Chapter 016 Thokk
The world was clearest at 4:30 in the morning.
Outside, the darkness of the valley was absolute, a heavy blanket pressed against the windows of my home. Inside, the only light came from the tactical lamp clamped to the edge of my kitchen table, illuminating the map of Dusty Gulch spread out before me.
I uncapped my red pen. The cap made a satisfying click as I set it precisely parallel to the edge of the paper.
My hand moved with practiced steadiness, tracing the perimeter of the luminook pens. Red ink for high-risk areas. Next, I switched to the blue pen—moderate concerns, like the hiking trails that intersected the main road. Finally, green for the minimal threat zones, the well-lit commercial strips where tourists clustered.
The colors created a pattern that satisfied something deep in my soul. Order from chaos. Safety from danger.
For most of my life, this need for structure had been a solitary thing. A way to quiet the noise in my head. But now, the silence of the house felt different. It wasn't empty; it was pregnant with her presence.
I paused, listening. The faint creak of floorboards overhead. The soft thump of bare feet.
Cassidy.
A warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee in my mug spread through my chest. She was here. Safe. In my home.
Minutes later, she shuffled into the kitchen. She was wearing my favorite blue flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up in thick cuffs to free her hands, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Her hair was a chaotic halo of sleep-tousled waves, and her eyes were still heavy with dreams.
She blinked at the brightness of my lamp. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," I said, my voice rumbling low in the quiet room. "Wanted to get a head start."
She padded toward the coffee maker. I watched her, my pen hovering over the map. I’d moved the mugs to the bottom shelf yesterday, and I’d tucked a small wooden step stool under the counter. She found both without looking, her movements fluid, natural. Like she belonged here.
She poured a cup and came to stand beside me, leaning a hip against the table. The scent of her—vanilla, sleep, and woman—drifted over me, more potent than the caffeine.
"Color-coded?" she asked, gesturing to the map with her mug.
"It helps me think."
"Red is bad?"
"Red is critical. The pens. The access points."
She studied the map, her expression sharpening as the fog of sleep cleared. "You missed a spot. The drainage culvert behind the general store. It’s dry this time of year. Someone could crawl through."
I looked at the spot she pointed to. She was right.
"Good catch." I picked up the red pen and circled it.
"We make a good team," she murmured, taking a sip of coffee.
"We do."
The words hung in the air, weighted with more meaning than just police work. I watched her over the rim of my mug. She was adjusting. She wasn't scanning the exits or flinching at shadows this morning. She was wearing my clothes, drinking my coffee, standing in my kitchen like she had done it a thousand times.
She set her mug down and pulled her laptop open on the other side of the table. "I’m going to check the online marketplaces again. If these poachers are professionals, they have a buyer lined up. But if they’re greedy, or if there’s a leak in their operation..."
"They might try to move the product fast," I finished.
The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of my pen and the rhythmic clicking of her trackpad. I moved on to the personnel schedules, aligning the shifts to ensure double coverage during the high-risk hours I’d marked in red.
"Thokk."
Her voice was sharp. Breathless.
I looked up. She was staring at the screen, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table.
"Found them," she shouted, the volume startling in the quiet morning.
I was out of my chair in a second, moving to stand behind her. On the screen was a FaceSpace listing posted three hours ago in a neighboring county buy-sell group.
Exotic Glow Bunnies. Rare. $4,000 each. Cash only.
The photo was blurry, taken in a dim garage, but the distinct blue bioluminescence was unmistakable. It was our missing luminooks.
"Four thousand dollars," I growled. "They’re selling living creatures like used furniture."
"The seller is listed as 'J.D.' Location is pinned near Oakhaven." Cassidy looked up at me, her eyes fierce. "That’s Sheriff Trench’s jurisdiction."
I was already dialing. Trench was an early riser, a man cut from the same cloth as me, though he lacked the orcish patience.
"Sheriff," Trench’s voice rasped over the line on the second ring.
"Trench. It’s Thokk. I have a lead on my stolen livestock. They’re in your backyard."
I gave him the details, my eyes never leaving the photo on Cassidy’s screen. She was already typing, capturing screenshots, logging the seller’s profile URL, building the evidence file.
"I’m on it," Trench said. "I know the area. I’ll pay them a visit right now."
I hung up. Cassidy leaned back against me, and my arms went around her instinctively, enclosing her in the protective cage of my body.
"We got them," she whispered.
"We found them," I corrected, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Now we bring them home. And then we find the people who took them."
By the time we reached the Sheriff's Office, the sun had crested the mountains, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.
My brothers were already there.
