Page 1 of Kissing the Kelpie

Chapter 1

“I’m scared,” I admit to Finn, keeping my voice down so that the mystical powers of the universe don’t hear, lest they should decide to seize on my concerns.

“Me too,” he confesses. “But I promise, we can get through it together. You just have to let your fear go and have faith.”

“In what?” I’ve given up on things like faith and hope. Finn was my last shot at either. Every time I crack the door to those foreign notions, it’s slammed hard in my face.

“In me. In us. I’ve got you, Masha, and I’ll fight for our family.”

“We don’t have a family. I have a family.”

“You, Ana, and our baby are now my family as well.”

I cry out as a ripping pain tears across my abdomen. After a minute or two, I find the strength to speak again.

“We’re not flowers, Finn. You don’t get to pluck us and hide us away for your keeping. That’s not how it works in my world.”

“I’ll fight anyone or anything that threatens to come between us. That’s how it works in my world.”

I have no doubt he believes what he’s saying, but I don’t think it’s that easy.

“Your kind kills my kind. End of story.”

*

One month ago

“What the . . .?”

Music rouses me, but for a moment, I cling to my slumber. What a realistic dream! I was back in dance school, jumping, leaping, and spinning on stage under bright lights to loud music echoing off the walls of a crowded auditorium.

I miss dancing. Hearing the spectators break out in applause each time a song ends, bending at the waist, taking a bow, acknowledging their love and praise.

Okay, so the cheers in the past weren’t all for me. They were for everyone on the stage.

Enveloped in memories, I smile and stretch, longing to go back to the dance recitals of my early youth. I loved ballet with all my heart, the pink leotards and tight buns. I practiced every day, determined to be the best ever, and I looked forward to the day my grandmother would come see me dance in Carnegie Hall.

Shortly before my tenth birthday, ballet lost its appeal. Carnegie Hall was for nerds, and I was too cool to spend my life practicing my plies (plee-ays) and releves (ruh-leh-vays). I insisted my grandmother enroll me in hip-hop classes, or I’d quit.

That was the end of my dance career. At ten, I was the most talented has-been in my elementary school. Probably in the neighborhood.

Lying in bed, now fully awake, I look around the bedroom of my little cottage, my gaze resting briefly on my daughter sleeping peacefully in the opposite corner. I still hear music playing. Impossible.

“Am I losing my mind?” It’s a real consideration after living tucked away from civilization for years. “I’m confusing the noise around me for music.” I listen for a moment to see if I can pick up on what sounds so melodious.

There are rhythmic sounds in the forest, like when the rain pelts against the roof and thunder cracks during a storm. Or in the mornings when the birds chirp. And at night when the frogs and crickets sing. Those are nature’s instruments. But I haven’t heard anything organized and man-made like this in years.

“No. This music is coming from an instrument.”

Before I think it through, I’m out of my front door, allowing my feet to lead me, humming to the ear-pleasing sounds. I look up through the trees. It’s a clear night. Hundreds of stars dot the inky black sky. Moonlight guides me, lighting my path.

“I don’t care if I am crazy.” The closer I get to the source of the music, the more excitement bubbles up inside me. I feel . . . buoyant. Like I’m walking on air. I haven’t felt this way since I found out I was pregnant.

The five and a half years since feel like thousands. Even before I saw the little plus sign progress in the window of the pee stick, I knew. I felt light on my feet, and bright, like sunlight was splayed through me from the inside out.

“Kukla,” Mike slips his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. His hands move to either side of my face as he looks down, his blue eyes meeting mine. “You are so beautiful.” Using the back of his fingers, he brushes stray hairs away from my face, leaving a warm trail in their wake. “I can’t tell what it is, but something’s different about you.”

My hands tangle in his dirty-blond hair. My smile grows and covers my face. “I’m happy. But if we’re going to speak Russian to the baby, Baba needs to teach you more than Kukla.”

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