Page 40 of Orc Me, Maybe

Lillian’s smile vanishes. A smile I would kill to protect.

I crouch beside her. “You’re okay, baby. But I need your help. Groth needs backup at the equipment shed. Think you can give orders without yelling?”

She nods seriously. “I’ll try really hard.” Then she bolts off before I can say another word. Julie’s already standing, eyes narrowed. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “It was cast to fracture but look like standard wear. Sloppy spellwork, but intentional.”

“Renault.”

“Who else? He’s pushing for a breakdown. A reason to suspend me. Maybe get emergency powers through the board.”

Julie’s pacing now, hands clenched. “He’s got interns on-site. One of them’s his nephew. I’ve seen him loitering around gear areas with no assignment.”

“You think the kid’s doing it?”

“No. He’s nowhere near practiced enough to cast that kind of magic. But I think he’s covering for it. Or being used.”

I watch her think. It’s like watching a fire map itself.

“We need him to talk,” I say.

“I’ll get him,” she says. “If I push too hard, he’ll fold.”

“I don’t like you in the line of fire.”

She stops. “You trust me, don’t you?”

I do. That’s the problem. “You’ve got an hour,” I mutter. “I’ll prep for fallout.”

She brushes her fingers against my hand. Just once. Barely a whisper. “We’ll stop him,” she says. “We’ll save this place.” For the first time all morning, I believe her.

CHAPTER 17

JULIE

My heels sink into the soil. I told myself not to wear the suede ones. But “don’t wear suede” somehow lost to “look competent and unbothered in front of magical investors,” and now I’m standing next to a fire pit surrounded by chairs carved from reclaimed oak while my shoes soak up mud like it’s tea time.

Perfect.

Across from me, Renault is holding court with his usual smug tilt, dressed like a budget Bond villain—sleeves rolled, enchanted cufflinks, and a smile that says he thinks he already won.

He doesn’t see the trap yet.

I breathe in through my nose. Count four seconds. Exhale through pursed lips.

This campfire preview is supposed to be a soft launch. Just a low-key meet and greet for the board’s top funders and their family reps.

“No pressure,” they said. Sure. If you ignore the fact that we’re thirty-six hours out from a near-fatal equipment failure and one slippery elf in a power tie is trying to burn this place down from the inside.

I smooth down my blouse and give the clipboard a firm pat. Focus, Julie. Across the fire pit, Lillian sits in her designated “Fairy Queen” chair, blissfully unaware that she’s become my emotional support child. She’s wearing a new flower crown and humming to herself.

The fire crackles between us, a slow dance of orange and blue. The chairs start to fill. One by one, they take their seats—shifting, settling, murmuring.

The rustle of pressed robes, fine leathers, and glimmering personal wards woven into shawls. This is the old-money magical crowd. The kind who fund university libraries just to rename them after themselves.

“Miss Wren.” A board member named Thistle gives me a courteous nod.

“Glad you could join us, Mrs. Thistle,” I say, voice even. “The moonfire cider is just to the left—non-alcoholic until five p.m.”

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