Death Kissed

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  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 with a kelpie and the one elf he could get on the phone was being coy. “There’s also a tall woman dressed in black.”

  “Oh,” Lennart said. “I thought kelpies were all male.”

  So the woman might also be a kelpie? “They carry swords?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lennart said.

  “One of you going to come out here and zap the kelpies for me?” He turned into the main parking area and pulled up next to Brad Anderson’s truck and trailer. “Axlam brought the wife and kids dinner and I’d like to partake.”

  Lennart smacked his lips. “A better choice for the evening, Sheriff Martinez. You have been awake too long. You need food and sleep. Go home. Let one of us deal with the interlopers.”

  “That’d be nice,” Ed said. He shouldn’t be short with an elf, especially an elf who had disobeyed an order so as to help Ed’s daughter, but he really would like to go home. “I can’t. State Patrol and Hubbard County got calls. State Patrol’s tied up with the last accident out on 34 but they have someone on the way. This is officially a law enforcement issue.”

  “Not if they are kelpies,” Lennart said.

  “I’m already here.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Lennart. “You should be safe. Kelpies affect women. They like to argue, though, so do your best to ignore them.”

  “Will do,” Ed answered.

  “And stay back,”

  “I plan to,” Ed said.

  “I will check who is available and call you back.”

  Lennart hung up.

  Ed looked at his phone. Damned elves and their dislike of technology.

  He looked around the parking area and clicked his radio. “Nothing out of the ordinary yet at the south entrance, Tracy,” he said.

  A tiny voice in the back of Ed’s mind told him to suit up. A ballistic vest would only be valuable if the Andersons were carrying. Which they might be. They had a history of ignoring laws they didn’t like.

  The Alfheim County Sheriff’s Department operated with more resources than the surrounding counties simply because the elves optimized within a standard county budget. Plus his resources, in particular, carried enchantments.

  He was driving the cruiser this weekend because his normal department SUV was “in the shop,” in the process of getting yet another layer of magical extras. The elves were “adding protections.” What, he didn’t know. But part of the aftermath of the incident had been stronger anti-vampire magicks. Ten years in Alfheim and the elves were still sticklers about making sure he and his family were safe.

  Safety his family would no longer have access to if he took the family back to Texas.

  He rubbed his face. He really did need sleep.

  Flashlight in hand, he stepped out of his cruiser and opened the trunk. These were kelpies, not vampires, but they were still dark magicals.

  He unlocked his shotgun before popping open his specialty safe.

  From the outside, it looked like any standard-issue trunk-mounted gun safe, except when the sun hit it just right and the runes became visible—the runes that, like so many of his upgraded enchantments, were added after the incident.

  The elves d
idn’t know about his stash of specialty shells, though.

  He loaded in his cold iron- and silver-containing fae shells and quickly read through the checklist he’d taped to the inside of the safe: Don’t take or offer food. Don’t take or offer favors, boons, or advice. Don’t get close enough to allow the fae to touch you. And most important: Do not, for any reason, make a deal.

  Specific fae had specific issues, but his list should keep him safe until elven backup arrived.

  Rumbling echoed through the trees. Headlight beams appeared.

  Snowmobiles approached.

  Ed slammed the cruiser’s trunk and shouldered the shotgun as he walked toward the head of the trail to await their fae visitors.

  Chapter 13

  Wrenn Goodfellow tossed up a simple shield spell to minimize the cold wind hitting her face. She didn’t have anything anywhere near as powerful as the wedge spell Robin had used to keep them safe from the kelpie stampede, but she could at least keep the snow out of her eyes.

  The three mundanes rode their one remaining snowmobile, and even though they fell behind, they hadn’t veered off or stopped. They’d catch up sooner or later and cause more problems.

  Up ahead a trail sign came into view, pointing southwest toward a parking area. A plume of magic rose off Ranger as he stood on the snowmobile’s sideboards and sniffed the air slamming into his face. Then he spun the vehicle around a tree and took off down the signed trail.

