Page 42 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Rory is squeezing out his shirt. “Come on, inside.” He scoops up Kane, whose feathers are still wet, and he keeps a hand hovering near Calliope’s lower back as he ushers her up the stairs and into the kitchen.

He deposits Kane on the table and disappears through the living room, only to reappear a minute later with the blanket that usually hangs off the back of the couch.

He wraps it around Calliope’s shoulders, mapping the parts of her he can see, looking for signs of injury or distress. He cups the back of her neck, thumb tracing a pattern behind her ear. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, eyes softened at the tender display of his worry. “I know what’s in the lake, though, and it’s hurting a lot.”

“What is it?” asks Kane, hopping closer to them, head cocked to the side.

She looks over her shoulder at the window. It’s still dark and her own ghostly reflection stares back at her. “It’s a kelpie.”

Kane’s neck twists even further to the side. “Kelpies don’t stay in lakes like this. At least not for long.”

She looks down at the bird, her lips pale and shaking. “They have if they’ve lost their bridle.”

* * *

The sun dawns with renewed strength, but none of the residents of Graeme House seem to notice. All three are ensconced in the library, surrounded by books, tiny motes of dust swirling around them as the sky gradually lightens.

Rory had gone back to finish his shift at the gas station, and the three remaining hours passed by agonizingly slow. He wracked his brain for any knowledge of kelpies, but he’s never seen one, let alone met one.

Even when the Blood Wars intruded upon other magical communities, Rory would often find himself fighting against witches, warlocks (he had been unaware that they were not the same as witches at the time), and even the occasional shifter—but never the Fae. They rarely get involved in such earthly squabbles. Probably for the best, he always thought. The Fae are notoriously tricky to deal with, capricious and unreliable.

When he returned home, he joined Calliope and Kane in their research on kelpies. They sit in silence as they read, marking pages of significance and, even, occasionally sharing interesting sections out loud.

When Rory does notice the lightening of the sky, he closes his book and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with two glasses of blood.

“So, kelpies are water demons that can shapeshift,” begins Calliope, in between sips, “but more often than not, their true shape is a horse. I knew that, and that they’re very protective of their bridle, but so far, I haven’t learned much more. There’s a lot of speculation and not so many facts.” She takes another sip and licks her lips, pressing a thumb to the corner of her mouth to catch a fallen drop. “Actually, there are a lot of contradictions even among the three books I’ve read through so far.”

“Same,” says Kane, nails clicking against the table. He pecks at the book in front of him. “This one does mention a few important tidbits. The author, PhillipaLedbetter, spent time with a kelpie tribe in Ireland. One of the last tribes, it seems. The kelpie population has since dwindled. I think that’s why you might be finding so many contradictions. They seem to be more solitary creatures these days.”

Rory pulls Kane’s book closer and inspects the cover. The second edition ofRare Beastsby Phillippa Ledbetter is a hardcover printed in 1984. The cover image is a painting of a dark skeletal horse-like creature with glowing red eyes. The beast’s legs melt into darkness.

“So far, I’ve learned that kelpie tears can purify any body of water,” continues Kane, “and that they mate for life.”

Rory flips to the inside flap of the dust cover where a black-and-white photo of a woman smiles up at him. Phillippa Ledbetter, as her bio proclaims, is “the number one authority on Fae heritage and culture currently living in the United States.” Her first-person account of her time spent with the last kelpie tribe is a “shimmering, visceral story that is sure to quickly gain a place among the Fae lexicon.” He flips through the pages. “So, the kelpie in our lake, how did it get here?”

Calliope lifts a shoulder. “I’m not sure. But the important thing is that she can’t leave. Her bridle was lost. Or stolen. She didn’t specify.”

“She talked to you?” asks Kane.

“Sort of. It’s hard to describe. I could hear her voice in my head. She was so…so sad. And in pain. It hurt.”

Kane hops closer to her. “You felt her pain as your own?”

Rory, who had been flipping through chapters, reading snippets here and there, suddenly looks up. “Have you read this?” He shoves the book toward Kane. “The part about a kelpie’s bite?”

Kane squawks. “Yes, but—”

“A kelpie’s bite is fatal to vampires.”

“So?” asks Calliope. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help her.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“She’s in pain, Rory.” Calliope leans closer, a hand pressed to her chest. “I’m in pain. I can hear her, even now.”

Rory blinks at her, noticing, for the first time, her strained expression, eyes rimmed in red, and the rigid line of her shoulders. Her face is pale and the book she clutches is shaking slightly in her white-knuckled grip.

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