Page 4 of Vargan

I struggle to my feet, fury giving me strength where my muscles want to fail. Victor is ready, though, and the electric prod connects with my chest before I can stand. This time the shock is longer, stronger. My back arches, a roar of pain tearing from my throat before I collapse to the floor.

"Savvy," Victor says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather, "you might want to educate your animal on how this town works before he gets himself killed... or worse."

Footsteps recede. The door creaks. They're gone.

I try to push myself up, but my arms won't cooperate. My head feels like it's full of static. I manage to lift it just enough to see Savvy standing there, tears streaming down her face as she looks at me. Behind her, the cook has finally emerged from behind the counter, a dish towel clutched in her trembling hands, looking horrified at what she was too frightened to stop.

Through the window behind them, I see Victor and Royce in the parking lot. Victor slides behind the wheel of a massive black pickup truck while Royce climbs into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life. They're leaving, I think hazily. Then the truck lurches forward, tires squealing—straight for my motorcycle.

The crash of metal on metal is deafening even through the diner walls. My bike—my custom-built escape route, my one chance at freedom—crumples under the truck's weight like it's made of paper. Victor backs up and rams it again, pushing what's left of the machine across the pavement in a shower of sparks and broken parts.

My vision darkens at the edges. I'm not getting out of Shadow Ridge today. Maybe not ever.

I try to speak, to tell her I'm fine, to tell her to run, but darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.

The last thing I see is Savvy rushing toward me before everything goes black.

Chapter Two

Savvy

I'm still shaking when the diner door slams behind Victor and Royce. The sound of metal crunching in the parking lot makes me flinch—another reminder of what those monsters are capable of. Not the green one lying unconscious on my diner floor—the human ones.

"Oh God," I whisper, rushing to kneel beside him. Vargan. That's what his name badge on his leather jacket says.

He's massive, even sprawled across the linoleum like this. I've never been this close to an Orc before. His skin is a deep olive-green with gold flecks that catch in the fluorescent lighting. The tusks protruding from his lower jaw should terrify me, but all I can think about is how he stood up for me when no one else would.

"Hey," I say, gently shaking his shoulder. "Vargan, wake up."

His eyes flutter open—amber, like honey in sunlight—and focus on me with startling clarity.

"Can you stand?" I ask.

He grunts, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Been through worse."

I slide my arm under his shoulder, which is like trying to lift a mountain. He allows it, though I know my help is mostly symbolic. Together we get him to his feet. He sways slightly, one hand going to his ribs.

"Your bike," I say, glancing toward the parking lot. "They hit it with their truck."

His jaw tightens, tusks glinting. "I saw."

Behind the counter, Helen, my second waitress, emerges from where she'd been hiding, her face pale with shock. "Savvy, are you alright? Should I call the sheriff?"

I shake my head. "You know that won't help. Sheriff Dawson is Victor's puppet." I look at her trembling hands. "You should go home, Helen. I'll close up."

She hesitates, looking between me and Vargan. "You sure?"

"Go," I say firmly. "I've already had a hard enough time keeping a cook in this diner. I'm pretty sure that one won't be back after tonight," I add, nodding toward the kitchen where our latest fry cook had already fled through the back door. "I can't afford to lose you too."

Helen nods, grabbing her purse from under the counter. "Call me if you need anything," she says, giving Vargan one last wary look before slipping out the door.

I guide him outside, his weight heavy against me. The sun is setting, casting shadows across what's left of his motorcycle. It's a mangled heap of metal and chrome, the custom work obvious even to my untrained eye. This wasn't just transportation—this was craftsmanship.

"Can it be fixed?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

He pulls away from me to kneel beside the wreckage, running a massive hand over a twisted piece of metal that might haveonce been a handlebar. "Yes. With time, tools, parts." He looks up at me. "Is there a mechanic in town?"

I shake my head. "Silas Granger had a shop, but Victor ran him out last year. Raised his rent until he couldn't pay."

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