  Ranger looked over his shoulder, saluted, and sped toward the waiting cars.

  He was going to steal a new vehicle. But why? She was pretty sure elves were going to show up any minute now.

  Over her two centuries, she’d had only one decidedly unpleasant interaction with an elf, a French male descended from the enclave established alongside the Norse colony that became Normandy.

  They’d crossed paths in Paris. He’d been nonchalant about pretty much everything, not caring about fae, or vampires, or other elves. Mostly he’d been just another pretty male doing boring, subversively violent, pretty male things.

  Her hopes really weren’t much higher for American elves. Especially American elves who harbored not only vampires, but also Victor’s first monster.

  The American over-inflated sense of entitlement meant they thought they could make anyone and everyone do what they wanted. Such grandiose foolishness was annoying when mundanes did it and outright dangerous when magicals were involved.

  Still, she didn’t have the magic to return a kelpie to Oberon’s Castle. She’d need to get Ranger to the gate at the tavern. Or worse—she’d need elven help.

  But what would help from these particular elves mean? The fact that she was carrying one of their swords was probably going to set off a major political tiff between the enclaves and King Oberon no matter how Wrenn handled the situation. And then there was the question of Victor’s creation.

  Would they allow her near the monster? They’d protected vampires. Were they protecting a creature just as evil? Why?

  This might be her only chance to find answers.

  Yet she couldn’t let Ranger get away. The threat of a kelpie-vampire alliance and a blood syndicate moving magical blood far outweighed any personal need on her part.

  She bumped along the frozen ground and followed Ranger onto the trail. They rounded a curve into an open area—and right into the blinding beam of a military-grade flashlight shining from a parking lot a good twenty feet away.

  A flashlight held by a mundane against the barrel of a shotgun. “Alfheim County Sheriff!” he shouted. “Turn off the snowmobiles and put your hands in the air! Now!”

  Ranger pulled his vehicle around so it faced the lawman and turned it off. He did not raise his hands.

  Wrenn pulled up parallel to the kelpie, but far enough away he couldn’t jump her and roll her off the snowmobile.

  Ranger pointed at the officer. “Will ye look at that!” he called. “They sent their pet sheriff t’ take care o’ us!”

  The officer kept the light mostly on Ranger. “Identify yourselves.” He leaned his head to the side and said something into his shoulder-mounted radio.

  “Now, now, laddie, yer gonnae need t’ do better than that,” Ranger crooned. He didn’t seem one bit concerned about the shotgun.

  Wrenn didn’t have a lot of experience with guns. They were close to useless when dealing with vampires and fae unless they were specially modified and took specially enchanted ammunition.

  You had to get up and personal when dealing with the darkness of the universe.

  No overt magic wafted off the officer, so he wasn’t carrying any specific, strong enchantments. If the elves had granted him smaller magicks, she couldn’t see them through the glare of his light. “My name is Wrenn Goodfellow,” she said. “I’m…” How to identify herself in a way that would make sense to someone who knew about magic, but would mean nothing to a regular mundane? “I’m also… law enforcement… where we come from.”

  Hopefully, the pauses would get across what she needed to communicate.

  The officer said something about “needing points out here” into his radio.

  Points? Was that a reference to the pointy ears of elves? “I’m assuming you understand what… law enforcement… means?” Wrenn asked.

  “Yes,” said the officer.

  Ranger sniffed at the air again. “How many elves did ye call in, little man?” He sniffed again. “The reek o’ these infernal hell-beasts,” he slapped the handlebars of his snowmobile, “is keepin’ me from countin’.” He leaned toward Wrenn. “Gotta catch ’em all, ye know, sweetling.”

  He winked.

  The three mundanes roared into the clearing. They buzzed their snowmobile back and forth across the head of the trail a few times before stopping.

  The driver flipped up the mask of his helmet. “Those are my snowmobiles, Sheriff!” he yelled.

