Ranger pulled his face out long enough to wink up at Wrenn. “Ye’ve nae say in this, little man,” he growled.
The officer primed his gun. “Yes, I do.”
Ranger’s grip tightened to the point it hurt. “Oh, lassie—” He blinked and rolled her wrist without the sword so he could see the inside. “A token.” He looked up at her. “Because ye’re a witch, eh?”
What difference did her Heartway tokens make? “This will not end well for you,” Wrenn growled.
Ranger chuckled. “It’s cute ye think there’s an alternative.” He nodded toward the officer.
She leaned her head down. “You answer my questions and I will ask the King for lenience.”
He lifted his head. “Ye hear that, lads? The King’s gonnae go easy on dear ol’ me!” He laughed. “I’m here because o’ my King.”
His King? “Our Kings are the same king.”
His eyebrows arched and he loosened his grip slightly. Not enough to get away, but enough to indicate he was listening. “D’ye really think we dinnae have our own king? Tsk. Tsk.”
“Roll back your enthralling on these boys so we can discuss this like adults,” Wrenn said.
“Oh, luv, I only worry about th’ ones wi’ th’ downward points,” He curled his lip.
Vampires.
The officer’s radio buzzed. “Copy that,” the officer said. He flicked the light toward the Andersons. “I want you boys to sit down on the snow. Drop your asses right where you are and test out the quality of those suits you’re wearing. Got it?”
None of them moved.
Ranger blinked. His brow contorted again, and he peered at the officer. Then he looked back at the Andersons. “They said one o’ ye like he’s some kind of invader or somethin’, didnae they?”
“Let go of me, Ranger,” Wrenn said.
He shook his head. “What’s yer name, sir?” he called.
“Alfheim County Sheriff’s Department,” the officer said.
One of the Andersons pointed at the officer again. “That there is Ed-whar-do Mar-tine-ez,” he snarled out, giving extra emphasis on the syllables that must have sounded the most Spanish to their Anderson ears.
Ranger’s eyes and mouth rounded. “Well, hot damn, my friend!” He pushed Wrenn away without trying to strip the sword. “Ye’re famous all along the Gulf Coast.”
The American vampires knew this man.
She should skewer Ranger right here and now. Just run him through, disrupt the enthralling, and keep him from harming the mundanes.
But she needed answers. She still didn’t know what the kelpies had tried to steal, or anything at all about the blood syndicate.
“Magnus Freyrsson just brought home a couple Australian kelpies.” More than a hint of Texas drawl infused the officer’s accent. “I wonder if one of them’s named Ranger.”
He emphasized the Freyr part. They must have an elder Freyr elf in this enclave. Ranger was about to get his ass kicked, for sure.
One of the Anderson boys pointed. “Your pop’s gave you a dog name, dude!”
Ranger’s eyes narrowed.
“And here I thought your name was Dumbass McHorseface,” the officer said.
Ranger had hit a nerve with his mention of the Gulf Coast vamps. A nerve that put Officer Martinez on an even more precarious edge.
“I think you should return to your vehicle, Sheriff, and allow me to handle Ranger,” she said.
He tipped his head to the side as if to remind her about the strength of Ranger’s grip.
“Yeah!” one of the Andersons yelled. “How’d some damned illegal get a job as sheriff anyway? I didn’t vote for ya!”
“Yeah!” another yelled. “How’d you rig the election, huh?”
Sheriff Martinez pointed the light right at Father Anderson’s face. “Sit. Your ass. Down!”
Ranger’s lip curled. Red demon flame leaked from the sides of his eyes as he stared at the Sheriff. His muscles tensed.
He was going to attack Martinez. His body language screamed his intention so loudly the mundanes all shifted as if they’d noticed.
He might have blinked before he lunged. Maybe. He might have yelled, or sworn in Scottish, or done any of the other flamboyant things she’d come to expect from a kelpie.
But something was clear: He’d decided that the Sheriff was more valuable than enthralling the Andersons, or egging on Wrenn, or even his mysterious reasons for attacking the Gallery.
And he was instantly outside of strike range and well within Martinez’s blast range.
“Don’t!” Wrenn yelled.
