Page 1 of Bound to the Orc Hunter

CHAPTER ONE

Grace

The delighted shrieks of small children pierce the warm evening air of the midway as the Whirling Swings ride gets up to full speed. But even their excited voices can’t mask a deeper grinding noise.

Shit. That thing’s about to break.

Rosie’s working the Ferris wheel with me, and I throw her a knowing glance. “You got this? I’m going to…” I hook a thumb toward the Swings and grimace, unwilling to say anything about a ride going to hell in front of fairgoers.

She scrunches her nose and says, “Isn’t Calvin in charge of maintenance on that ride?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to get a little alone time with him?” Her pretty, brown face breaks into a knowing grin. “Maybe crawl into a confined space together?”

I blush. Rosie’s nice, but I have no clue how to do girl talk, and it’s uncomfortable that someone guessed I like him.

“Go.” She makes a shooing motion. “The Ferris wheel’s good.”

Damn straight it is. The Ferris wheel’s my responsibility. The old girl’s motor purrs like a kitten, smooth as can be.

My pink work boots thump on the hard-packed dirt of the midway as I weave through the heavy crowd, dodging around the temporary puddles of spilled sodas and dropped ice cream. The hot-grease smell of corn dogs and funnel cake hangs ripe in the air. I used to love both, but after months of them, I’m ready for different. Hell, I might even eat a salad.

Now that it’s late summer, Stanley’s Amazing Extravaganza is finishing up the last of the state fairs up north, ready to head south to its winter spot just outside Orlando, where we spend a few months picking up the overflow of people who can’t get into Disney.

Orlando. Home. Or at least the closest thing I’ve got to one—not that it’s saying much. I rent a furnished, one-room apartment over an octogenarian’s garage, owning little more than a suitcase of clothes.

The lights of the carnival push back the dark until everything’s bright as day, and the guys hawking games yell to be heard over the songs of the different rides.

“Step right up and show off your aim!” Emmet points to me with one tan hand, tossing a little pillow of a bean bag up and down in the other. “You, little lady. Come over here and knock over these ducks and win a prize!”

I roll my eyes at him. No one calls me “little lady” and means it. I’m almost six-feet tall and built like a linebacker. But hisballyhoo patter is all part of the show. I’m supposed to pretend to be a fairgoer, go over and play, and Emmet will give me the slightly heavier beanbags that make the moving ducks easier to knock over, so my easy win will lure the crowd.

But there’s no time. I wave no and hook a thumb toward the Whirling Swings. Emmet’s eyes narrow as the ride makes another grinding noise, and he gives me a tiny nod. Then he turns, yelling into the crowd again as I hurry on.

A little girl in front of me wobbles, her tiny sneaker catching on a groove in the dirt. Her arms flail, sending her cone of cotton candy flying.

I dive, snatching up the mass of blue fluff before it can hit the ground. All that practice catching dropped tools before they can disappear into the depths of a machine working for me now.

Her little face scrunches, her eyes already closed, gearing up for a good cry.

“Hey, now. It’s okay.” I stay crouched at her level and hold out the white paper cone topped with spun sugar. “Here’s your candy.”

She snatches it from me, taking a big bite, the floss melting as it wets. “Fank ’ou,” she mumbles around a mouthful of sugar, her parents nodding to me as well.

Then I’m up and hurrying through the crowd again.

The ride’s winding down, slowing enough that the people in the swings are no longer flung outward horizontally, their bodies dropping until their feet point toward the ground.

A full-body wince shudders through me as the spinning comes to a jerky halt with one last nasty noise of metal chewing against metal. The ride goers give a startled shriek, then turn the sound into laughter, trying to convince themselves the erratic motion is all part of the ride.

But itsoisn’t.

Calvin’s standing by the exit to the Whirling Swings, tall and blond and gorgeous, with bright blue eyes and one of those chin dimple things that shouldn’t look so damned good but does. “Best ride at the fair. You try a few of those others and come right back here for another go.”

A group of teenage girls pass him, shooting him flirty looks, the bravest of them tossing her long hair back. “Will you strap me into my swing?”

“Sure will!” He smiles his toothpaste-commercial smile.

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