Winter Lost

There were, I thought, a lot of magical folk trapped in a lodge in the middle of a blizzard. What were the odds? There was more going on here than a stolen artifact. What had my brother gotten himself into?

“I am Hauptman,” Adam said. “Have you done something that means you need to be hunted?”

I’d forgotten that one of the goblins had challenged Adam. The spell of Soul Taker woo-woo must have only lasted a second or two. I would have been less surprised to find it had been hours.

Able raised his chin. “Not by the likes of you.”

“What’s going on out here?” asked a congenial voice in an accent even a little more Irish than the one Elyna’s dead husband had used. A man stepped out into the room, drying his hands with a dishcloth. He was tall and handsome yet somehow effacing, like the perfect British butler. The effect was only a little ruined by the Irish accent.

But the magic…

It rolled over the room like a warm wave that calmed and soothed as it drowned its victims. Able sat down, his face relaxing—though I noticed that his companion’s face didn’t seem to be reassured. Dylis sat down, too, and her husband released his punishing grip. Peter stayed on his feet, but he looked less like a policeman ready for anything and more like a mildly interested observer at a high school basketball game.

The green man said, “Ah, new flotsam from the storm. Welcome and more to all who seek shelter.”

Interlude

In the Tri-Cities Sherwood

The roads were bad. But Sherwood was a good driver. He was also too smart to be driving in these conditions. When Honey had called to ask him to come over and check Gary because something had happened last night, Sherwood had debated just changing to wolf and running there.

But he needed to be human-shaped to deal with the situation with Gary. Without one of his prosthetic devices, he’d be forced to hop around. Just the thought of being that vulnerable made his wolf stir.

So he drove.

The lights began to flash on the railroad crossing just ahead. He eased off the gas and tapped his brakes lightly. The car in front of him twisted a bit but stopped in plenty of time. Sherwood did, too.

The impact, when the vehicle behind him failed to even try to stop, was loud—louder when Sherwood’s car hit the one in front and his airbag inflated, smacking him in the face. He felt the bone in the bridge of his nose go. Something slammed into his legs—and he heard a crack. He ripped the airbag out of his field of vision.

Down the tracks there was a train coming, and the car in front of him had just been forced through the crossing gate and onto the tracks.

Sherwood’s door opened in a protesting squeal of metal and he had to grab the base of the steering column and lift to free his legs. More metal popped and bent.

Behind him a woman shrieked, “It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I didn’t see you.”

He ignored her. If she could scream that loudly, she was going to be okay for a minute. Unlike the still figure in the car ahead of him.

Sherwood scrambled out of his car and ran. He didn’t have time to do this pretty—not with the train making the ground rumble. From the sound he had about fifteen seconds to get this done. The trapped vehicle was pressed up against the base of the crossbar on the right side, so instead of pushing he was going to have to pull it around.

It and his car, too. Because they were crushed together.

There wasn’t enough traction. And no time for magic. Magic performed under these kinds of circumstances meant blowing things up—not saving people.

Sherwood didn’t hesitate. He reached down and grabbed the foot on his very expensive prosthetic and ripped it off. The remaining broken metal post dug into the ice like a pickaxe.

He dragged the cars sideways, stumbling with the awkwardness of having one leg slipping like crazy and the other six inches shorter. He ended up pulling the car half over him as he rolled onto his back.

When the train came through, no one died.

The car door next to his face swung open and the edge caught Sherwood’s broken nose. Behind him, the woman, who was still screaming, was now screaming, “What are you? Don’t kill me. It wasn’t my fault.”

The man he’d saved was almost worse with his horrified apologies. Sherwood rolled and stood, balancing on his good foot. He waved a hand at both of them, a sign to back off. Then he hopped back to his car. It took him a minute to find his phone—the accident had thrown it into the backseat.

He was in pain—there was more wrong with him than the broken nose. Though everything was healing just fine, the healing hurt, too. He’d destroyed his very expensive prosthetic two weeks after the doctor had finally figured out why it was rubbing so badly and fixed it. It was less than a week since the full moon, and he could feel the change in the season as the winter solstice neared. He was vulnerable in front of strangers—and that woman would not quit making noise.