Page 2 of Every Little Thing She Orcs

She nods, and then she slides a single sheet of paper across the table. The memo is from the county, and someone underlined the top line in red.

NORTH-LOOP ROUTE NOT RECOMMENDED. ADDITIONAL FIELD STAFFING IS UNNECESSARY. — H. A.

“Senior Ranger Holt Ashford,” Prue says. “Your partner. He’s been the only field ranger in this preserve for a very long time, and he was very clear about both points.”

Additional field staffing. That’s me.

“Wow,” I say. “Nothing builds team spirit like a man who objected to my existence before I arrived.”

“He knows every inch of forest. You need what he knows.” Prue stands and tucks her folder under her arm. “He isn’t your boss, and he doesn’t sign your evaluation. But you’ll work side by side every day, so I’m hoping you two get along.”

Twelve weeks. How bad can it be?

“Unpack and freshen up,” Prue says. “Meet me downstairs in ten minutes, and I’ll find Holt.”

It takes around four minutes to unpack. My suitcase has two halves. The top half comes out: work shirts in the drawer, boots by the door, and my toothbrush and jewelry tin on the bathroom shelf. The bottom half holds sweaters and good jeans, the things you only unpack when you’re staying. It stays zipped, and I nudge it under the bed with my foot. I always leave that half packed.

Last comes my old bass case. It’s a tool case now, with my survey gear where the neck used to go.

In the bathroom mirror, I check my face. This morning, before I left the motel, I took out my lip ring, covered the ink on my neck with concealer, and scraped my purple hair back into a low bun.

A man writing memos like that sounds old-school. I’d like to make a good first impression on him, so I’m playing it safe. I can decide later how much of me Screaming Woods gets to see.

Downstairs, the visitor center is cool and quiet. There’s a rack of pamphlets, a 3D model of the preserve under plastic, and a stuffed owl with an expression I deeply relate to.

“Holt?” Prue calls toward the back of the building.

The rear door opens. A man ducks under the frame, and suddenly the room is half its size.

He’s big like the trees moved aside to let him through, and he turns his shoulders to fit the doorway like he’s spent years in rooms built for smaller people.

An orc. Huh.

His ranger shirt strains across his chest, and his rolled sleeves show green-gray forearms roped with muscle. A heavy brow shades his eyes, his jaw is broad and stern, and two lower tusks curve up past his bottom lip. With that face, he should look brutal. Instead, I’m staring at his mouth. Is it unprofessional to wonder how a man with tusks kisses? Yes. Very.

Then his amber stare lands on me, and my mouth goes dry.

“Wren Nicholls,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Your new partner.”

His hand swallows mine, warm and rough with calluses, and he holds it the way a nervous boy holds a prom corsage, like he’s scared he’ll crush it. His eyes sweep over my face. Then his brows draw together.

“Temporary partner,” he says.

Okay, then. “Are you always this friendly, or is it just me?”

One ear twitches. “Yes.”

Yes to which part? I can’t tell, and I’m pretty sure that’s on purpose.

Prue presses a radio into my hand. “Channel two is me. Channel one is everybody.” She looks between us. “Play nice, you two.” She leaves us alone like a woman shutting two cats in a laundry room.

“So,” I say. “I’d love to start with the north loop. Prue says it’s the most scenic.”

“The north loop isn’t suitable.”

“Okay. Could you show me why?”

“I know the north loop.”