The office, usually spacious enough for me and Cassidy, felt suddenly small. Rokk was leaning against the filing cabinets, his massive arms crossed over his chest. Vorn was perched on the edge of my desk, examining a stapler with intense focus. Garn and Becken were arguing quietly by the coffee machine, while Bram and Krug occupied the holding cell bench, the door open.
They straightened as we walked in.
"Report," Rokk grunted.
"Trench has the luminooks," I said, hanging my hat on the rack. "He’s transporting them back as we speak. Confirmed ID."
A ripple of approval went through the room. A series of nods, grunts, and knuckle-cracks.
"Good," Bram said, flashing a grin that showed too much tooth. "Now we catch the ones who cut the fence."
I moved to the whiteboard, where I’d taped the security plan I’d drafted this morning. "We’re locking this town down. No one moves near those pens without us knowing."
I pointed to the map. "Rokk, you’re on tracking. I want you sweeping the perimeter of the wild colony. Look for anything the deputies missed. Broken twigs, disturbed soil, scent trails."
Rokk nodded. "Done."
"Vorn, you’re on observation. Take the roof of the Pottery Barn. It gives you a clear line of sight to the rear fence of the town pens. You see anything, you radio. Do not engage unless there’s immediate threat to life."
"U-understood," Vorn stuttered, setting the stapler down gently. "I’ll b-bring the long lens."
"Garn, Becken—patrols. Staggered pattern. Make sure you’re visible."
"Thokk," Cassidy interrupted. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the room.
We all turned to her. She was standing by her desk, looking at the wall of orcs she was surrounded by. Her expression was tight.
"This... this might be dangerous," she said. "If this is connected to Blainsworth, these aren't just poachers. They’re mercenaries. I don’t want any of you getting hurt because of me."
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
Then Krug snorted. "Hurt? Us?"
"You’re family, Cassidy," Bram said, his playful tone dropping into something solid and unyielding. "We protect our own."
"But—"
"Doesn't matter," Rokk growled, pushing off the filing cabinet. He stepped toward her, his bulk casting a shadow, but his eyes were gentle. "Whether they’re after you or the luminooks, we protect both. That is the way."
He held out a fist.
Cassidy stared at it for a second, her throat working. Then she smiled, a small, watery thing, and bumped her knuckles against his.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
A cheer went up from the others, a rough chorus of agreement. I felt a surge of pride so strong it nearly choked me. They had accepted her. Not just as my mate, but as pack.
"Alright," I barked, breaking the moment before my chest exploded. "Move out. We have work to do."
Three hours later, the office was quieter, but the tension remained. Krug had stayed behind to help with the technical side of the surveillance, his fingers flying across a laptop keyboard as he synced the town’s disparate camera feeds.
The front door opened, and Sheriff Trench walked in. He was a human, older, with skin like weathered leather and a mustache that drooped past his chin. He carried a large, ventilated animal carrier.
"Sheriff," I said, extending a hand.
"Thokk." He gripped my hand firmly. "Here they are. Three of them. Spines flickering like crazy, but they seem healthy."
He set the carrier on my desk. Inside, the soft blue pulse of the luminooks illuminated the wire mesh.
"I stopped by to view the glowing rabbits," Trench said, his voice dry. "Matched the pictures you sent. When I revealed my identity, the owner caved. Said she bought them off a guy in a truck stop two towns over. Didn't get a name, but she gave a description. Average height, baseball cap, khaki jacket."
"Matches our witness descriptions," Cassidy said, stepping forward to peer into the crate. "Thank you, Sheriff."
"Just doing the job, Deputy." Trench tipped his hat. "I'll send over the official report. You folks watch your backs. Whoever’s supplying these... they’re organized."
After Trench left, we turned our attention back to the screens.
"I’ve got the footage from the maintenance shed area," Krug said. "Tuesday afternoon. Quality isn't great, but the angle is decent."
Cassidy pulled her chair closer to the monitor. "Play it."
On the screen, the grainy image of the dusty lot behind the maintenance shed flickered to life. The timestamp read Tuesday, 3:15 PM.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, three figures walked into the frame.
"There." Cassidy pointed. "Stop."
Krug paused the video.
"That's Mary," she said, leaning in. "And Joyce. And... is that Ava? The photographer?"
It was. The three women were standing in the shadow of the shed. They weren't just chatting. Mary’s arms were waving, her posture agitated. Joyce had a hand on Mary’s arm, as if restraining her. Ava stood slightly apart, watching the area around them.
"They're arguing," I noted. "Mary looks distressed."
