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Kris took a deep breath, hoping another way would become clear, but it didn’t. “Jamaica Blue owns the local coffee shop. She told me she was an Obeah woman.”

“Huh?”

“Black magic. From Jamaica. Involves sacrifice for power. I thought that maybe she was killing people as a sacrifice to Nessie, but Edward didn’t agree.”

“Sacrifice involves blood,” Marty murmured.

“And, according to him, a ceremony, which we don’t have evidence of here.”

“Even if Jamaica isn’t sacrificing people to her god, she could still be the watchdog ancestor. Who’s to say one of the original witch’s children couldn’t have emigrated, had kids, and then one of them come back here.”

“Anything’s possible,” Kris agreed, and Jamaica had been pretty secretive about her past. Although she had mentioned one of her ancestors was a Scot.

“Let’s go see her.” Marty stood.

“Okay.” Kris headed for the bathroom.

“I meant now.”

“I’m not going anywhere without covering up this bruise.” Kris pointed at her cheek. “I’m sick of explaining where I got it. You might want to make use of my paints and powders, too.”

“I’m a man.” He puffed out his chest comically. “No paint. No powder. Besides…” He lifted his arm and made a muscle. “You should see the other guy.”

“The one without a mark on him?”

Except for that damn tattoo.

Marty just scowled, which should have hurt his nose but apparently didn’t.

Five minutes later Kris and her brother headed for Drumnadrochit. Both of them were deep in thought, trying to put together the pieces of two different puzzles.

“Hold on.” Kris paused. Marty did, too. “Where’s the shape-shifting come in?”

Her brother gave her nothing but a blank stare.

“A kelpie is a shifter,” Kris explained. “Usually a horse that becomes a … whatever. But you said our kelpie is a handsome man or gorgeous woman who seduces the unsuspecting into giving up their goodies, then drowns them.”

“Right.”

“Where’s the shape-shifting? Horse became whatever. But the human became…?”

“Oh!” Understanding spread over his face. “The legend said nathair.”

“Which means?”

“Snake.”

Kris winced. This was looking worse and worse for Jamaica.

“Except…” Marty’s brow creased. “The picture in the book wasn’t of a snake.” He glanced toward the loch. “It was Nessie.”

Kris followed his gaze. The water rolled merrily to the opposite shore, broken by nothing but boats, the odd log and beady-eyed stone. “So the gorgeous human transforms into a cold, ugly, snake-headed lake monster.”

“You see why this legend caught my attention?”

“Certainly caught mine.”

*

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