The Kelpie's Redemption

by Alexa Gregory

  The Kelpie’s

  Redemption

  A Federal Paranormal Unit Story

  Alexa Gregory

  The Kelpie’s Redemption

  Federal Protection Unit

  Copyright 2019 Alexa Gregory

  Published by MT Worlds Press, Inc.

  Winter Springs, FL 32708

  http://mtworldspress.com

  Edited by Tina Winograd

  Cover by Dar Albert

  Formatted by Celtic Formatting

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  http://mtworldspress.com

  What was thought to be lost to history has now reappeared, and will leave death in its wake…

  Sorcha Ross is happy living a happy quiet life in Scotland. After centuries used as an unwilling assassin, she finally feels free of her master’s command. Until the day she wakes up on unfamiliar shores, next to the body of a drowned man. The seaweed around him confirms that he’s been killed by a kelpie… and Sorcha is the only kelpie around.

  Agent Fitzroy Yarrow needs to prove himself to the FPU. No one believes a naiad can harness their impulsivity enough to be a serious agent, but Fitz is determined to show them otherwise. It’s going to be an uphill challenge, though. While he’s trying to focus on a mysterious drowning case, his naiad side is captivated by glistening waters and a certain sexy red-head.

  But what will Fitz do when he learns that the object of his desire is hiding a secret that can compromise his position in the FPU? Can Sorcha break through centuries of mistrust and open her heart to this man who is doing everything to show her that he’s different than all the others who harmed her? Will they win the race against time to find the person controlling Sorcha before they make her kill again?

  This paranormal romance about a reluctant assassin and an investigation agent turned protector is part of Milly Taiden’s Federal Paranormal Unit (FPU) world.

  Dedication

  For Mr. Fire. My stop-making-sense hero.

  Forever and always.

  Acknowledgement

  Mr. Fire - thanks for letting me shirk all of the chores! Seriously, thanks for all your help. Couldn’t have done this without you.

  An enormous thanks and big, too-long hugs to three badass ladies who have given me the strength and courage to do this (*FINALLY!*) : Jess Ripley, Milly and Eve. You’re inspiration. You’re encouragement. You’re understanding.

  Thanks to the Beverley’s Beavers Monday night crew. Thanks to Jenn B, Mandy, Jess, Twilah, Francis - you ladies are my tribe and I love you all. Thanks to Jennifer Wedmore who answered my millions of questions without every getting annoyed. You rock!

  Thanks to you, dear readers. I sincerely hope you love this story as much as I do.

  1

  -Sorcha-

  Something is wrong.

  I can't pinpoint what - exactly - is amiss. But I feel it on my skin. Deep in my core.

  My ears buzz with the wrongness of it. Though I can't identify what is making me feel so out of sorts, I know I should recognize it.

  The tendrils of recognition grate against my consciousness. A tide of emotion whispers to me that I should be doing something. My eyes dart in every direction as I try to recognize my surroundings. Tiny pangs of anxiety quickly turn into claws of full-blown panic.

  I do not know where I am. The warm sand grates against my damp skin. Unfamiliar water laps at a nearby deck, hinting that this must be a populated area. The surrounding plants and trees are foreign to me. Even the air smells different.

  I am not home. This isn't Loch Ach a' Challa.

  Oh. No.

  Nausea crashes into me and I can't control the urge to vomit. With a burning throat and confused tears, I try to take deep breaths. It's no use. I don't deserve to be calm. I don't deserve the air I'm breathing.

  The lifeless body of a man lies a few feet from me. His body is waterlogged. The skin is an alarming shade of white and his eyes are frozen open.

  A sob tears itself out of my lungs and I cannot contain it. It turns into a scream. The scream turns into a wail.

  Seaweed is wrapped around his limbs, leaving no doubt in my mind.

  I've killed.

  Again.

  First time in centuries.

  Another wave of nausea threatens. I close my eyes against the assault as I try to calm myself.

  How is this even possible? It isn't. Though, that’s a lie. It is entirely possible.

  More than that, I know what's happened.

  A mortal has found my bridle. I'm being controlled. Again.

  I rub my temples as violent sobs split me open. I am raw from the realization that I am no longer safe. The world is no longer safe.

  My mind reels as I try to remember when I last felt the control of my bridle's power. It's been over a century. Like a damned fool, I believed no one would ever have dominance over me again.

  Stupid, foolish kelpie.

  I should know better.

  With huge gulps of air, I replay the last few days, trying to recall the signs that I was being manipulated. A single moment comes to mind. I had been standing by the loch, feeding my sheep, Orla and Angus. The typical quiet morning had taken a dark turn when a head-splitting ache hit me. Vague memories play behind my closed eyes —packing a bag—a lengthy, turbulent car ride—an endless, narrow hallway.

  Then my mind goes blank, the telltale sign I was being commanded by my bridle.

  Fuck-fuck-fucking-fuck.

