And then, a sound splits the night.
Low and guttural, a distant roar that reverberates through the trees, shaking the windows in their frames. It isn’t the wind. It isn’t some bear wandering too close. No. That thing—that thing—is out there again.
Kursk pulls away so fast it leaves me blinking, lips tingling.
He’s already on his feet, spear in hand, body tense and shadowed in firelight. His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air like some kind of primal bloodhound. He’s beautiful in that dangerous, otherworldly way—like a thunderstorm made flesh.
“I will hunt it,” he growls, voice thick and sharp.
I start to protest, but he’s already vanishing into the woods, the spear’s glow swallowed by the dark.
So much for the moment.
I don’t sleep.
I just wait.
The coffee grows cold. The fire turns to ash. Every creak of the old cabin makes my heart stutter. I keep glancing toward the trees, expecting to see him stumble out—or worse, something else entirely. I even pick up the fire extinguisher again, just in case.
He doesn’t return until well past three in the morning, exhausted, frustrated, and still empty-handed.
I can see it in the way his shoulders sag, in the blood-streaked dirt across his arms. Not his blood. But not the Vorfaluka’s either. Whatever he found out there, it wasn’t the thing we’re hunting.
He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We just sit there, staring at the cold hearth like we’re waiting for a sign from the gods.
The next morning, I do the unthinkable.
I take a seven-foot illusion-cloaked orc to work.
Kursk mutters something about shame and visibility and how no warrior should be forced to “hide his true skin in glamor like a wailing elf-bard,” but I tell him he can’t exactly waltz through Walnut Falls looking like a damn Street Fighter boss.
So he adjusts the talisman around his neck, and just like that, poof. He’s still huge—built like a brick wall with an attitude problem—but now he looks more like a shirtless Viking gym rat than an actual green-skinned warlord.
Which, by Walnut Falls standards, is basically Tuesday.
We make it to the library in one piece, though not without a few stares. I guide him to the back stacks with a thermos of coffee and instructions to “try not to scare any children, elderly patrons, or anyone who hasn’t already seen a Marvel movie.”
He doesn’t find that funny.
Walnut Falls is buzzing like a kicked hornet’s nest.
Rumors are flying. Peggy Sue is flitting around the main desk like a nosy little hummingbird on Red Bull and pure spite.
“You hear about Dale Price?” she whispers, leaning across the desk like a cat with a secret.
I raise an eyebrow. “Dale Price, the guy who runs the car wash?”
“That’s the one. Dead.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Yup. Body found behind The Lazy Lanes bowling alley this morning. Sheriff’s department is keeping it hush-hush, but my cousin’s best friend’s ex-boyfriend’s brother is dating the coroner’s assistant andhesays Dale was all hollowed out like a goddamn juice pouch.”
My stomach turns. I glance toward the stacks where Kursk is pretending to read something titledFrom Hummus to History: The Culinary Chronicles of the Mediterranean.
If only they knew.
Peggy narrows her eyes. “You okay, Liv?”
