Bill waved from the cab of the truck. Ed waved back, and then to the two tourists who’d spun their Audi into the ditch on the other side of the road. They were an older couple whose youngest had just started college, and they’d come up north for Alfheim’s Halloween festivities.
The festivities around here were more Samhain than Halloween, but “the mundanes” didn’t need to know that, as the elves like to say.
Ed rubbed at his stocking cap’s Alfheim County Sheriff’s Department logo, situated on his forehead like some sort of authoritative third eye—which wasn’t as authoritative with the locals as he liked.
He’d been on duty for almost a full twenty-four hours. He’d caught a few naps in his cruiser, but between the fright with his daughter last night, the blizzard, the werewolves and their run, the elves and Samhain, all the traffic problems…
The tourist wife had said it was a brand-new Audi and they hadn’t quite gotten the feel of it yet. Then the husband shrugged and launched into a story about the good old days and the Great Halloween Blizzard of ’91.
Bill would take the car into Magnus Freyrsson’s dealership, and the shuttle would take them to the resort where they were staying, which also happened to be owned by Magnus Freyrsson. They’d get a complimentary bottle from the local winery and a calming massage from one of the elves who worked in the resort’s spa.
And then this wealthy couple who spent most of their days crunching numbers for one of the big banks in St. Paul would be so charmed they would never again spend tourism dollars somewhere not elf-approved.
And thus was the way of Alfheim, and in particular, the way of the local elven aspect of the Norse god Freyr.
Ed waved again as Bill, his truck, and the drive-train-addled Audi pulled away.
There’d be more ice on the roads overnight. Probably another accident or two. He rubbed at his head again. Minnesotans like to talk up how good they were on ice—and they were, mostly—but come the first real storm of the season and half the state ended up with busted taillights, smashed bumpers, and whiplash.
Ed squeezed his hands and shook out his fingers. His gloves did their job—they’d been charmed by the local Elf Queen herself—and he would never suffer frostbite or even a chilly tingle. The elves always charmed his family’s winter gear. Said it was one of the perks of being one of the handful of mundanes in town who understood magic. But mostly it seemed a bit paternalistic.
Still, none of his kids ever got cold toes.
They were all home today, with school called, after last night’s ordeal.
He dialed home.
Gabriel, his soon-to-be thirteen-year-old, answered. “Papa!” he said.
“Just pulled the last tourist out of a ditch,” Ed said.
Rustling echoed through the connection as Gabe grabbed his tablet. “Ready,” he said.
“Audi A8L,” Ed said.
“Ohhhhh….” Gabe responded. “Not bad.”
Ed chuckled. Gabe had a friend in Grand Marais he’d met in 4-H and they were collecting data about tourist spending in Alfheim versus what they spent up on the North Shore.
Ed didn’t know how “cars driven by tourists who get into accidents” fit into the whole giant science-fair-board of a presentation, but Gabe seemed to be enjoying collecting the data. “Brand-new, too. Less than five hundred miles on it.”
“That’s a shame,” Gabe said. “Mr. Freyrsson’s people will fix it right up.” He paused. “Brandon says Cook County had only three accidents.”
Brandon was his friend in Grand Marais who was funneling Gabe North Shore stats.
“Do you think the… locals… have something to do with the higher accident rate here during storms?” Gabe asked.
They did not use terms like “magical” or “elf” or “werewolf” when communicating in any way other than face-to-face. Even a hint getting out about anything out of the ordinary would cause repercussions.
What those repercussions might be, Ed didn’t know, mostly because no one had ever leaked the existence of elves to the wider world.
It was all very circular, the control the elves had on Alfheim County.
“Hmm…” Ed said.
“They might not realize,” Gabe said. “It might not be intended.” Excitement peppered his voice. “Wouldn’t it be cool if I found something they didn’t know about?” He shuffled something around. “I’m going to put together a presentation for Mayor Tyrsdottir.”
No asking permission. No running it by the elf at school who ran the 4-H program. Just an “I’m gonna point this out to the Elf Queen of Alfheim,” as if they would hold young Gabriel Martinez in high enough esteem to listen.
Dagrun Tyrsdottir would listen. Then she’d tell Ed to get real stats, and that would be the end of it because they probably did know, and the knowing part was way above Ed’s pay grade, much less his son’s.
Gabe presenting the data in a coherent form, even if it never led to a decrease in traffic accidents in Alfheim County, would at least look good for future college applications. “Call her office once it’s ready,” Ed said.
“I will,” Gabe said. “Can I get official accident reports? Legally, I mean?”
Ed rubbed at the logo on his hat again. “Let’s talk about that later.” They had a lot to talk about, his family. About last night. About what was happening with Gabe’s sister, Sophia. About the new baby and the very real chance that Ed might be dealing with the tourists from The Cities on their home turf sometime soon.
But he and Isabella hadn’t talked to the kids yet about the possibility of leaving Alfheim for the Greater Minneapolis-St. Paul Metropolitan Statistical Area.
“Okay,” Gabe said. “Are you going to be home for dinner? Jax and his mom brought over digaag duban, rice, and cardamom cookies so Mom wouldn’t have to cook.”
“Axlam’s up?” Ed asked. That woman should still be sleeping off last night’s run. But then again, there was a reason Axlam Geroux was an
