The unicorns screamed, fleeing from the roar that was louder than any dragon, fleeing from the wind that burned more fiercely than dragon’s breath. The pixies and elves raced after them, trying to stop them from bolting headlong onto the highway, and glad, for once, of mankind’s love of fences.

  And then they stopped.

  They did have the fences, and the humans would help with any unicorn injuries. The dryads, on the other hand, had no one but the elves, and they were in danger of burning. Turning back, toward the searing wind, and the roaring scream of…Sereila looked up…well, it wasn’t a bird, but it still had wings.

  “Catch it!” she ordered, and the nearest elves looked at her in surprise.

  Catch that?

  “Wizards!” Sereila bellowed, lowering her pitch, and drawing power from her chest, and not her throat. “Stop it falling!”

  Ah! That made sense. Not that there were many wizards, but there might just be enough.

  The elven leader ran forward, coming to a halt in the gleaming white monster’s path. Seeing the wizards weren’t going to be enough, she looked around. The flash of myriad wings caught her eye.

  “Pixies! I call on Eylim’s Treaty! Help us! Stop it falling!” This time she augmented her voice with magic, easing the strain on her throat, and making her command roll further. She might not be a wizard, but some small tricks were still within reach.

  A swarm of color answered her, flying straight at the white craft’s belly. A myriad of tiny hands stretched above a myriad of tiny heads, and pushed against the roaring beast, slowing its downward plunge. The roar grew to a scream, and Sereila noted the flames licking along its wings. No wonder the thing was screaming.

  “Douse those flames!” she cried. “Sprites, I remind you of the Dawn of Gates! Help us!”

  Water rose from the nearest river, and Sereila was grateful the creature had chosen to set itself alight and fall out of the sky in early spring. A few months later, and there might not have been enough water to call, let alone dump on the burning lumps marring its wings.

  Now, if only she could do something for its pain; its roars were hurting her ears. They were so loud she did not hear the sound of a familiar engine.

  “You need to get the pilots to turn off the engines.” Vestrian’s voice in her ear, made Sereila jump.

  “The what?”

  “The engines… The… Look, there’s no time. I need a dozen pixies and a mind speaker.”

  Sereila didn’t know what Vestrian was on about, but he knew the humans and their creatures better than she did. He even rode a metal beast, to the shock of their elders—a motorbike, he called it, and a strange thing it was.

  Jerking herself back to the situation at present, Sereila raised her voice, once more.

  “Lanella! Firebox Nine!” she cried, and was rewarded by a dozen pixies flying to hover before her. “Lanella!”

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  “I am coming, Sereila, but I do not fly. You know that.” The mind speaker’s voice sounded weary, and Sereila apologized.

  “I am sorry, but we need you fast.”

  “Link me in,” Lanella replied.

  “Fine. Vestrian, explain.”

  “See the glass eye on the jet,” Vestrian began, and they would have failed right there, without Lanella’s ability to pluck the right image from his mind and pass it to the pixies. “It is a window. You must look inside and get the attention of the men inside. Lanella, you must look through the pixies’ eyes, and convince the men to cut their engines. After that, the pixies and the wizards can lower the jet to the ground.”

  It was crazy. It was unbelievably impossible. It was never going to work—and it would have been a complete disaster, if the pilot hadn’t allowed a member of Paranormal Operations Squad into the cockpit when the first engine blew.

  “What do you mean ‘Do it’?” the man screamed. “We’ll crash.”

  “We’re already crashing. This way, you might actually get to live.”

  “But that’s a…those are…”

  “Just cut the goddamned engines!”

  And they had.

  And the pixies had been caught by surprise.

  “Don’t let it fall!” Sereila screamed, and the little creatures renewed their efforts, taking the strain of its sudden weight and lowering the jet to the ground, scrambling from beneath it before it could crush them.

  No sooner had its belly hit the dirt, than flight attendants opened the emergency exits and popped the slides.

  “Everybody out!”

  The sprites’ efforts prevented a forest fire, but it was the Paranormal Operations Squad officers running out along the wings with fire extinguishers that got the fire out before the engines exploded. By the time they got back to the prisoner they’d been transporting, she was gone.

  “Gone?” Schaeffer’s partner looked about ready to self-combust. “But you were supposed to be watching her!”

  Schaeffer glared at him.

  “Sorry, boss. There was this fire, and this plane, and this fuel line... Guess I was kinda distracted.”

  Mitch didn’t look too impressed, but it was enough.

  “Fine!” he said. “Let’s go see who’s in charge out there. Maybe, they’ll help us.”

  They took the slide down, then took in the chaos surrounding the plane. It didn’t take them long to figure out the tall, dark-haired female elf, and the male with the motorbike were the ones responsible for their rescue.

  Unfortunately, the pilots had reached them first. The only ones under any kind of control, were the passengers, and they were gathered around the flight attendants in a milling querulous mob.

  “What are you going to do now?” one man demanded, belligerence in his stance and tone.

  Schaeffer and Mitch exchanged a glance, and diverted to see what they could do to settle things down.

  “You’re going to wait for the pilots to secure help,” Mitchell said, his voice cutting through the clustered passengers like a knife through butter, “and you’re all going to sit down while they do it.”

  “I beg your—”

  “Sit!” Mitch roared, and the passengers folded. The head attendant nodded her thanks at him, and walked toward the pilots. The other attendant moved through the passengers, checking for injuries, and offering soothing words. Blankets, she said, would be available, just as soon as she was allowed back onto the plane.

  Schaeffer wasn’t sure how much good soothing words and blankets would do, but the attendant seemed to know what she was doing, so she left her to it, and followed Mitch over to where the two elven leaders and the pilots were facing off.

  “Nevertheless, compensation will be required,” the female elf was saying to a very frustrated chief pilot.

  Mitch touched the man on the shoulder.

  “May I?” he asked, and the pilot nodded, looking relieved.

  “And who the hell are you?” That made him look up in surprise.

  The phrasing was far too human for a group living so far out. He found himself looking at the male elf.

  “I’m Sergeant Mitchell Harrison of the Paranormal Operations Squad.”

  The elf closed his mouth on whatever he was about to say next, and nudged the female elf, so she turned her attention toward him.

  “This is Sereila, and I am Vestrian. Sereila commands the Protectors in this region. She saved the plane.”

  “And we demand compensation for the damage it has caused.” Sereila was furious, and Mitch couldn’t blame her.

  “These men are not authorized to negotiate compensation,” he told her, and saw the chief pilot relax.

  The elf did not.

  “Well, who is?” she asked. “I demand to speak with them.”

  “They are not present,” Mitchell told her, and she looked shocked.

  “The ones responsible do not take personal oversight of their vehicles?”