Page 1 of Thankful for My Orc
Prologue: Up To Now…
Over twenty-five years ago,the sky over the Mojave tore open and five thousand Others spilled onto the desert floor in what people would come to call The Rift. Many species appeared on the desert sand: orcs, nagas, minotaurs, wolven, and others that had no basis in any of our folktales.
It wasn’t an invasion. No armies. No demands. Just people: shocked, some half-dressed, speaking languages no one knew.
The first human response was fear. The second was fencing. A federal task force corralled the newcomers into a ten-block area on the edge of Los Angeles. The government euphemistically called it the “Integration Zone.” Everyone else just called it the Zone.
For a long time, “integration” meant permits, patrols, and paperwork. Curfews. Menial jobs. Learning English while thecity learned to look away. And outside the fences, a chorus of purists shouting to deport them, euthanize them, erase the problem. Some days it was slogans and petitions; some nights it was slurs, smashed windows, and fires no one admitted starting.
But the world keeps moving, even when policy tries to hold it still. Kids grew up. Markets opened. Workshops hummed. A few humans drifted in for cheap rent or good food and stayed for the stubborn, vibrant community that refused to die.
Orcs brought craft guilds; naga formed councils; minotaurs taught rhythms you could feel in your ribs; and wolven ran night patrols that kept streets safer than any cruiser. Customs survived the fall: elders still teaching the old ways, aunties feeding whole blocks when money ran thin, and orc grandfathers laying ink to mark family with symbolic tattoos.
The Zone changed the city, and the city changed the Zone. Not everyone welcomed it—some still flinch at tusks or scales, and some work hard to make sure doors stay shut. Even so, more often than not, hands meet in work and care, in the small, ordinary moments that build a life.
At the center of those ordinary heroics stands Fire Station 32: the heartbeat of a neighborhood that refuses to give up.
Chapter One
Jordan
I stare at the stack of papers spread across my mahogany desk, each one a testament to another love story gone horribly wrong. The Persall divorce—married fifteen years, now fighting over who gets custody of the dog. The Bell case—he cheated with his secretary (how original). His wife is demanding half of his business. And my personal favorite, the Williams file—they’re arguing about a spoon collection. Actual spoons.
This is what love gets you. Lawyer fees and court battles over kitchen utensils.
My phone buzzes with a text from my ex-husband:Amanda found some of your stuff in the garage. When can you pick it up?
Amanda. His new wife. The woman he was probably already seeing while telling me I was “too career-focused” to make our marriage work. I delete the message without responding and reach for my coffee, which has gone cold while I’ve been reviewing the Persall financials.
“My divorce is final. The feelings? Not nearly as tidy,” I mutter to myself.
The knock on my office door comes just as I’m calculating how much Mr. Persall will owe in alimony. Riley bursts through the door like a hurricane in designer jeans, her blonde hair practically crackling with nervous energy. She doesn’t wait for permission—one of the perks of being both my paralegal and my best friend.
She’s clutching her phone to her chest and vibrating like she pre-gamed with too much espresso—never a good sign.
“I need you,” she announces without preamble.
“Good afternoon to you, too, Riley. I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just drowning in other people’s romantic disasters, but what else is new?”
She ignores my sarcasm and plops into the leather chair across from my desk. “This is serious, Jordan. Life-or-death serious.”
“Did someone die?”
“My love life.”
“Well, my dating life died eighteen months ago when David decided I was too ambitious for his taste. What catastrophe requires my immediate attention?”
She leans forward, eyes wide with desperation. “I need you to come with me to the Integration Zone’s Harvest Moon Speed Dating.”
I blink. “The what now?”
“Speed dating, Jordan. At Firehouse Station 32. Tonight.” Her words tumble out in a breathless rush. “I know how it sounds, but I have a really good reason—”
“You want to speed date Others?” I take a swallow of tepid coffee that buys me one second of sanity. “Riley, have you completely lost your mind?”
“Not Others in general. One. Very. Specific. Orc.” She’s babbling now, which means this is worse than I thought. “There’s this orc—I saw him on the noon news last week during a Station 32 community segment. He was doing the fire-safety demo—helmet off, tusk ring catching the light—and Jordan, I swear he looked right into the camera and I felt it in my soul.”
“You felt what in your soul?”
