Page 49 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

“I’m sorry about your bridle.” Calliope takes a step forward. “I would like to help you find it.”

Effie moves again, meeting Calliope with a nose bump against her cheek. Calliope flinches but doesn’t step away.You smell weird, Effie says.Why should I trust you?

“Because we are both born of magic. My fangs can’t change that any more than you can change…well, you’re a shapeshifter, I suppose you can change a lot about yourself. But we can’t change blood.”

Effie huffs again, nostrils flaring.I suppose you’re right, Fanged Witch.

“Will you let me help you?”

Effie pauses, sending another puff of air toward her face, as if she can smell Calliope’s trustworthiness. Then, she stamps her front foot with a shake of her head.Yes. Thank you.

“When did you last see your bridle?”

Effie’s head turns to the side, as if in thought.I awoke in the Lake after a storm that tore the waters to and fro.

“So, it wasn’t stolen? Just lost in the storm?”

Effie looks down and paws at the nothingness.No, not stolen. Lost in a storm that I should have been able to weather.

Calliope frowns, struck by the sadness in Effie’svoice. Tentatively, she reaches out to stroke the side of her neck with the back of her hand. The horse replies with a nudge of her own, and Calliope feels the tension release from her body. Effie lowers her head, tilting to the side, moon-white eyes half closed.

“What went wrong?” Calliope asks softly. “If you want to talk about it, of course.”

My mate is wounded, replies Effie, ears pricked forward suddenly, nostrils flaring as if, even now, she is searching for her mate’s scent.I had wandered away from the herd when I felt their call. The storm had already begun. I was desperate to return, and I still am, but cannot move until my bridle is found. Do you understand, Fanged Witch?

Calliope nods. “Yes. I understand.”

You would do the same for your mate, says Effie.

Calliope agrees. “If I knew my mate was injured, I would do whatever it took to help them, even if it meant putting myself in harm’s way.” Calliope fingers a strand of Effie’s mane. “And I think I have a way to help you get back to yours.”

* * *

When she blinks back into the present, it’s to see Rory’s concerned eyes, silver in the late-afternoon light. She moves slowly, limbs stiff from kneeling for an indeterminate amount of time. The ice lining her shoulders breaks off and shatters against the stone steps.

“See,” says Kane from his perch on Rory’s shoulder, “I told you she’d be fine.”

“You were…gone. It’s been hours.” His eyes rove over her even as he brushes ice crystals from her arms. “You’re shivering.”

The corner of her mouth ticks up briefly. “I’ll warm up quickly, trust me.” She wipes at her forehead, already slick with melting ice.

“What happened? Where did you go?”

“The Ether. I spoke to the kelpie. Her name is Effie. She agreed to let me take three hairs from her—but only three.”

There is a crack of lightning overhead as the lake begins to bubble. Rory jumps, pulling Calliope closer to him. Kane flaps his wings, readying to fly away. The water begins to recede from the steps, clearing a small stone landing previously hidden, slick with algae.

The water stills for a suspended moment of silence. Then, a nose breaks the surface. The nostrils flare, testing the air, and then the rest of the horse emerges from the lake. Effie pulls herself up onto the small stone landing, her backward hooves belying her Fae heritage. She brings with her a shower of water that forces Calliope and Rory to retreat farther up the stairs. Kane pushes away from Rory’s shoulder, flapping erratically in the air above them until landing on the porch railing.

Rory pulls Calliope back, and she is flush against his chest. His fingers dig into her waist as he clutchesat her dress. She’s surprised he hasn’t picked her up and carried her away back into the house, though she can feel the strength and tension in his arms.

Perhaps he’s afraid of moving too quickly and scaring the kelpie?

Unlike Rory, Calliope isn’t worried. She had explained it all to Effie, who humbly agreed to provide whatever was needed. The Fae may be fickle, but they honor agreements, as her grandma taught her.

“Hello, Effie,” she says, reaching out to touch the slick-wet mane cascading down the horse’s neck and ignoring Rory’s sound of protest. His grip on her tightens.

In the light of day, Effie’s eyes are a pale gray, though her coat remains jet black. Her nostrils flare again, then her lips curl up, exposing her teeth in something akin to a greeting. “Effie, this is my—friend, Rory.” Calliope hopes Rory doesn’t notice how she stuttered over the word friend. Is that what he is? As much as she likes the feel of the word on her tongue, it is foreign, ill-fitting. She points to Kane, still perched on the porch railing. “And this handsome fella is Kane.”

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