Read Misfortune Market: A HASEA CHRONICLES STORY (BOOK 1.5) for Free Online

Gabriella asked quietly.
    His face broke into a smile, which made my stomach clench with nausea. Trollites were hideous things that made the skin of everyone around them crawl. Domestic versions of the very dangerous Trolls, they had somehow sprung into existence during some hiccup in time. They weren’t strong and they weren’t intelligent, and a troll would sooner step on one than welcome it into its fold. They eked out their existence by doing things that others wouldn’t – such as murder for hire, or kidnapping infants to sell. They were scum.
    “Which maskssss?” he said, as one of his eyelids twitched closed of its own accord.
    “Any.”
    He held up fingers that were one phalange too long. “Four poundsss each itemmm.” His sickly voice seemed to roll over each word, pulling and stretching them until they were almost unrecognizable.
    Gabriella put her hand in her jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of notes. Every Guardian was required to carry money at all times, just in case an emergency arose or a human needed bribing. Our world was driven by an unconscious duty to protect; the world we protected was fueled by stamped paper. She shed a twenty-pound note and handed it over to the grinning Trollite, who snatched it greedily and stuffed it into a grimy money belt. He slid over a stack of masks and multicoloured overalls, which Gabriella took with a polite nod, and we all walked into a quieter corner to put them on.
    I chose a green jumpsuit that stunk of sweat and a mask similar to the Guy Fawkes ones made famous by that action film. The rest of the team chose from a mix of gargoyle extremities and sinister smoothness to accompany their overalls.
    “These stink,” said Grey, shrugging into his blue outfit.
    “That’s the point,” said Gabriella. “We need them to help mask our scents.”
    Once we had successfully blended in, we made our way back into the crowds, which were beginning to migrate towards the stage.
    A second later a foghorn blared out across Misfortune Market, its sound loud enough to make me flinch. The band screeched into silence and the babble of bartering ceased as if everyone had been rendered mute. The Overseer rested his cane against the podium and folded his arms behind his back, standing up straight and swelling his chest out with self-importance as hordes of revelers started to swarm towards the stage, like religious zealots heading towards a ritual.
    An air of anticipation descended on the room as the revelers jostled each other for position. If seemed that if the market were a meal, then the auction was the main course. As the rest of the market-goers huddled in around us, I felt space becoming more limited. A Dwarf barged into me as he tried to get closer, giving me a grunt rather than an apology as he disappeared in the sea of people.
    The lights in the room dimmed and weird music started to play over a hidden speaker system – a high-pitched violin mixed with the deep thump of a bass drum. A different, screeching sound preceded an old studio light being moved by some small creature squatting on rafters high above our heads, bathing the Overseer in a golden light. He stretched out his arms and let his head hang back, allowing the light to pour over him, as if it were a power source. The crowd broke into a thunderous applause and I could tell without seeing his face, that the Overseer was enjoying every moment of his adulation.
    The music faded around the same time that the clapping did and the Overseer stepped forward, snapping up his cane in a theatrical movement and then gave a deep bow, sweeping his arms out to greet the entire room. “Pandemonians and Hybrids, it is my absolute pleasure to welcome to the sixty eighth annual Midsummer Market!”
    Another burst of applause.
    “Many of you know already know who I am,” he continued. “But for any first timers among you, my name is the Overseer. This market is mine and sprang forth from my mind many years ago. It was my