Don’t shoot the kelpie, she thought. Don’t make him more frightened than he already is.
Because fear was the root of his behavior. All the anger, all the posturing, all the evil behavior rose out of terror. It did with all the fae. It did with everyone, even her.
The blast hit Ranger directly in the chest.
And she couldn’t stop him if the terror overwhelmed his nasty kelpie mind.
He gulped and looked down at the hole in his polo shirt. He snarled. Then he dropped to his knees. “Cold iron an’ silver. I think I love ye so much I’m gonnae tell my friends where t’ find ye, Santo Guijarro County Deputy Eduardo Martinez.”
Ranger was a kelpie. He shouldn’t know anything about this man’s past. Which meant the Gulf Coast clans had a bounty out on the elves’ sheriff—and that Ranger had enough connections to the clan to pick up this particular bit of information. There was no other explanation.
That vamped kelpie hadn’t been an anomaly, like Robin had suggested. Dark fae—kelpies—were trafficking for a blood syndicate. Ranger and his big mouth were her proof.
And Ranger threatening a mundane law enforcement officer in elf territory made this entire situation a thousand times worse than she’d thought.
Sheriff Martinez primed his shotgun again.
“Don’t!” Wrenn swished the sword in the Andersons’ direction. “You! On your knees.”
“Like we’d listen to you,” one spat.
“I will arrest all three of you boys,” Sheriff Martinez called.
Father Anderson climbed back onto the snowmobile. “We’ll go find that fine wife of yours,” he snarled.
“Yesssss,” Ranger hissed. He sniffed the air. “An’ bairns, too. Tasty.” He ran two fingers of one hand through the blood on his chest, then two fingers of the other.
He jumped up to standing, arms wide and shoulders tense.
Martinez aimed the shotgun. “I need backup out here now!” he yelled into his radio.
Ranger made a kissy face at the Sheriff. Then he turned toward the Andersons. “Lads.” He ran his bloody fingers across his cheekbones, leaving two red stripes on either side of his face. “Shall we?”
Chapter 14
The sun set behind the tress, spreading black lines of shadow over the crispy snow. Birds chirped. In the distance, car engines roared.
Halfway between Wrenn and Sheriff Martinez, Ranger snarled. His pale green eyes shimmered with his dark fae power. And his enthralled minions hyperventilated and frothed at the mouth.
The Sheriff held rock steady with his shotgun pointed at Ranger’s head.
Wrenn didn’t think he’d ever killed a magical before, at least not with a gun, and not in a situation like this. Not when it was such a threat of magical malevolence.
Ranger would kill the man’s wife and daughters. Of this Wrenn had no doubt. If Ranger left the small area between the trees and the parking lot, he’d leave behind a trail of dead women—the Sheriff’s family, the Andersons’ family, any low-powered elf he could find—anyone. Even Wrenn.
Because something had changed. Something about landing in elf territory had made him stronger.
Wrenn stabbed the sword into the engine block of Ranger’s snowmobile. It slid in as if cutting through butter and with only the tiniest of metal-on-metal shrieks.
“Ye think that will stop me?” Ranger bellowed. “I can run faster than that
thing can plow through the underbrush.”
But it would keep his mundane mob here. Wrenn sliced the engine block of her snowmobile.
Father Anderson screeched like a toddler. “Those are mine!” he whined.
His boys danced around and threw their helmets at the trees, but all three took up position between Ranger and Wrenn and the remaining snowmobile.
Ranger rubbed his forehead. “Fine, darlin’. We’ll do this th’ hard—”
A bolt of magic hit Ranger dead center on his shoulder joint. A second one hit Wrenn on hers. Both bolts brightened to blinding as they exploded outward from their impact sites like little mushroom clouds.
The one that hit Ranger rose off the fabric of his polo as he twisted to look at the impact point.
That mushroom cap of magic slammed down and spread over his body like a glass cocoon.
Wrenn tried to turn toward the source of the magic. She tried. She got her body twisted enough that she faced the Sheriff before her little mushroom of magic exploded too.
She couldn’t move. She breathed fine, at least for the moment, but the sheen of magic over her entire body held her like a statue.
