The snowmobile in front stopped. The driver dropped his feet and flipped up the visor on his helmet. “You two alright? You drop out of a plane or some—”
Ranger’s boot hit the front of the snowmobile. He twisted his hip, swung his other leg, and wrapped it around the man’s head.
They smacked into the ground hard enough that a bulging semi-puff of slushy snow welled up around them.
The kelpie was on the snowmobile before she could get close enough to pull him away. “Ranger!” she yelled.
The kelpie saluted again. He looked at one side of the bright yellow overly-decaled vehicle, then the other. Then he turned the snowmobile south.
The second snowmobiler stopped next to his friend still lying in the snow. “Who the hell are you—”
This man’s garishly red vehicle carried a cargo box behind the seat. In one twisting movement, Wrenn pulled him off his snowmobile and slammed the sword perpendicularly into the box. Red stuck out of the box like Excalibur from the stone.
“Da hell, lady!” the owner of the red vehicle yelled.
The emerald magic around the hilt wove itself down the blade, crisscrossing and braiding until it made its own sheath, and then around the cargo box.
At least she wouldn’t fall off.
“Stay out of his way.” She pointed at the departing Ranger. “He’s dangerous.”
The only one still on his snowmobile dug around in his jacket as if looking for his phone.
Wrenn glanced at the vehicle’s controls. It didn’t look all that different from a motorcycle.
She put the snowmobile in gear and chased the kelpie south.
Chapter 12
Ed Martinez turned off his siren and lights as he approached the parking area at the southern end of the Paul Bunyan State Forest.
The trees had mostly lost their leaves and stood as the towering skeletal framework holding up this part of the world. Northern Minnesota, at least east of Thief River Falls, was a quilt of state and national parks, natural and scientific regions, and land managed by the tribes. The air was fresher up here. Get within half a state of Canada and the world cleaned up nice.
Ed’s radio crackled. “Okay, so,” Tracy at dispatch continued. “Seems the guy in the kilt and the woman with the big honkin’ sword stole two of Brad Anderson’s snowmobiles. His son said the two thieves fell out of the sky or somethin’ like that.”
Magicals did like to make an entrance. Or Brad and his boys were drunk.
“Copy,” Ed responded.
Tracy continued: “Suspects are headin’ south. Both snowmobiles are Arctic Cats. One red. One yellow.”
South meant that if they followed the trails, they would most likely come out in this parking area. Ed rubbed his forehead again. “Which Brad Anderson?” There were at least ten in the city of Alfheim alone. Some of them were more credible than others.
Because he’d have to spin this, no matter what, with the sword.
“The one who owns the bait shop out on 107,” Tracy said.
That particular Brad Anderson was in fact a drunk who loved to yell at tourists. He’d been banned from multiple restaurants and lodges for bellowing Deep State stupidity and ranting about every idiotic conspiracy theory he found on the internet.
His two sons weren’t much better.
“Are we sure the Andersons haven’t been hitting the pale ale while out destroying nature’s wonders?”
“I was thinkin’ that too, but Hubbard County got three separate calls from Manny’s Lodge patrons sayin’ they saw a flash and then somethin’ fallin’ into the trees,” Tracy said.
This was going to take a lot of spin. “Great,” Ed said.
“Brad said the sword looked kinda fancy.”
A huge fancy sword. A claymore, perhaps? “Any signs, Tracy?”
Tracey knew that “signs” meant overt usage of magic. “Nope. No points either, Sheriff,” she answered.
Points, as in pointy ears, so no elves involved.
He turned onto the park’s southern access road. “All right. Out.” He dug out his cell phone and dialed the Elf King himself, Arne Odinsson.
The call went to voicemail. “We got a situation in Paul Bunyan,” Ed said, and hung up.
Magnus Freyrsson’s number also went to voicemail. Ed left the same message.
He got through to Lennart Thorsson, an elf who, when he answered, said exactly what Ed was expecting him to say: “We have a fae problem.”
“Color me surprised,” Ed answered.
Lennart snorted. “Bjorn, Arne, and Magnus are working on it.”
No details. Not because the elves held to their rule about no talking about magic over open airwaves, but because they were all so private. They shared only what they deemed valuable, which more often than not meant they shared less than what he needed to do his job.
A lot less.
At least Lennart attempted to understand. But he was an elf, and like all magical creatures everywhere, he was constrained by his nature.
It was still annoying.
“Working on what, Lennart?” Ed asked. “I need to know what I’m driving into here.”
Lennart paused. “There was a kelpie. Bjorn says it’s gone.”
Bjorn Thorsson was the elder elf who owned Raven’s Gaze Brewery and Pub. He pretty much embodied Thor’s man-of-the-people vibe, where Lennart was more artistic and storm-like.
“A frickin’ kelpie?” Ed said. “The murdering and raping type or the bad-boy boyfriend romance-novel type?” Because every kind of magical came in every possible flavor, and right now, he’d much rather deal with an arrogant Scottish dude with a mouth than some dark fae who was about to take up residence in the local lakes.
“It’s gone, Ed. Bjorn was tracking it until it up and disappeared. Which it shouldn’t be able to do on its own, by the way. They’re powerful, but they can’t open portals or gates on their own. There’s no trace left.”
Great, Ed thought. “We have a guy in a kilt in Paul Bunyan who, according to good old Brad Anderson, fell out of the sky.”
Lennart paused. “Which one? There’s a lot of Brad Andersons in town.”
Now Ed sighed. He was on his way to deal