"Mary told us she saw the hiker on Tuesday before lunch," Cassidy said slowly. "This is three hours later. Why was she behind the maintenance shed?"
"And why didn't she mention Joyce or Ava?" I added.
Krug advanced the video frame by frame. At 3:19 PM, Joyce handed something to Mary. It was small, metallic. A key?
"Zoom in," I ordered.
The image pixelated, blurring the object.
"Can't tell what it is," Krug muttered. "But look where they go."
The women split up. Mary headed toward the back door of the Red Fang. Joyce and Ava walked—purposefully—toward the maintenance shed door.
"They have access," Cassidy whispered. "The maintenance shed. That's where the town keeps the heavy equipment. The spare fencing."
"And it's the perfect place to hide something you don't want found," I said. I stood up, grabbing my hat. "Cassidy, with me."
The maintenance shed sat on the outskirts of town, a corrugated metal structure that smelled of grease, old oil, and dust. It was usually locked, accessible only to town employees.
I used my master key to slide the heavy padlock open. The door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it inward.
Inside, shafts of sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating dancing dust motes. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with paint cans, tools, and coils of wire. A tractor sat in the center of the space.
"Stay behind me," I murmured, my hand resting on the butt of my service weapon. Not drawn, but ready.
"I'm fine, Thokk," Cassidy said, though she stayed close to my back.
We moved through the clutter, checking the corners. Everything looked normal. A pile of lumber. A broken generator.
"Over there," Cassidy said.
In the far corner, behind a stack of winter tires, a blue tarp was draped over a large, boxy shape. It looked too clean, too square to be random junk.
I approached it slowly. I reached out, grabbed the corner of the tarp, and yanked it back.
We both stared.
It wasn't a piece of farm equipment. It was a high-tech crate, sleek and silver, with digital locking mechanisms and ventilation ports along the side.
"What is that?" I asked.
Cassidy moved past me, her breath hitching. She ran her fingers over a label affixed to the top.
"One specialized specimen containment unit," she read, her voice trembling. "Expedited delivery."
She pointed to the shipping label.
"Addressed to Sillavar Research."
The air in the shed seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Sillavar," I repeated. "I know that name. They do biological research. High-end pharmaceuticals."
"They're affiliated with the Blainsworths," Cassidy said. She backed away from the crate as if it were radioactive. "Edgar Blainsworth sits on their board. They use his private security for... sensitive acquisitions."
She looked at me, her eyes wide and dark with fear. "That can't be a coincidence, Thokk. A containment unit? Here? They're not just poaching luminooks for money. They're collecting specimens."
"Or," I said, my voice grim, "they're here for you."
"Biometric monitoring capabilities," she read from the side of the crate. "Sedative dispersal systems. This is for transporting something alive and keeping it that way."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "They found me."
"No." I stepped between her and the crate, blocking it from her view. I placed my hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. "They sent a box. That doesn't mean they have you. We found it first."
"But Mary... Joyce..."
"We'll find out what they know. But right now, this stays here. We lock it down. We set a trap."
She nodded, but the tremor in her body didn't stop. I pulled her against me, holding her tight, letting my bulk shield her from the cold reality of the metal box.
Back at the office, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the floor. Cassidy was sitting at her desk, staring at the wall, her face pale. She was running scenarios. I could see it in the tight set of her jaw.
I sat at my own desk, opened my logbook, and uncapped my pen.
I needed to write this down. I needed to structure the threat to defeat it.
Date: October 14
Event: Discovery of Sillavar containment unit.
Action: Increased patrol density. continuous surveillance of shed.
I hesitated. Then, below the official entry, I wrote in the personal section of my journal—the one I kept for thoughts I couldn't speak yet.
She is afraid. She thinks she has to leave to protect us. She does not understand.
I looked at her. She was chewing her lip, lost in thought.
I will not let them take her. I will burn the world down before I let them put her in a cage. Protect her always, no matter the cost.
"Thokk," she said suddenly.
I closed the journal. "Yeah?"
"I ran the PO Box listed on the shipping label for the crate. The return address."
"And?"
"It's local. Well, local post office, but a private box." She turned her screen toward me. "Box 437 is registered to Franklin Prescott."
The name hung in the air.
"Franklin Prescott," I repeated. It wasn't a name I knew. Not a local. Not a tourist regular.
"Who's that?" she asked.
"I have no idea," I said, standing up and moving to the window. I looked out at the town—my town. Somewhere out there, Franklin Prescott was waiting for his delivery. Somewhere out there, three local women were keeping secrets. And somewhere, the Blainsworths were watching.
I turned back to her.
"But we're going to find out."