  “I know, Brad Anderson,” the officer responded. “Now give these two a wide berth and come around to the parking lot.”

  One of the passengers pointed at Wrenn. “She stuck her fancy-ass sword through my cargo case!”

  “So give her a wide berth and come around to the parking lot, will ya?” the officer said.

  The same kid pointed at Ranger. “That one headlocked Dad with his thighs and he’s got nothing on under that skirt of his!”

  Ranger chuckled.

  The flashlight beam landed squarely on Ranger. “Let the man talk.”

  Ranger shrugged and smoothed the front of his polo shirt. “It’s brisk here!” He looked over his shoulder directly at the three mundanes. “Best if we all went in t’ warm up wi’ some whiskey, eh, boys? Talk about th’ local lassies, aye?”

  An enthrallment wave washed off his kelpie body.

  He couldn’t affect men. Or could he? The vamped kelpie in the tavern had enthralled everyone, male and female. But Ranger wasn’t a vampire.

  Wrenn swung her leg over her snowmobile. The sword hadn’t talked to her, or glowed, or done anything at all since she’d thrust it into the case. The emerald magic around its hilt had dimmed down to nothing more than a faint shimmer, too.

  She pulled it out and pointed it at Ranger.

  “Hey!” the one the officer had called Brad Anderson yelled. “You let him be!”

  Ranger had definitely affected the men.

  The kelpie snickered. “Hey, officer! This woman is gonnae manhandle me!”

  The officer did not move from his location on the edge of the lot. “I can see that,” he said.

  Ranger frowned as if he’d expected the officer to be as affected as the three on the snowmobile. “That’s disappointin’.”

  Brad Anderson revved his snowmobile. “Unhand him, harpy, or Brad Jr. and Connor here will have words with you!”

  “Unhand him, harpy?” the officer said, and aimed his shotgun. “What’d you do to them?”

  Ranger smiled. “Bradley, Bradley Jr., an’ Connor. Hmmm….”

  It couldn’t be their Scott
ish names that allowed the enthralling. Magic didn’t work that way.

  Ranger rolled his eyes. “It’s easy t’ trigger aggression in like-minded men.”

  Wrenn was well-aware of like-minded men. Victor had been a like-minded man.

  The officer briefly threw the beam of his light onto the mundanes. “You Anderson boys turn off your snowmobile. Now!”

  The driver turned off the engine. “This is all because they hired one of you,” he said.

  Disdain dripped off one of you.

  “We aren’t going to start with that, now are we, Brad Anderson?” the officer called.

  The two boys got off the back and stepped away from the snowmobile.

  Another wave of enthralling rolled off Ranger.

  If she didn’t get this under control, the kelpie would get these mundanes to kill each other before any elf showed up. So Wrenn did the only thing she could think of that might make a real difference: She reached for the braided leather around Ranger’s neck.

  Ranger pushed his near shoulder toward Wrenn’s body and lowered a hand to grab for the wrist of her sword hand.

  He twisted. Her free hand flew by his neck.

  Ranger grabbed both her wrists, one in each hand, and held her arms out, locked into position and unable to use the sword or throw up a protection spell.

  She should be able to overpower him. He hadn’t been vamped. He was strong—all kelpies were strong—but she’d been chosen as a paladin because very few fae could physically match her strength. Yet she couldn’t move.

  She yanked. His biceps under the cuffs of his polo shirt bulged. But he held on.

  Ranger pushed his face directly into her breasts. “Why is it ye can ignore me, lass?” he crooned.

  Waves of shock rolled through Wrenn. He nuzzled and rubbed and murmured but didn’t harm. But he was harming. He held her hands. And—

  Behind them, the Andersons laughed.

  “Let. Go. Ranger!” Wrenn yelled directly into his ear.

  Ranger chuckled as he rubbed his face against her chest again.

  “Let go of the lady, Ranger,” the officer called.