Chapter 1
Sarah
My Honda dies three miles outside Nightfall Cove.
No warning, no sputtering—one second I'm gripping the steering wheel, watching the last sunlight disappear behind the trees, and the next the engine quits. Smoke pours from under the hood, thick and black, and I coast to the shoulder with gravel crunching under my tires.
I sit there for a moment, just breathing, trying not to panic as the stench fills the car. Burning oil and burning rubber. Three days I've been driving, stopping only when I couldn't keep my eyes open, pushing through exhaustion and the voice in my head that keeps screaminghe's going to find you.
And now this.
I get out on shaky legs. The October air hits me, damp and cold, smelling of pine. The Pacific Northwest—as far from Connecticut as I could get without driving into the ocean. The hood releases with a groan and more black clouds billow out. Even I can tell this isn't a quick fix. The engine looks destroyed.
I pull out my phone, then stare at it. Who would I call? There's no one left. I shove it back in my pocket and lean against the door, hugging myself against the chill. Through the trees I can see the last light fading over the water, a cove with the ocean stretching dark beyond it.
The forest presses close on both sides of the road, massive evergreens with trunks disappearing into shadow. I catch movement in the treeline and freeze, telling myself it's probably a deer or a raccoon—but then I see the eyes.
Two points of amber light, low to the ground and too far apart to be natural. Unblinking. My heart hammers as more eyes appear, higher in the branches, another pair deeper in shadow. Five, six, seven sets, all fixed on me—the stranded woman with her dead car and her racing pulse.
This is how a horror movie starts.
I scramble back into the car and slam the door, hands shaking as I hit the lock. The eyes don't move. Don't blink. Just watch me.
Nightfall Cove. I picked this town for a reason—remote, forgotten, the kind of place Peter would never think to look. But I'd also heard the stories. Twenty years ago, a wildfire tore through these forests and the creatures who lived hidden in the surrounding mountains and forests came out to help fight it. Orcs. Minotaurs. Monsters that were supposed to be myths. Nightfall Cove became the first place they revealed themselves to the world.
I'd thought it meant the town welcomed outsiders. I hadn't thought about what else might be living in the woods.
Minutes pass. Nothing moves except the eyes, blinking in and out as shapes shift between the trees. No cars. No headlights.The road stays empty in both directions. I've been sitting here for an hour, and this stretch hasn't seen a single vehicle.
Then I hear it.
The rumble reaches me before I process what it is—low and deep, vibrating through the asphalt and up through the car frame. Motorcycles, multiple bikes coming fast.
I'm out of the car before I can think, waving my arms as headlights cut through the dusk. Someone. Anyone. Even if they can't help with the car, maybe they have a phone that works, maybe they can call a tow truck, maybe.
The first bike rounds the curve and the words die in my throat.
For one wild moment I think it's Peter, that he sent someone to drag me back.
You'll never escape me, Sarah. I'll always find you.
Then I see the rider clearly, and Peter disappears from my mind, because the man on that bike is not human.
He's massive, even sitting on the motorcycle. Broad shoulders strain against worn leather, thighs grip the chrome. He sees my broken-down car and slows, the bike rolling to a stop twenty feet away before he kills the engine. Behind him, five more bikes pull up and the riders swing off—big orcs in leather, watching me.
But the first one draws my attention. He pulls off his helmet and the dying light catches silver-shot black hair, a hard jaw. Iron-capped tusks curve up from his lower lip, glinting dull in the twilight. His eyes are dark and assessing. An orc. I've seen them on the news, heard whispers about them, but I've never been this close to one in real life.
He swings off the bike, unfolding to his full height—six-foot-eight or more—and walks toward me with his boots crunchingon gravel. His leather vest has patches I can't read in the dim light, but I catch the gleam of a "President" badge.
He stops close, close enough that I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes.
My brain says run. Every survival instinct I have screams that this creature is dangerous, that I should get back in my car and lock the doors again. But my body doesn't move. My pulse, which has been racing for three days straight, actually slows. Something in my chest loosens, like a fist unclenching.
I don't understand it. I should be terrified. Instead, I feel... safe.
"You lost, little human?"
His voice scrapes like gravel, not kind but not cruel either.