“I’m law enforcement!” she tried to call, but only a whisper came out.
Never in her life had Wrenn seen such a strong containment spell, and never had she seen one so precise.
The flashlight cut out.
Wrenn blinked against the gloom as the whole clearing dropped into twilight.
Another, softer spell flashed by, presumably headed for the Andersons.
“You boys leave your Cats, got it?” said a new, melodic, beautifully feminine voice. “Go sit at the picnic table over there.” A hand moved through the shadow. “You found your snowmobiles damaged, understand? The thieves got away.”
“Ahh…” said Father Anderson.
The voice spoke again. “You tell the State Troopers you saw nothing.”
“We saw nothing,” the two boys said in unison.
Wrenn squinted, trying to see through the gloom. A wall of magic stood about five feet in front of the Sheriff, between him and Ranger specifically, making it even more difficult to make out details.
Next to Sheriff Martinez, encased in wave after wave of aurora borealis-colored magic, was an elf woman. She wore a puffy pink winter jacket and a floppy-brimmed hat, one meant to hide the tall points of her ears. Her massive black elven ponytail cascaded out from the back of the hat and swayed almost as if it was as alive as the elf. She was slightly shorter than Wrenn, just under six feet tall.
“Sheriff Martinez,” the elf said.
“Benta,” he said. “I appreciate you driving all the way out here.”
She’d glamoured down her radiance, but not a lot. Just enough to fool the idiot mundanes gawking at her from around their snowmobile.
She shimmered like an angel. A real, extraordinarily beautiful angel.
“She’s an elder elf,” Ranger whispered through his containment spell. He sniffed like a dog. “An aspect of frickin’ Freya, for th’ love o’ th’ Four Kings. She’s gonnae kill me an’ feed my horse corpse t’ her cats.” He cooed out a sigh. “An’ I’d happily let her.”
“Better fate than you deserve,” Wrenn said. What had he said? What four kelpie kings? That was not a story she’d heard. “Four Kings, Ranger?”
A low growl made it through his containment spell. “She’s gonnae kill ye too, fer havin’ tha’ pretty hors d’oeuvres picker.”
The elf didn’t appear angry enough to kill anyone. But then again, elves weren’t fae. If this elf determined that Wrenn was as much of a threat as Ranger, she might kill Wrenn in order to save her community any trouble. Or so Robin had told Wrenn many times.
“I apologize for not getting here sooner,” the elf named Benta said. “The roads are a mess, as you know.”
Sheriff Martinez hmphed.
“You Anderson boys move on over to the picnic bench. Go on.” Benta snapped her fingers and pointed.
Behind Wrenn, the Andersons all inhaled and shuffled through the snow toward the bench.
“I believe it might be time for our King to have words with the more problematic of the local mundanes,” Benta said.
Sheriff Martinez snorted.
“They’re busy, Ed.” She looked him up and down. “You should not be out here alone.”
“You think?” He pointed at Ranger. “There’s something bigger happening here.”
Benta frowned. “There is,” she says. “We deal with these two first.”
“That one says she’s fae law enforcement.” Sheriff Martinez waved his hand toward Wrenn.
The elf named Benta unzipped her coat as she walked toward the snowmobiles. “Fae laws? Ha.” She revealed a perfect hourglass dressed only in a crop top under the coat.
“Damn,” Ranger breathed. “I’m in love.”
Elven tattoos circled the elf’s waist. She flicked her wrists again.
The magic on her fingertips danced onto her tattoos. Colors rose. Patterns formed. And a new sigil hit Ranger.
“He’s a kelpie, alright,” she said. “And thankfully not something worse masquerading as a pretty-boy horse.” She walked toward Ranger. “Kelpies are not welcome in Alfheim.”
“It’s nae my fault,” he whispered through his containment spell, and did his best to nod toward Wrenn.
Benta turned to Wrenn. “You claim to be law enforcement?”
“I am,” Wrenn whispered.
A new sigil formed around Benta’s fingers. She slapped it against Wrenn’s chest.
Fire screamed up Wrenn’s throat. She gasped, but it disappeared as fast as it hit.
