Page 11 of The Last Kelpie

Smiling at his flirtation, I closed the door and went to the bed. Not to sleep, but to spread the contents of the second file across it. There were more photographs of Áedán from different decades. A few of the pictures showed him with other people. And then there were handwritten pages about him from several Velascans who'd interacted with him. They all said he was a joy to be around, mischievous, and compassionate. But there was nothing written after 1910.

Finally, I closed the file and unpacked my suitcases, setting a few pictures on the desk. Most of my things were back at the cottage my grandmother had left me. Actually, the cottage wasn't too far from the Velasca Estate. If I needed anything, I could pop over. For now, this was good. Since I was leaving the next day, I repacked a single suitcase and took the little bag that held my toothbrush and other bath stuff into the bathroom with me. I'd have to pack those in the morning.

After eating the sandwich, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed. I lay back and stared at the ceiling. My grandmother had been here. Maybe even done what I was about to do. Then she'd given it all up for love, for a normal life with my grandfather.

I wondered if she'd ever been this terrified. Or felt this alive.

Chapter Five

The train ride north took six hours, and that was after the cab to London. I watched England dissolve into Scotland through rain-streaked windows, fields giving way to hills, hills becoming mountains. The landscape turned wild in increments. Stone walls. Sheep scattered across impossible slopes. Lochs appearing like mirrors dropped between peaks.

I'd imagined arriving in the wilderness. Remote shores, ancient forests, the kind of landscape that was still what it was centuries ago. Instead, the bus from Glasgow dropped me in Luss at three in the afternoon, and I stepped into a carnival.

Not an actual carnival. If only. No, this was a circus of activity. Tour buses and minibuses idled in a car park at the edge of the village. Families spilled out of them, parents shouting after their children while dogs tugged at their leashes. A bagpiper in full Highland dress played for tips near a shop selling tartan scarves and shortbread in tins decorated with thistles. The air smelled like fried fish, sunscreen, and car exhaust.

I stood on the pavement with my suitcase and backpack, staring around with my mouth agape.

Loch Lomond stretched out beyond the village, blue and impossibly beautiful despite the army of tourists laying siege. Mountains rose on the far shore, their peaks disappearing into low clouds. The water caught the light in a way that made my chest tight. But between me and that wild beauty were paddle boats shaped like swans, a tour boat advertising “Kelpie Cruises,” and at least two hundred people taking selfies.

A child ran past me holding a rubber toy. It was bright green, horse-shaped, with enormous fangs and red eyes. The label on the attached tag read: Loch Lomond Kelpie - Beware the Water Horse!

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

The last real kelpie in existence lived somewhere beneath this chaos. Six hundred years old, fading from the world, and hiding in a loch that had been turned into a tourist attraction complete with novelty toys. The absurdity was almost unbearable.

The Velasca had rented me a cottage that was, thankfully, away from the main part of town. As I walked down School Road, the cacophony softened into a dull roar. The cottage—a-two bedroom one-story with a small garden out front—was off Murray Place. I found a key box attached to the door handle, punched in the code, and got the key. Once inside, with the door shut behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was clean and quiet, smelling faintly of lavender. On the table beside the door was a pamphlet titled Legends of Loch Lomond.

Taking the pamphlet with me, I put my suitcase in the bedroom and unpacked a few things, including the file Julian had given me. Sitting on the bed, I opened the file and pulled out the photograph of Áedán. Just looking at his picture made me nervous. What would it be like to talk to him?

Shaking my head, I set the picture aside and picked up the pamphlet. The cover showed a black horse rising from water. Instead of the blocky teeth it should have, it bared sharp fangs, and its eyes glowed red. Seaweed and bones hung tangled in its mane. The text inside described kelpies as malevolent spirits that lured travelers onto their backs before drowning them. Monsters. Child-killers. Demons in horse form.

“What the hell is this?” I scowled and pulled out the stories from the Velasca.

The contrast was stark. The historical accounts in Julian's file described kelpies as guardians. Protectors of sacred waters. Dangerous, yes, but only to those who polluted or committed violence. They killed with purpose, not malice. So why did this pamphlet describe them as killers? Then I remembered that toy with the red eyes. What was going on? And why didn't the Velasca know about it?

“Maybe it's just a couple of mistaken portrayals.”

I'd check the tourist shops for more kelpie lore later. At the moment, I was too eager to find Áedán. So I changed into hiking boots and a waterproof jacket and then packed my backpack with a torch, water, and the Velasca file. With the cottage key in my pocket and my pack over my shoulder, I headed toward the water.

I walked along the shore, away from the village. The path was well-maintained at first, paved and marked with signs pointing toward scenic viewpoints. Families passed me with strollers. Couples held hands. A group of teenagers went by, laughing about something on someone's phone.

I kept walking.

The path turned to gravel, then dirt. The crowds thinned. After a mile, I was alone except for the occasional jogger. After two miles, even the joggers disappeared.

The landscape opened up. Mountains rose on both sides of the loch, their slopes covered in heather and bracken turning gold in the fading light. The water stretched out smooth and dark, reflecting clouds that looked like bruises. The air smelled different there, untainted.

I climbed a stile, surmounting a low wall, and left the path entirely. There, I followed the shoreline into an area that looked untouched. No footprints in the mud. No litter. No signs warning about safety or wildlife. Just rocks, grass, and the loch lapping quietly against the shore.

The sun dropped behind the mountains. Shadows pooled in the valleys. I kept walking, scanning the water, looking for something I couldn't name. A ripple that moved wrong. A shape that didn't belong. Any sign that something lived here beyond fish and tourists. There was nothing.

By the time full darkness fell, I'd walked nearly four miles from the village. My legs ached, and my jacket was slick from mist rolling off the water. I stopped on a flat stretch of shore where the grass met the rocks and admitted defeat.

This was ridiculous. I was a researcher, not a tracker. I had no idea how to find a creature that had been hiding successfully for centuries. The Velasca had sent me to help a myth, but I didn't even know where to start looking for him. I turned off the torch and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

Nearly full, the moon rose, casting silver light across the water. Despite the gentle breeze, the surface rippled, and those ripples moved across the loch. Night animals crept through the brush. Without the chaos of humanity suppressing it, the loch came alive. It was as if a veil had dropped, and I was finally seeing the truth. This was the beauty everyone missed, too intent on having fun to notice.

I stood there for a long time, just taking in the beauty that felt forgotten. As forgotten as the myth it guarded. There was so much to admire. The loch even had its own symphony—water against rocks, wind through grass, the call of creatures. My breathing added to it, making me feel as if I were a part of it all.