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Back Trollhunters Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part I
  8. 1.
  9. 2.
  10. 3.
  11. 4.
  12. 5.
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. 10.
  18. Part II
  19. 11.
  20. 12.
  21. 13.
  22. 14.
  23. 15.
  24. 16.
  25. 17.
  26. 18.
  27. Part III
  28. 19.
  29. 20.
  30. 21.
  31. 22.
  32. 23.
  33. 24.
  34. 25.
  35. 26.
  36. 27.
  37. 28.
  38. 29.
  39. 30.
  40. 31.
  41. 32.
  42. Part IV
  43. 33.
  44. 34.
  45. 35.
  46. 36.
  47. 37.
  48. 38.
  49. 39.
  50. 40.
  51. About the Author

Tub stood in front of his baffled grandma, fending off the Eye of Malevolence with Dr. Papadopoulos’s soon-to-be-award-winning tools. The Eye swung its stem and knocked the instruments from Tub’s hands as rapidly as he could extract them from his fanny pack. Tub might have been a goner if Grandma hadn’t stepped up and clobbered the eye with what looked like the heaviest purse in human history. The Eye rolled about as if drunk before crashing into a stack of home-team water bottles.

Tub took his grandma by the hand and ran toward the bleachers. The Steve Smackers had allowed the crowd to fend off the Gumm-Gumms for a laudable amount of time, but it couldn’t last, and Tub had proven that night to be a formidable fighter.

But he did not enter the fray. Instead he kept running, hand-in-hand with Grandma, around the side of the grandstand until they disappeared from sight. My energy halved. Now I, too, knew how it felt to be left behind. I directed my despairing eyes past the countless baby trolls and their snapping young jaws and over to the mammoth beast that was casually tossing aside Jack and Blinky to focus upon ARRRGH!!!. Tub was not a genuine trollhunter—I tried to remind myself of this hard and true fact—and yet his abandonment felt as monumental as if one of us had fallen.

39.

Seconds later, a familiar freckled face popped up in the scorekeeper’s booth, followed by an elderly woman with magenta hair who looked like she was in the midst of a record-breaking streak of complaints. Gone were the headphone-wearing announcers and tech staff. This left Tub to pore over some sort of control panel, waving his finger above what I imagined were a thousand confusing buttons. Then, in a moment of divine inspiration, he discovered a huge, perspiring cup of soda on the counter and held it above the electronics. He looked up and I swear he caught my eye. His braces glinted in a wicked smile before he poured the soda onto the control system for which the school had paid so much money.

The jumbotron went wild. I squinted as the screen flared to dazzling life, cascading the stadium with light as it shuttled through a lunatic montage of cartoon animations—kicked field goals and gyrating mascots and a series of inane chants—D-FENSE! GO, BATTLE BEASTS, GO! MAKE SOME NOOOISE! As soda infiltrated the deepest layers of internal wiring, pixels scattered and the words and images fizzled to give way to a single element:

Fuzzy, flickering, beautiful static.