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?"