyssia asks, her little pixie teeth suddenly sharp.
“Me? No, not at all,” I respond quickly. “My day job is at a Magik Cafe.” I reference the chain, as it’s one which caters to all species.
“Oh? Oh!” Alyssia’s teeth have returned to normal. “That’s fantastic. We could do with someone to work our espresso machine. No one here is any good with it at all.” Her smile is brighter than ever, and her wings wave in a non-existent breeze, spreading sparkling dust everywhere.
“I can certainly have a look.” I smile hesitantly back.
Alyssia pushes open a door, and I follow her through into an comfortable round room. It’s lit with subtle, easy lighting, and the plush leather furniture is set out discreetly around columns holding up a glass dome high above. On the far side is a bar, made to blend in to the wall behind it. The carpet underfoot is luxuriously soft.
“Hi! Nevvik!” Alyssia waves. “This is your new bar staff for tonight—Vikki. She knows how to work the espresso machine,” she calls out before turning to me. “Nevvik will see you right. I don’t recommend you wander outside of the snug until I’ve been able to give you the full tour and you get your bearings. I’ll be back to collect you at the end of your shift.”
She gives me a little shove, and I find myself face to abdomen with the most enormous orc I’ve ever seen.
“Hi,” he rumbles. “I’m Nevvik. Did Alyssia say you know how to work the espresso machine?”
Max
“Good evening, Mr. Horenson.” The host, a naga called Sygo, greets me as I enter. “Your usual table?”
I grit my teeth around my cigar, thinking of how nice it would be to relax in the snug tonight.
“I’m here for the reception,” I growl.
“Ah, of course,” Sygo hisses. “This way.” He glides out from behind the desk and whispers across the marbled floor in the direction of the main reception room.
I do my level best to tamp down my irritation at this waste of my evening. I have plenty of paperwork on the acquisition to read through, lawyers to instruct, a delicious meal to eat from a proper plate rather than silly finger food which is, frankly, pointless to a troll of my size.
The naga pushes the doors open and a buzz of voices hits me. I make my way through the throng, acknowledging the various monsters I recognize or do business with until I reach the bar. Fortunately it’s Raviik on the bar, and without me having to say a word, he places a glass of my favorite single malt in front of me.
“Thank you.” I nod and turn to face the rest of the room.
Something is being set up on the stage at the far end, and there are a number of empty tables. I’ve made my presence known, so I saunter down to the front and take a seat to enjoy my whisky and work out how quickly I can get out of this engagement.
“Max.” The voice grates on me instantly.
“Vulzal.”
The troll sits down at my table, one eye milky, one tusk broken. He is no warrior, he never was. Whatever he might tell everyone, he got those injuries as a child, in an attempt to steal food from a troll much younger and smaller than him.
“Good turnout,” he says conversationally.
I don’t reply but simply swirl my drink in my glass and stare straight ahead at the empty stage as the lights dim and there is a swish of clothing as everyone takes their seats with an air of anticipation.
