The gun is heavy in my hand, making me painfully aware of my bruised shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the pain and step toward Bogof’s enormous back.

Pressing the barrel against the mountain of flesh, I hiss, “If you move another inch or make a peep, you die.”

Bogof freezes in place.

I drag the barrel across his back to press it to his head—though I’m forced to rise on tiptoes to actually reach it. Channeling Clint Eastwood, I whisper, “That’s a .44 Magnum, punk.”

The orc raises his bulging arms above his head. “I should’ve just let you drown,” he snarls under his breath.

Did he just say what I think he said? All this adrenaline is making it hard to focus, but I think Bogof just admitted to giving me the inexplicable CPR—and likely also pushing me into the water in the first place.

That huge back does look awfully familiar.

In front of us, the other four orcs are within an arm’s length of Nero.

Nero’s face isn’t visible from my vantage point, but he doesn’t seem tense enough for the situation. He just approaches the mugger orc—the largest of the five specimens in front of me—and for a moment, the two of them stand there, staring at each other with their chests sticking out, like roosters right before a brawl.

I realize a big flaw in my whole rescue plan. If I shoot at any of the four orcs next to Nero, with my aim, I’m just as likely to hit him instead of them.

Well, at least I’ve got Bogof under control. Plus, I can shoot in the air and try to scare them off; they don’t know how bad of a shot I am.

“You weren’t supposed to harm her,” Nero growls at the mugger orc, startling me so much I nearly drop the gun. His vicious tone raises gooseflesh on the back of my neck, and it takes me a moment to register what he’s actually saying.

The gun feels like it’s gaining a pound with each moment. Who is this “her” Nero’s referring to? It can’t possibly be—

The mugger’s shoulders stoop. “I—”

“You gave her a bruise, you fucking imbecile.” If nearby windows cracked at Nero’s guttural roar, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Hand shaking, I try to make sense of what’s happening.

My boss just mentioned a bruise.

I have a bruise.

Before I can further parse the significance of what Nero just roared, he does something.

Something preternaturally fast.

One second, the mugger-orc is growling some reply, the next, his head blows up into little pieces—blood and brain matter spraying the rest of the group like a broken fire hydrant.

Nero moves again.

Even with the blur of his speed, his arm looks wrong. It’s bigger than usual, and I spot a glimmer of something like claws or talons.

Whatever Nero does, the result is that the rest of the mugger’s body rains on the ground as though someone detonated a bomb inside him.

The dog walker orc’s giant hands ball into fists the size of my head. “He just did what you—”

Nero blurs toward him, and the dog walker’s body explodes into small chunks of orc flesh and broken bone.

I’m so shocked by the severity of this violence that I nearly unload my gun into Bogof—though what I really want to do is drop the gun and run.

The computer that is my brain is crashing. A small voice of rationality reminds me about a factoid I completely forgot in my rush here.

Everyone always walks on eggshells around Nero—and I’m now seeing why.

The female orc shouts something, but her scream turns into a bloody gurgle as her head flies in one direction and her shredded body in the other.

The construction site orc seems to be the smartest and tries to run toward me and Bogof.

He doesn’t make it more than a yard before Nero catches him. My boss’s movements are still blurry, but the result is all too vivid—another orc turns into an orc kebab, gore spraying in every direction.

Bogof is shaking.

My own heart is in my throat.

Still covered in orc blood and meat, Nero turns toward us—the savage expression in his blue-gray eyes not even remotely human.

Bogof must realize that death by my bullet might be preferable to what Nero has in mind, so he turns.

Frozen, I only have time to realize his green skin isn’t covered by makeup before he opens his mouth in front of my gun.

There are significantly more than thirty-two teeth in his maw, plus tusks—something his stealthier kin must’ve filed down.

For a second, it looks like he wants me to shoot him in the back of the throat, suicide style. Instead, he chomps down on the gun.

The crunch of twisted metal on bone makes the fabled nails on the chalkboard sound heavenly in comparison.

Unblinking, I process the impossible end result.

Half of my gun is in Bogof’s mouth, and the other half remains in my sweat-slicked hand as the orc’s enormous arms start to close around me.

I’m so shocked by the fact that orc jaws and teeth are strong enough to bite through steel that I finally squeeze the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Bogof spits out the chewed-up metal and leans in, bathing me with his putrid breath.

I throw the remnants of my gun at his protruding forehead.

Bogof doesn’t even blink. Instead, his giant arms complete the earlier hug-like motion, crushing me against his enormous body.

Without giving me a chance to say goodbye to life, he reopens his maw above my head.