The quandary in the beginning of the story is that a defrocked but flashy paranormal investigator named Chiara DeLuna comes to the forest to investigate the Montana Vortex, hoping to make her name again. She arrives just as the elves are about to conduct their solstice ritual– collision course ahead!
Having just returned from Glacier National Park (above, right) myself, I have to confess I’m as twitterpated about the place as Chiara.
The mountain before her rose with the majesty of poetry to a snow-capped peak far above her head. Another sat to the right, and another to its right, a perfectly sculptured range of mountains that looked like something out of a nature documentary. The breeze was ripe with the scent of pine and the wild flowers that seemed to carpet the ground below. Some sort of raptor flew far overhead, a pair of them, she noted a moment later. They cried out to each other, then executed a graceful drive to the ground somewhere on the far side of the hotel where she couldn’t see them any more.
Okay, so it wasn’t Manhattan. The mountains were of rock instead of steel. And the city never smelled like this–never.
Re-energized, she went inside and called the desk to hire a driver to take her out to the vortex. If the hotel was this inspiring, the psychic energy might just be amazing after all.
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