  Tiny black spots float around the edges of my vision. The acrid taste of bile sits in the back of my mouth. I make myself cough around it, hoping to rid myself of it without being sick again. With closed eyes, I take deep breaths. When I feel steady enough to walk, I get to my feet, intent on figuring out where I am.

  My surroundings are beautiful, a stark contrast to my current predicament.

  A glimmering lake takes up most of the horizon, disappearing into a small chain of mountains. The musty, earthy scent of the clear green water works like a tonic on my nerves. I take a few more deep breaths as I continue to look around.

  A few frogs poke their heads out of the water, surely sensing the trouble I've caused in their home. The wind plays in the trees, disturbing a few resting birds. The mating calls of cicadas roll on the warm summer air.

  Though a bit of camaraderie in the shape of a thunderstorm would have been helpful to my dark, panicked mood, I can't bring myself to hate the elements for being ignorant of my present turmoil.

  Assuredly, I've traveled out of Scotland. This isn't Ross-shire. But where in the Goddess's name am I?

  My surroundings offer no immediate clues. The dock is longer than I had previously thought. It’s recently been painted. A few lawn chairs and picnic table are arranged in a semi-circle around a fire pit. A thin maintained pathway leads off into the distance to the steps of a small wooden cabin.

  Oh no.

  My body shakes with the realization there could be more victims in the cabin. On trembling legs, I make my way to it.

  "Hello?" My voice echoes around me. No one answers.

  Please, let there be nobody there.

  My silent plea goes into the clear blue sky. Really, it would be so much more appropriate if t
here was a violent downpour tearing up the stunning scenery.

  When I knock on the cabin door, I notice that it’s ajar. A bad sign. It creaks open, filling the air with an eerie sound.

  I call out, knowing I'm not entirely ready to explain the dead body to any inhabitants. Long seconds pass in terrible silence. With all my cowardly courage, I step inside.

  I don't intend to trespass, but I need to know if there are more victims. I really need to know, to atone for all the carnage I'm responsible for. That can't be done if I don't know the extent of my actions.

  I do a quick scan of the cabin's main room. The small utilitarian kitchen and eating area to the left and the living room to the right are painted in soothing light blue tones.

  No bodies.

  A huge sigh of relief escapes me. Continuing my search of the cabin, I walk down a narrow hallway that leads to a bathroom and a bedroom.

  No bodies.

  I allow myself to crumple on the floor in a pool of undeserved assuagement.

  One victim.

  Though that isn't good, from personal experience, it could have been much - much - worse.

  I take a few moments lying on the sand-colored hardwood floor to compose myself, letting my breath become steady. My heart rate begins to slow.

  As calm as I'll ever be in a situation such as this, I take a resolved and determined breath. I need to deal with this whole mess. The first step is figuring out where I am.

  It takes about two seconds to find the answer to that particular question. By the bedroom closet, I spot a bright blue suitcase that is entirely too familiar. It's my luggage. My passport and other travel documents are haphazardly lying on the bedside table.

  The plane ticket confirms my assumption. Not only have I left Scotland, but I am now in the United States. Virginia, to be more precise.

  A fresh wave of terror rises inside me.

  This can only mean one thing. Whoever has found my bridle ordered me to kill a man half a world away. And it worked.

  It's terrifying to know that the bridle's power extends that far.

  I am at the mercy of a complete stranger. The realization crawls under my skin like a thousand fire ants setting flames to my insides.

  This doesn't excuse me of this murder. I can't help but feel indignant at the injustice of it all. Not just for me, but for the dead man. It takes a particular brand of coward to use magic to kill.

  Well, fuck whoever that asshole is.

  Grabbing hold of the cabin's telephone, I dial the emergency services.

  "Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"

  Damn. I should have planned out what I would say before I made the call.

  "Hello?" the operator asks, a twinge of panic in her voice.

  "There's been a murder," my words tumble out.

  I could have said there had been an accident, that I’d found a body. The truthful words leave my mouth before I can even think about the implications they have.

  "Who's been murdered?"

  "A man," I answer, my voice trembling. "He's wrapped up in seaweed." Why must I keep on being honest?

  "Did he drown? Did you see what happened? Are you in danger?"

  Her questioning isn't quite so rapid, but it feels like it. I mutter half-responses, unable to offer complete answers.

  "Has there only been one victim?" The operator has asked a question that I cannot answer.

  My stomach drops and I break out in a cold sweat with the realization. I assumed there had been no other victim because there were no other bodies. But I looked inside. The only way I can kill is by shifting into my kelpie form.

  We don’t look menacing. Who would ever suspect that a beautiful brown Eriksay pony is dangerous? We get close to humans in our unassuming disguise. As they approach us, intent on petting our shiny coats, their skin becomes glued to ours. Large tendrils of seaweed wrap around their bodies, trapping them onto our backs. Then, we submerged ourselves in water until the human has drowned.

  Daft, dimwitted kelpie.

  I hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head as I berate myself. I should have looked outside, near the lake. I don’t know if there is another victim or intended victim. Whoever has my bridle could order me to kill again and I'd be completely powerless against the command.

