Chapter 2
Mabel came to consciousness to the sound of a crackling fire and a deep voice singing an old, sad song.
It’d been a long time since she dreamed, so she didn’t dare move a muscle for fear that the softness of it would dissolve under her fingers like candy floss.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly warm, but it didn’t matter because she was toasty down to the thick wool socks she’d been assigned when she was conscripted.
That sort of thing only happened in dreams.
Small comforts like warmth and a soft bed were foreign to her now. They were as intangible as memories of home or the taste of sweet things, and she did her best not to think of them. It only made the day to day of her work harder.
Life was hard enough as an entire battalion’s only healer.
No, don’t think of that, she sternly instructed herself. The dream will end and then you’ll be back in the guts and piss and misery.
She forced herself to relax her muscles one by one and listen to that deep bass voice.
The crackle of flame was a soothing accompaniment to what sounded like a knife skimming wood.
It was a familiar rhythm her father practiced every night as he whittled all sorts of things for her mother.
The schwick and thwit of a knife carving wood had been her lullaby until her father’s arthritis slowly put a stop to it.
But in the dream he was still carving, apparently.
Mabel let out a sigh of contentment. She didn’t want to wake up in her threadbare cot and triage more men.
Death clung to her in long trailing ribbons, making every new day and every tiny movement more laborious.
One day she was fairly certain she’d simply stop functioning altogether as the weight of all those ribbons bore down on her.
Maybe this is it, she mused. Maybe I’ve died and this is what Grim’s riverbank really looks like.
It wouldn’t be so bad if that were the case. She was awfully tired of war, and if she got to rest—
The sounds of carving stopped. So did the sad song.
Before she could begin to find that odd, a massive hand settled on her brow.
It was heavily callused and warm as it stroked the fine hair back from her forehead.
Magic lurched from the deep, burning core of her soul to meet that hand in an explosion her flesh barely contained.
“Easy, my blessing,” an impossibly deep voice rumbled. “All’s well.”
Mabel’s eyes shot open.
Hovering over her, limned by golden firelight, was the most terrifying orc she’d ever seen. He was nearly twice her size in every possible measurement. Dressed in a battleworn Orclind Iron Chain uniform, she could’ve identified his rank from across a battlefield.
Between bruises and lacerations, the orc’s skin was a pale slate gray. His hair, long around his ears and swept back, was a slightly darker stone color streaked with silver. His size and coloring were striking, but in the firelight all she saw was his eyes.
They were a stunning hazel. Deep forest green flecked with chocolate brown stared down at her from behind a thick fringe of black lashes.
The fire glittered in them, giving his eyes a gem-like quality she’d never beheld in another being before.
Not even the shifters, whose eyes did change color, managed to look so… ethereal.
She’d never been so close to an orc before — except, of course, when they were trying to kill her.
All at once, the situation presented itself to her as it truly was. This was no dream. She wasn’t back in her family home, laid out on the chaise while her father carved a new spoon for her mother.
They’d been ambushed. Her triage tent had been blown apart just as she was assessing a cougar’s amputated leg while another man groaned in the final throes of a gangrenous infection beside him. There was smoke and death and freezing mud and—
A massive orc charged her with a bloody warhammer raised, a roar ripping from his powerful throat that rivaled explosives going off all around them.
This orc.
Mabel shot upright with a scream. The orc’s eyes widened as he reared back, massive hands raised in the universal gesture of peace.
“Wait, please. I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed.
Mabel might’ve been a naive farmgirl once, but not anymore.
She’d done her training in the big city of Minneapolis.
She’d lived in a dormitory. She’d been the battalion’s only healer for nearly a year.
She’d been around the block, as they said, and that meant she didn’t believe a word out of this soldier’s mouth.
Scrambling backward, she kicked off an unfamiliar wool blanket and a heavy soldier’s oilskin jacket. Her head pounded with the echo of a wound her abilities had already taken care of, leaving her even more disoriented than she already was.
When her back met a cold plaster wall, she glanced down and discovered with horror that her uniform was gone. Her bloodied pinafore, sleeve covers, and headscarf were also gone.
All that was left to her were her combinations. The beast hadn’t even left her stays.
Face turning a violent red, she pressed herself flat against the wall and hissed, “Is this what the Chain does to their prisoners of war? Strips them to their skivvies?”
