Page 127 of Lana Pecherczyk
All three glared, but Tommas answered, eyes stark. “The kelpie, it just melted into water, then reformed. Impossible to fight.” He shook his head. “We tried, but?—”
“Timeline,” River repeated.
“Right.” Tommas scrubbed his face. “I don’t know how Lark spelled it to … right, timeline.”
Another sentinel cut in. “Beast hit the caravan ahead of yours first. The sentinels on duty tried to stop it. For a moment, they succeeded. Kelpie only escaped five minutes ago.”
“The fledglings?”
“Left about half a turn ago. Down by the riverside ruins.”
“Fuck me.” River’s pulse hammered. A kelpie in water amplified its power tenfold. “How many?”
“Four.”
“Search party?”
“Started a quarter turn back. No news yet.”
Some relief loosened his shoulders. No news meant the children might still be safely hidden. “Which way?”
They pointed east. One last attempt. River grabbed Blake’s arm and thrust her toward Tommas. “Keep her here.”
She wrenched free, eyes blazing. “I’m coming with.”
“Let her go,” one sentinel barked, gesturing at Blake’s marks. “She’s Well-blessed. Aren’t they meant to boost your power?”
Having two High Fae royals mated to Well-blessed old-worlders meant word had spread throughout Elphyne. Blake’s magical ability remained dormant, but her inner well overflowed. If things went wrong, he might need to tap that reservoir.
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.” He shook his head. “Stay behind me, Blake. Shout if you see it, then get clear. Climb afucking tree if you have to.” To the others, he ordered, “Follow me.”
River raced through the woods, mapping each sound and movement that didn’t belong. The terrain wasn’t unfamiliar. They’d roosted nearby in his youth, but the murder had abandoned this site after the ruins grew unstable. As he neared the churning river, more crows appeared—some shouting directions, others in bird form, cawing warnings from tree branches.
Evidence of the kelpie’s rampage grew with each step. There were flooded patches where no water should exist, broken brush, and wounded crows drowning on dry land in both forms. River couldn’t stop to check. This much destruction meant the kelpie had advanced beyond mere hunger to rage.
Despite what Sera thought, Lark hadn’t trapped the creature. It willingly became their nesting caravan’s steed, biding its time for the perfect feast. It likely remembered his and Blake’s scent, wanting to finish what it started.
Blake had been right. She’d heard a real horse, and River had dismissed her warning with arrogant certainty. Too wrapped up in his head.
They broke free from the forest and raced toward a cliff’s edge. River dropped to his belly, inching forward to peer over. The kelpie lurked in the churning water two hundred feet below, horse-like snout and eyes above the surface. It dodged arrows and daggers with unnatural grace, slipping into liquid form whenever attacks drew too close.
Apart from Tommas, the other sentinels dispersed, likely to report to whoever commanded the rescue. Probably the fucking Domatri Corvus.
Winged shifters dove in military precision, their choreographed attacks useless against a creature that fed onwater. It would never tire, never bleed, never yield—not unless a Guardian used metal to block its mana flow.
River’s jaw clenched as he spotted why the kelpie lingered. Fledglings huddled inside an old storm drain near the cliff base, trapped between rock and predator. They must have fled the riverbank and managed a partial flight upward.
Aerial advantage offered the only viable strategy. Kelpies couldn’t fly, their jaws only reaching so high. But the drain was not quite out of that dangerous range. If the cliff weren’t so steep, the monster would have crawled up to feast.
“Don’t just lie there,” Tommas growled from behind. “Do something.”
“I’m thinking.”
“What’s there to think about? Swoop down and?—”
“He can’t fly!” Blake shouted. “And it’s your brother’s fault, so shut the fuck up. Think of another way down.”
The secret he’d hidden from the murder now lay exposed like a wound. River’s vision tunneled. Blood roared in his ears. Centuries of respect, of authority—gone. The crows would never follow his lead now. A Guardian who couldn’t fly. A joke.
