They steered clear of major cities but became fixtures in the small mountain towns. Most locals accepted them with a shrug and a nod. Others muttered darkly about sending them back underground. Or worse.
Boone, North Carolina transformed into a bustling trade hub practically overnight. Orcs descended from the high peaks bearing raw gemstones, exotic minerals, and metalwork that made our finest smiths weep with envy. They traded for food, books, electronics—smartphones especially, which they embraced with surprising enthusiasm, despite most living outside the range of cell towers.
Asheville evolved into an unexpected cultural crossroads. Turned out Orcs had a thing for live music. Bluegrass, particularly. Something about those old mountain melodies struck a chord deep in them, as if the songs awakened memoriesfrom before the long darkness. You'd spot them in dimly lit bars, nursing drinks potent enough to hospitalize a human, thick fingers drumming tabletops in flawless rhythm.
But not every town rolled out the welcome mat.
I'd never actually met one up close.
The Orcs kept to their own healers—shamans, medicine workers, whatever ancient tradition they'd carried up from the depths. They had techniques passed down through countless generations, herbal compounds baffled our best pharmacologists, and a constitution that bordered on the miraculous. Emergency departments, CT scanners, surgical suites—they had no use for any of it.
But I'd seen them around Franklin. You couldn't miss them if you tried.
They'd cruise through town in Hummers or Land Rovers—massive vehicles with reinforced suspensions groaning under custom seats built for frames that averaged seven feet and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. The smaller ones, anyway. Rumor had it some of the males topped eight feet easy.
You'd catch them at the gas station on Highway 441, those massive vehicles guzzling fuel, or at Walmart loading up shopping carts like they were prepping for the apocalypse. Always polite. Quiet, even. They'd offer a nod if you made eye contact, but they never lingered, never made small talk. Just handled their business and disappeared back into the mountains. Honestly? The best kind of neighbor.
I settled back into my chair, letting the manufactured drama wash over me. On screen, a parade of sequined gowns and spray tans competed for the affections of a man whose defining characteristic seemed to be excellent dental work. It was absurd—watching grown adults weep over someone they'd met three weeks ago during a group date at a winery—but that was precisely the point. It numbed the brain just enough tosilence the nagging voice that wanted to calculate my student loan interest or worry about whether my truck's bald tires would survive the first mountain snow.
Sacha—a willowy brunette poured into a dress that cost more than I made in a week—stepped forward on stilettos that could double as weapons. The Bachelor (Derek? Darren? Did it matter?) extended a rose between them with the solemnity of a knight offering his sword. Tammy practically vibrated on her stool, hissing "Don't you dare" at the screen like he could hear her.
The automatic doors whispered open.
Footsteps. Heavy ones. Not the uncertain shuffle of someone elderly navigating unfamiliar territory, not the frantic stumble of acute pain. These were purposeful. Controlled. Each step landed with enough force that I felt the vibration travel up through the legs of my chair.
I turned.
An Orc filled the entrance, one massive hand braced against the doorframe like he was holding up the building itself. A small boy lay cradled in his other arm, dwarfed against that broad chest. The Orc had to be seven feet if he was an inch, shoulders so wide they'd barely cleared the double doors. His skin reminded me of deep forest moss—that dark green that's almost gray when the light hits it wrong. Jeans and a black t-shirt strained across muscles that looked carved from stone.
And blood. Christ, so much blood.
For one heart-stopping second, I thought it was his—that vivid red pooling in the creases of his arms, dripping from his elbows. But no. The Orc's jaw was set, his breathing controlled. Not his blood.
The child's.
My gaze snapped to the boy—Orc, maybe five or six, with dark hair plastered to his skull. His t-shirt had probably beenblue once. Now it was mostly crimson, the fabric so saturated it clung to his small frame like a second skin. More blood painted the Orc's forearms in streaks, each drop hitting the white tile with a sound I felt in my teeth.
The boy's face had gone the color of old ash. His eyes were closed, head lolling boneless against the Orc's chest with the terrible stillness of the critically injured.
My body moved before my mind finished processing. Training took over—feet already carrying me around the desk, hand already rising to point toward triage.
"Tammy!" The name ripped from my throat, sharp enough to shatter the waiting room's fragile quiet. "Trauma Two—move!"
Behind me, her chair shrieked against linoleum. Footsteps thundered. But the world had already narrowed to a tunnel. The Orc, the child, the blood that kept flowing.
"With me. Now." I shouldered through the double doors, holding them wide. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "How long since the injury?"
The Orc swept past, bringing with him the scent of pine forests and rain-soaked earth, all of it threaded through with copper-bright blood. But there was something else beneath it—something wild and electric that made every nerve ending in my body snap to attention.
Jesus, Jordan. Focus.
"Forty minutes." His voice rolled through the space between us like distant thunder. "Maybe longer."
"Gunshot?"
"Yes."
I yanked a stretcher from the wall, wheels squealing as I positioned it. "Here. Easy now."