The orc leaned back on his haunches. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he bleated, “You were soaked through with mud and… other things. I worried you’d catch a cough.”
“Oh, certainly!” Dragging the blanket up to her chest, she drew her shoulders back and demanded, “Take me to your commanding officer, sir!”
The orc winced. “Ah, my blessing—”
“I have rights! I’m a prisoner of war and a healer. I demand to speak to your commanding officer— and— and to be given suitable clothing!”
Mabel looked around, but instead of the tent walls or cell bars she expected to see, she was alarmed to find what looked like an abandoned office. A heavy secretary desk had been pushed against the door and a fire had been built in a rusted metal vat.
“Wha… What is this?” She drew her knees up to her chest as her alarm grew. “Where’s the camp?”
“This isn’t a camp,” the orc answered. “You’re not a prisoner.”
“What do you mean this isn’t a camp?” Mabel pressed the blanket to her throat. It wouldn’t do anything to shield her from the hammer-wielding maniac in reality, but having it was better than sitting there in her underthings.
The orc let out a noisy exhale. Shuffling backward a bit, he stood up slowly and walked toward the fire.
“Here,” he muttered, snagging a canteen off a makeshift grate over the barrel.
“You need to warm up. I’ve made some tea for you, and I’ve got some rations for you to eat if your stomach can take it. ”
“Answer my questions,” she demanded, voice pitched high.
The orc ambled back over on his massive booted feet. He was obviously wounded, with blood seeping through clumsily applied bandages beneath his uniform, but he didn’t appear to care. Kneeling next to the bedroll, he held the canteen out to her by the frayed strap.
Instead of answering her, he said, “My name’s Henrik. What’s yours?”
Mabel stared at the steaming canteen with a deep dread. “Mabel.”
“Mabel,” he rumbled with far, far too much pleasure. “That’s a very pretty name. Please drink some tea, sweet Mabel.”
Heat rose to her face in a different sort of way when he looked at her like he did then — all pretty eyes and a soft smile. Pale fangs peeked out just above his lower lip when her hand lifted without her permission. Their fingers brushed.
She was so shocked by the thrill that brief contact inspired that she looked at his hand, which must’ve had some sort of magical ability she’d never encountered before.
But no, it was just an ordinary — if comically large — orcish hand. A kohl-black, iridescent hand.
Her mind halted like a cart’s wheel catching a rut in a road. Before she could get it moving again, Henrik rumbled, “You’re not a prisoner and I’m no longer a soldier. We’re mates, my blessing.”
He was very lucky she didn’t have the stomach to kill him.
Mabel tightened his oilskin jacket around her body as she huddled against the wall.
Henrik, the orc who’d kidnapped her, sat in a chair by the makeshift stove, knife and stick in hand.
He was clearly pretending not to notice her scrutiny, but he wasn’t doing a very good job.
Every few seconds his eyes would flicker in her direction before fixing back on his whittling.
He’d tried reasoning with her. He’d tried reassuring her. He’d tried to explain that it was totally normal for an orc to snatch his mate, and it was even more normal for him to barricade them in an office.
She didn’t believe a damn word out of his mouth.
But escape wasn’t possible. Even if she could move the heavy mechanical equipment he’d put in front of the door, it only took a peek through a gap in the boards over the windows for her to determine they were thoroughly snowed in.
“I’ll make dinner soon,” he informed her in that rolling rumble.
The butterflies in her belly were deeply vexing. Almost as much as him holding her captive. “I don’t want your dinner.”
“I’ll make it all the same,” he replied, unruffled. “It’s a mate’s job to provide.”
Mabel’s chin jutted. “I don’t want a mate, either.”
“And yet you have one, just as you’ll have dinner.” He flashed her a smile full of lower fangs. “The gods know what’s best for you and have delivered it without you needing to ask.”
“Witches don’t have their mates thrust upon them,” she corrected him. “We choose.”
Henrik nodded. Setting down his small knife and whittled stick, he laid his hands on the desk he’d turned into a table. He gave her a very serious look when he asked, “And have you chosen?”
Her face pinked. “That’s an awfully impertinent question.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. We’re strangers, and you’re an enemy besides.”
Henrik gave her a long look. “We’re not strangers. We’re clan now. I ought to know if there’s a man out there I’m stealing you from.”