  I can't let them arrest me. Not yet, anyway. I have to find my bridle and hide it. Then I'll confess and pay for my crime.

  "I'm safe. But send someone. Quick."

  "There's someone on the way. You need to breathe, though, okay?"

  The operator's words sink in and I realize she's right. I'm not breathing. As a kelpie, I have exceptional lung capacity. I can even take a few breaths underwater. But I cannot hold my breath on land. Not when adrenaline and grief are demanding control over my body.

  It all becomes too much and I start to cry again.

  "It's okay," the operator repeats. "I'm right here. You're safe."

  The more she consoles me, the worse I feel. This woman has no idea she is comforting a murderer.

  Bless her heart, she doesn't stop. She stays on the phone with me during the six and a half minutes it takes for an officer to show up.

  Then, the police question me for hours. I can't say I blame them. It's all part of the lengthy process of starting their investigation.

  They ask me a series of questions. One after the other. Changing the order. Altering wording.

  Knowing this particular trick of police interrogation, I keep my answers simple and as close to the truth as possible. No easy feat when I'm hiding such a large secret.

  When they finally leave, they’ve all but cleared me of any wrongdoing. Surely a little woman such as myself wasn’t able to down a grown man.

  The irony isn't lost on me. But the officers don't know I shapeshift into a sizable chestnut pony with magical abilities.

  I could have made their lives so much easier. All I had to do was confess.

  Oh, yes. I'm the one who's killed him. I'm a kelpie, you see. Someone stole my bridle a long, long time ago. I thought I was free of the control it has over me. Clearly, I'm not. I've gotten onto a plane, crossed an ocean and rented a cabin in the middle of the wilderness in order to be close to this man I've murdered.

  They would lock me up, rightfully so. But I can’t let them.

  Not yet.

  First, I have to find my damn bridle. I have to put a stop to the killings once and for all. Then, I’ll get justice for the poor man I’ve murder when I turn myself in.

  2

  -Fitz-

  I walk straight up to the boss lady's office, intent on knocking. Really, this time I'll knock. I won’t act like a terrified little boy. Nope. I'll march right into her office and demand that she give me a better case.

  Something that matters. Something that is truly fucked up.

  I need to prove myself and I can't do that if she's always giving me dumb, trivial cases to solve.

  But as soon as I see her solid oak door, I retreat. I'm not a coward. I just have exceedingly good preservation skills.

  Look, I am man enough to say that Director Sabrina Newday scares the shit out of me. She is a legend within the FPU. She is the definition of badass. Her name is synonymous with firecracker. No one wants to mess with her.

  Least of all me.

  Sure, it's never a good idea to walk into your superior's office and demand better treatment. But there's another reason why I have been avoiding that conversation. I have the distinct impression that the types of cases I've been given thus far are purposefully on the easier side.

  I need to know if it's because Sabrina sees me as a shitty agent. Or if my father has a hand in it. I don't think it's my ego speaking when I say I firmly believe it's the latter. I sulk back to my desk.

  "Chicken shit," my friend and sometime partner Larsen whispers as I sit down.

  “Like you could do it.”

  "Sabrina is a fine woman. If I'm going to cross her, it'll be for my own motives."

  I ign
ore the rest of his drivel about his impressions of Sabrina. Not an easy feat when all I have to distract myself is lame paperwork.

  "Yarrow!" Sabrina's voice pitches the entirety of the bullpen into complete silence.

  Apprehension and curiosity mix in the air as my fellow agents raise their heads above their cubicles. They watch me make my way to the intractable Sabrina Newday.

  Her shoulder-length red hair is coiffed perfectly, as per usual. Her keen brown eyes seem to catch every microexpression. She may only be in her early forties, but she has wisdom and knowledge pouring out of her every cell. Her tall, willowy frame is elegant, completely at odds with the badass sea serpent she shifts into.

  With a simple gesture, she motions for me to follow her into her office. When she closes the door behind us, I know I'm in trouble.

  I replay the last few cases in my head for anything I may have done.

  Nothing.

  All of my cases are boring and easily solved. I could have completed most of them in my sleep.

  "Want to explain why you keep walking by my door?"

  Busted.

  Sabrina crosses her arms and one of her eyebrows shoots up meeting her hairline in solidarity to my stupidity. She doesn't even give me the time to answer.

  "It's distracting. You need to cut that shit out and come out with whatever demand you're going to make."

  This lady pulls no punches, obviously. This is one of the reasons why half the office believes she is clairvoyant.

  "I want better cases."

  The words leave my mouth and I want to bite my tongue for its spontaneity. We should have come up with a better thing to say before speaking. So much for being scared shitless of my sea serpent boss.

  "Better cases," Sabrina repeats, studying me closely.

  "More interesting stuff. Dangerous stuff. Actual FPU stuff."

  I bite my tongue when Sabrina turns the full force of her stare-down at me. Where is this verbal diarrhea coming from and can it please stop before I really get myself in trouble?