“You’re carrying some complicated fae magicks.” Benta stepped back. Her eyes narrowed. She leaned her head back to call to Sheriff Martinez but kept her eyes on Wrenn. “She’s not fae. I can’t get a good read because of the enchantments.” She leaned closer again. “Huh. Ed, please come here.”
“I’m a Royal Guard Paladin,” Wrenn whispered. “I hunt vampires and dark fae for the King. I’m on a case.” Dare she say more to the elf? She needed to understand the politics here first. If she pissed off the elves, she might inadvertently get herself in trouble with the King. Worse, she could cause an incident.
Benta stepped back. “Oberon.” A string of Old Norse followed.
Or cause a war.
“Wrong thing t’ say t’ an elf, darlin’,” Ranger whispered.
“Quiet.” Benta slapped a secondary spell over his mouth.
“Please release me so I can return the kelpie to Oberon’s Castle. We will deal with him there,” Wrenn said.
Sheriff Martinez watched Ranger more than Wrenn or the elf, and still held his shotgun ready. He walked over and stood behind Benta.
The elder elf stepped closer and tilted her head to the side as she peered at Wrenn’s eyes. Then she stepped to the side as if looking for marks or scars along Wrenn’s hairline. “Ed,” she said. “There’s a resemblance here, is there not?”
The Sheriff gave Wrenn the first good look all evening. His eyebrows arched. “You got family here, Ms. Law Enforcement?”
Family. “No,” she said. The “family” she had here was not her family. Not at all.
He shrugged. “What about the sword?”
“I got it by accident,” Wrenn said.
Benta frowned. “There are no accidents with the fae.” She peered at the sword. “Woodland sharks, the lot of them.”
Not Robin. Well, yes Robin, but at least Robin had some scruples.
Benta reached for the sword. “What’s your name, mundane?”
She wasn’t a mundane. She was a witch. Better, though, that the elf thought her a mundane. “Wrenn,” she said. “Wrenn Goodfellow.”
Benta snatched back her hand. “Goodfellow? And you carry an elven blade?”
Ranger’s eyes widened and he smirked as if to say Ye’ve stepped in it now, luv.
Sheriff Martinez leaned toward Benta. “If she really hunts vam
pires, maybe she can tell us why the kelpie knows.”
He was referring to the Gulf Coast vamps. “I’d like to know, too,” Wrenn said. “I think it’s caught up in my case.”
Officer Martinez pointed at Wrenn. “I want to talk to this one.”
Benta shook her head. “No deals, Ed. Not even with fae-adjacent mundanes.”
He scowled.
The elf’s wrists flicked. Two small, tight, fast-spinning sigils formed at her fingertips.
She grabbed for the sword still in Wrenn’s grip.
And the huge fancy elven blade, the one that had maybe told Wrenn its name was Red, the one she felt might be a she—the one that was otherwise just a sword—decided it had an opinion.
Mine! exploded off the sword as a concussive wave.
A wave of blue-white, electrical magic.
Chapter 15
The elf named Benta took the blast full in the face and yet somehow stood her ground. Sheriff Martinez fell over into the snow. And Wrenn…
This was not the first time in Wrenn’s life she’d stood in the center of a ball of possessiveness. She’d watched possessiveness take on the shape of blindingly blue-white light before.
The moment when Victor’s vampire creation had ripped Victor’s head from his body—the memory, the vision, the pain and terror and screaming—overlaid itself over reality as if the moment itself was the true fiend.
And for a split second—less than a split second, or maybe more, maybe a whole lifetime—the sword in Wrenn’s hand became Victor’s lightning rod. The possessiveness became Victor. The Sheriff fell to the ground and out of the intruding overlay of her memories … but Ranger did not.
Ranger did what all kelpies do—he flared his nostrils and pulled in the scent of her frozen muscles and her thumping heart. And Ranger became the monster.
But he had always been a monster. Like Victor’s, a beautiful one, but with pale green eyes. An inordinately perfect specimen of male size, shape, terror, and rage.
And the real-world wave of possessiveness that had burst off the sword, the wave that had knocked her memories back into her vision, the ball of magic from the elven blade did something much worse than knocking the sheriff to the ground.
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