Chapter 3 #2
He puts the spear down, kneels—kneels!—and bows his head.
“I am Kursk. Longstrider of the Red Hollow Clan. Slayer of the Bone-Taker. I swear to you, Olivia of House Wilkins, I meant no harm. I seek the abomination that escaped through your world’s Veil. The creature is here. I followed. I... was not prepared for you.”
I stare at him.
“Okay,” I say. “This is definitely weirder than the first one.”
I should be screaming. Or running. Or filing a restraining order. But instead, I’m just... staring at this giant green man kneeling on the scuffed library floor like he's pledging fealty to the Queen of England.
His voice is low, but firm. Reverent, almost. “I seek the abomination that passed through the Veil. I swear to you, Olivia of House Wilkins, my fight is not with your kind.”
“I’m not a house,” I mutter.
“You are,” he insists. “All mortals belong to a line. A bloodline. Yours must be formidable.”
“Okay, you can stop buttering me up now.”
He tilts his head like a curious dog. “I am not using butter.”
I blink. He’s serious. He’s deadly serious.
And weirdly... sweet?
“You’re telling me,” I begin, voice still trembling, “that you followed some hell-spawn through a bathroom portal to this world, and now you're here to… what? Fight it? Kill it?”
“Yes.”
“And the kiss was just so you could learn English?”
“Correct.”
I run a hand through my hair, trying to smooth out the panic still crackling through me. “Do all guys from wherever-you’re-from go around kissing strangers to learn languages?”
“No. Most use blood rituals. The kiss is more efficient. And less messy.”
“Oh, thank God you opted for the PG-13 version,” I mutter. “So what now? You go hunt it? In my town?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m just supposed to… what? Let you?”
He rises to his full, intimidating height. His chest rises and falls like he’s carved from mountain ranges and bad decisions. “You saw it too. Did you not?”
“I did.”
“Then you know what I say is truth. That thing will kill again. It lives for carnage. For the agony of others. It must be stopped.”
I chew my lip. My instincts are still screaming to run, but they’re now whispering in the background while a new voice—one suspiciously like Peggy’s—is saying he’s not wrong.
I saw the other one. It hurt to look at. It smelled like a grave and moved like a virus. This guy may be an orc warlord or a LARP dropout with a steroid problem, but he’s not lying.
“And if I don’t help you?” I ask.
“You do not need to. I will hunt it regardless. But your knowledge of this place would be… advantageous.”
I sigh. Long. Loud.
And then, against every scrap of self-preservation I have left, I mutter, “Fine. I’ll help.”
He bows his head again, a little too dramatically. “You honor me, Olivia of House Wilkins.”
“I’m regretting this already.”
First challenge? Getting him out without someone livestreaming it to the Cryptid Colonoscopy tag.
“Alright, you gotta go out the back,” I whisper, shoving him toward the staff exit.
“Why?”
“Because if anyone sees you, they’re going to call the cops, the news, and probably Ghostbusters.”
“I am not a ghost.”
“They won’t care!”
He grumbles something in his native tongue, but follows. I lead him to my rusty old pickup—thank God for the extended cab—and pop the tailgate.
“You’re kidding,” he says, staring at the bed.
“Nope. Get in.”
“I am a warrior of the—”
“You’re a six-foot-five green man with tusks and no shirt. Get. In.”
He eyes me, then the bed, then me again.
“Fine,” he grumbles, hoisting himself in like a disgruntled gorilla. “But this is not dignified.”
“Neither was kissing me with zero context.”
He doesn’t respond. Just folds his arms across his massive chest and sulks.
I pull out of the alleyway, eyes darting in every mirror. Walnut Falls isn’t exactly a surveillance state, but if someone sees Shrek’s hotter cousin pouting in my truck bed, we’ll be trending again before sundown.
By the time we get to my cabin—a two-bedroom-and-a-loose-squirrel-hole nestled against the treeline—my nerves are shot.
“Get inside,” I hiss, unlocking the door and waving him in like he’s Dracula and I’ve just thrown open the crypt.
He ducks under the frame and instantly sniffs the air.
“You have cheese.”
“You smell that?”
He ignores me, lumbers into the kitchen, and proceeds to empty the entire contents of my fridge like a linebacker on cheat day. Yogurt? Gone. Ham slices? Devoured. A Tupperware of questionable casserole? Disappeared without comment.
“Dude! Save some for the humans!”
He finishes chewing, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “Your rations are... modest. But nourishing.”
“They’re for me!”
“I will replace them.”
“How? With what? Money?”
He doesn’t answer. Just grins.
We sit in awkward silence while I nurse a cup of tea and he examines every single object in my living room like it’s an alien artifact. The TV remote fascinates him. He presses buttons randomly and flinches when the screen lights up.
“This box shows visions.”
“That’s basic cable.”
He turns to me, eyes glittering. “Your world is... strange. Loud. But you are brave.”
I arch a brow. “How do you figure?”
“You stood your ground. Twice now. Against beasts you cannot fight. You did not flee. That is the heart of a warrior.”
I try not to blush. “I’m a librarian.”
“Then your enemies are ignorance and dust. Both worthy foes.”
“Okay,” I say, snorting. “You’re a lot.”
“I am Kursk.”
“Yeah. You mentioned.”
He leans forward slightly, eyes steady. “You are different than I expected.”
“And you’re a lot more polite than someone who kicks in bathrooms and tongue-bombs strangers should be.”
He smiles at that. And I hate how charming it is.
There’s a weird comfort in his presence now. The room feels smaller with him in it, sure—but it also feels... safer. Like if that rotting thing came back tonight, he’d punch it through a wall.
And maybe that’s what scares me most.
Because something tells me this isn’t the weirdest part of the night.
It’s only the beginning.