Page 41 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

And then, I think of her kisses during the fireworks. Of how Andrea reached for me when she first regained consciousness. How she still wanted to hold my hand as her head cleared and she drove home.

It could be guilt. I feel guilty. Almost got her killed. What if she’d decided to investigate with me? She was hurt just following me!

Cold sweat pops out on my brow and makes a line down my spine.

Andrea enters her apartment and says, “I’ve never had burns like this. This dress is ruined. Shoes, too. My hair. I don’t know what to do first. I should know all of this. My mother is a nurse. My cousins. My brother... Don’t get me started on my brother.”

This I know. Caring for people in emergencies is something I can do, even if I’m not good at making small talk while I do it. “It is because you’re in shock. You’ll know what to do later. For now, that’s why I’m here.”

Andrea turns, face set. “You’re here because you care about me. And I care about you. Unless everything that happened before the fire was a lie.”

“No! No, of course it wasn’t. But I was never going to let things go farther, not until you knew what I truly was,” I explain. Chopin comes trotting out of the bedroom, whiskers twitching and tail carried high with a question mark curl at the top. He runs right to Andrea, opening his little mouth in a wide “mroooowr.” “I didn’t want to kiss you. Or get close to you. But I couldn't help myself, Andrea. That’s not a good thing. That’s not the kind of man you should want.”

Andrea crosses her arms. “You have an awful lot of ideas about the man I want when you barely know me.”

“You know you want me, and you barely know me.”

Andrea ends the glaring match by sighing, wincing, and patting the cat. “Why didn’t you want things to go farther?”

“Because I’m a troll. A monster. That’s something you needed to know, but not something I could have told you. Not without you thinking I was insane,” I huff. The cat comes to me now, sniffing me, looking up at me reproachfully, and unlocking some stupid instinct in me that requires me to bend down and pick up the fluffy little creature.

“Is that why you bolted out of here after dinner?”

“Partially.”

“Partially? What’s the rest?”

I put the cat down so I can throw up my hands in exasperation—muted exasperation, obviously, since throwing my arms around in Andrea’s neat little apartment would probably break something. “Should we really be discussing this now? You need to run those burns under cool running water for ten to fifteen minutes, then I want to apply burn cream and wrap them in gauze. That’s going to mean you have to stay off your feet and also limit the use of your injured hand for a day or two.” My mouth twitches, and duty, want, and a broken sense of right war inside of me. “I can take care of everything you need around the house. Come by a few times a day.”

Andrea plants her feet, grimacing. “I’m not going anywhere until I know the rest. You left because you couldn’t tell me you were a troll. Valid. Understandable. But now I know. So what’s the rest?”

All the words I usually keep bottled up escape around this woman. I growl for a moment, and then the words explode from me. “I don’t know how to love someone, or like someone, or date someone. I have desires that would be wrong to act on without you knowing what I am—”

“But I do now,” she interrupts.

I shake my head. “Knowing and understanding are two different things. My kind? Trolls? They are hunters. Scavengers. Killers. Humans, wild animals, domesticated animals, other trolls, even other kinds of supernatural creatures like selkies and centaurs are all prey. My kind? Kills your kind.” I don’t look away. I watch carefully, wanting to see the look of horror and realization cross Andrea’s face so that this can end, and I can learn to live with a broken heart. I’ve been living with a stony one for years; what’s another crack in the rough surface?

“Oh. Ohhh.” My breath comes out raspy, but it’s not only from the smoke. It’s the shock. The realization.

Why he left. What Gordon’s life was like.

No music. Touch means pain.

Few words. No kindness.

Raised by killers... So he leaves—to save people. Paying back debts that he didn’t even owe.

My heart squeezes and then expands, ballooning open with the rush of affection I feel for the huge “monster” who literally comes off as the shyest, sweetest man, quietly plowing along saving lives—and cats. And hot mess teachers who just need a life, not a personal tour guide and a love interest.

“You said your mom is a nurse? Should we call her to come over and look after you instead?” Gordon asks, voice flat.

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“No.” The word is soft, serious. Gordon’s face stays the same, expressionless—except for the eyes. The eyes are black pools of pain.

“You think I’d reject you because of something your parents did?”

“To be fully clear, my father stopped killing humans early in his adult life, though he didn’t do it out of love for humanity or a desire to be good. He knew there were fewer and fewer uninhabited places to hide in the world. Housing developments were going up everywhere. Monsters were safest in big cities—but not monsters like us, who need to remain out of the light, who need a safe shelter to stay in during daylight. He dragged my mother kicking and screaming into an abandoned trailer in the woods and insisted we learn to live like humans, without interacting with them unless it was necessary. His motivation was the safety of his sons, not his love of people.”