Page 30 of Orc'd & Loaded
Locked in.
CHAPTER 8
BORIS
The latch drops. The dark swallows us whole except for the blue runework pulsing along the icebox like a slow heartbeat.
Solene spins on the step below me. I can't see the details of her face, only the shape of it, jaw sharp, chin lifted, eyes catching the faint glow. Her breathing hasn't steadied from the catch. Neither has mine, though for entirely different reasons. The ghost-impression of her spine against me is branded into my skin. The particular geometry of her ribs under my forearms. The way she fit like she was designed to occupy exactly that space.
"The door." She uses her chef-voice. The one she speaks on her line cooks when the tickets are backing up.
"Right. The door."
I turn and climb the steps. Six of them. My boots find purchase on the wet stone without difficulty because my boots have actual tread, unlike whatever decorative nonsense she strapped to her feet. The door is solid oak, two inches thick, banded with iron. My grandmother had it installed when she built this cellar eighty years ago. Good Orcish craftsmanship. Heavy hinges. Heavier wood.
I could put my shoulder through it like wet paper.
I lay both palms flat along the grain instead. Push. The door doesn't move because the iron latch is seated firmly on the other side, which is exactly how latches work. I push again, adding a theatrical grunt. Not too much. Just enough.
"Problem," I say.
"What kind of problem."
"This door. It's..." I rap my knuckles against the wood. Dense, satisfying thud. "My grandmother reinforced it. Old Orcish wardwork. Woven into the grain when the tree was still living. It's not going to give."
Silence from below. Then: "You're telling me your cellar door is magically reinforced."
"Standard practice in the old country. You reinforce your cellars against raids, cave-ins, drunk uncles. This oak came from a wardwood grove in the Blackpine Mountains. It'll outlast the building."
"Can you break the hinges?"
"Iron-forged. Same wardwork."
A squash rolls. Solene's breath comes out through her nose, sharp and hot.
"So we're locked in a cellar."
"Temporarily."
"During a storm."
"Which will pass."
"With no way to contact anyone."
"My barback opens at six. He has a key."
"Six. In the morning." Each word lands separate. Precise. Like she's placing them with tweezers. "That is nine hours from now."
"Give or take."
The blue light catches her expression as she crosses her arms. Pure, undiluted fury, gorgeous in its intensity, her jaw working like she's physically chewing the words before she speaks them.
I come back down the stairs. Not all the way. I stop three steps above her, which puts her head roughly level with my sternum, and lean one shoulder against the cool stone wall. Playing casual. My heart is doing something embarrassing behind my ribs.
"Could be worse," I offer.
"Name one way this could be worse."
