Chapter 9 Olivia
OLIVIA
There are bad days. And then there’s sneaking a seven-foot orc into a public library after dark while bribing teenage delinquents with Hot Pockets and trying not to trigger ancient, potentially apocalyptic magic wards. Yeah. Top ten, easily.
“You realize this is breaking and entering, right?” I whisper, nudging the door shut behind me with my hip while Kursk ducks under the frame with a grunt. The poor guy has to fold himself like origami to make it through. “And I work here.”
“You hold dominion over this fortress,” Kursk says, gaze sweeping the stacks like he’s expecting an ambush from the biography section. “Your authority is law.”
“Pretty sure my authority ends when I start committing felonies,” I mutter.
“I do not know this ‘felony.’ Is it a rival tribe?”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I hear snickering from the back corner.
Booger and Burnout.
Of course.
They’re supposed to be doing homework—probably for the third time this month after failing the first two times—but from the giant boobs doodled on the whiteboard and the open Monster Energy cans scattered like confetti, I know they’ve been up to anything but studying.
Booger squints at Kursk. “Yo… is that the WWE dude you were talking about?”
Burnout drops his marker. “Dude, that guy’s jacked. Like, extra-jacked. Like—”
“Not another word,” I snap.
But it’s too late. They’re already circling Kursk like two cats who just saw the world’s largest can opener.
Burnout grins up at him. “You look like you could deadlift my mom’s SUV.”
“She owns an SUV?” Booger blinks.
“Shut up, Booger.”
I sigh and yank open the break room mini-freezer. “If you two promise not to say anything to anyone about what you saw tonight, I will give you each a Hot Pocket and the WiFi password for the restricted staff network.”
They freeze.
I’ve got them.
Kursk, meanwhile, is already pacing the stacks, spear in hand—veiled by illusion, thank God, or the sight of an ancient, rune-carved weapon in the nonfiction section would probably get us all murdered by SWAT.
“This ground… hums,” he mutters, kneeling to press his palm to the floor.
“It’s linoleum,” I say, but then the hairs on my arms rise. The floor does feel… weird. Warm, almost. And wrong.
I retreat to the computer terminal while Kursk begins tracing glowing red runes through the air, whispering in that deep, rolling language of his. It sends chills down my spine—but not the bad kind.
I dive into town records, digging through digitized property purchases and old zoning maps. It’s dry work, but I’ve done this kind of research a thousand times.
What I find makes my blood turn to ice.
Every property Calvin’s developed over the last ten years—including the shiny house we just snooped—sits directly on ancient Veil faultlines. Magical stress points. Weak spots between realms.
He’s not just gentrifying Walnut Falls.
He’s turning it into a damned energy farm.
“Holy hell,” I whisper, printing the files. “Kursk—he’s using the land. He’s feeding something.”
The lights flicker.
And then… chaos.
“Oops,” Booger says.
I turn to find him staring at a shimmering circle of red and black etched on the floor—runes still glowing.
Burnout looks sheepish. “I might’ve spilled some Monster on it.”
“You what?!”
Before anyone can scream or curse or run, the circle ignites.
The lights explode—every bulb shattering in a symphony of cracking glass and ozone. The building shakes. Wind whips from nowhere, knocking papers into a cyclone of chaos.
And then it appears.
A ghost. No—worse. A thing, half-seen, flickering like a bad VHS tape, crawling from the runes on too-long limbs. Its mouth isn’t on its face—it is its face. Its voice is just a high-pitched whine of despair.
Burnout shrieks. “OH MY GOD IT’S A HELL GOBLIN.”
I can’t move. I’m frozen. The thing lunges and Kursk moves.
He hits it like a freight train, spear flaring with silvery light—but he doesn’t stab. No time. He slams it into the wall, grabs the fire extinguisher I’d kept by the staff fridge, and blasts the thing full force in the face.
The hiss of cold foam drowns the thing’s wail.
It thrashes. Flickers.
Then vanishes with a pop and a final shriek, like someone yanking a plug from a screaming TV.
Silence.
Smoke.
Then Burnout, voice cracking: “That… was… METAL.”
Booger claps. “Teach me your moves, sensei.”
Kursk turns slowly, smoke curling around him like a battlefield god. “You are unworthy.”
After we sweep up the broken bulbs and silence the emergency alarms (thank you, ancient breakers and my knowledge of outdated circuits), Kursk and I gather the data.
The ley lines. The properties. The corrupted magic.
“It’s worse than I thought,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “He’s not just screwing the town—he’s giving the Vorfaluka roots.”
“He is no fool,” Kursk growls, frowning at the glowing blueprints. “He is a weapon. And like all weapons… he must be unmade.”
“I don’t know if he’s doing it on purpose,” I admit. “But the effect is the same.”
We stand in silence.
The boys finally crash on beanbags in the back, muttering about kung-fu orcs and boobs made of fire.
I look at Kursk. He’s staring at me again.
That look.
Like I’m something he can’t quite believe but wants to anyway.
“You did well tonight,” he says softly. “Bravery… is rare. Even in my world.”
I blink. “Thanks.”
A pause.
Then he reaches out, takes my hand, and gently lifts it to his lips.
He kisses my wrist—just there, where the pulse beats fast and foolish.
Not a spell. Not necessity.
Something else.
My breath hitches. My heart does that stupid flutter thing again.
I say nothing.
Because there’s too much to say, and none of it safe.