The Kelpie's Redemption

by Alexa Gregory

  I don't want to. What I want to do is not professional or decent.

  Ignorant of the impact she has on me, Sorcha remains civil throughout my questioning. She doesn't even get annoyed that I keep clearing my throat.

  When she offers me a throat lozenge, I want to laugh. It's a sweet gesture; one I'm sure she wouldn't have offered if she knew the real reason for the cough.

  After a solid hour of incessant questions, I can tell she’s exhausted by the ordeal she's just been through.

  I feel bad for pushing her. For asking the same questions in varying degrees of repetition. Finally, I get to the one question the local police force didn't ask. One that I am curious about asking.

  "Why did you think it was murder?"

  "What?" she looks up at me in complete shock.

  "On the call. You said you were reporting a murder. Why?"

  Sorcha looks down, wringing her hands together. I have this impossible need to go around the table and take her into my arms. I want to erase her distress. I wonder how her curves would feel against me.

  Stay on task, Yarrow.

  "Well... I... I suppose I didn't think a grown man could just drown. I didn't think it was possible that his death could be an accident."

  I scribble her answer and sigh. Just as I thought. This isn't going to be anything.

  Of course, I'll have to look into the victim's life and recent activities. Even if Sorcha didn't see anything, doesn't necessarily mean foul play wasn't present. It just means Sorcha wasn't involved.

  Just like the local PD, I clear her. Who would travel all the way from Europe to kill a man?

  "When are you leaving?" I find myself asking. The information is more for myself than the standard procedure.

  "I'm going to be here a few weeks."

  I nod, committing the information to memory as I tuck my notebook into my pocket.

  "Well, enjoy the rest of your holiday. Take a swim. The lake really is wonderful."

  "I don't swim."

  My jaw drops in disbelief.

  "You don't swim?"

  The redhead's face matches her hair. I can't help but smirk.

  "Maybe I'll give you a lesson sometime." I punctuate that desire with a wink.

  "I don't think that will happen. I'm...I'm scared of the water."

  "That's too bad." Though I get it. The woman did just find a drowning victim. "Call if you think of anything else," I say, handing her my business card. "And I'll ask that you don't leave the area until we've spoken again." I don't add that it's because I'd like to get to know her. I keep it professional.

  I'm good like that.

  Sorcha takes the card in her delicate hands and nods.

  I'm not bullshitting. I am a professional so I will keep looking into this drowning, but I'll bet Sorcha isn't involved. She looks too torn up, too tortured, to be implicated. To top it all off, she's scared.

  No one is that good of an actress.

  4

  -Sorcha-

  I watch the gorgeous Agent Fitzroy Yarrow walk to his car before closing the cabin door. His long, strong legs move with an effortless efficiency. As backsides go, Agent Yarrow is blessed. He has a swimmer's body, and I have to say, I appreciate his form.

  I hate that I behaved like a wilted wallflower during our entire exchange. That is absolutely not who I am.

  I just don't know how to behave at the moment. All of this is new.

  Well, that isn't true. I have been questioned during other murder investigations. But I've never been attracted to the man doing the questioning.

  That is unexpected and completely unwanted.

  I blame Fitzroy Yarrow and the infectious joyfulness he exudes. I also fault his impossibly pure hazel eyes and the way they light up when he smiles.

  And that smile. Must he have the most devastatingly sexy dimples?

  If only he had the decency to be imposing. But oh, no. Yes, he is tall. Massive, in fact. At five foot something, I usually feel like a wee creature, vulnerable and defenseless.

  Instead of finding his height intimidating, I find it appealing. No amount of Agent Fitzroy Yarrow could be too much.

  Gah!

  I slam the door shut against the quick, painful jab of guilt that overtakes me. I shake my head to pull myself away from thoughts of Agent Yarrow.

  I push myself to the mental precipice of remorse and shame that is everything I should be feeling.

  Because really, I don't deserve to have any sort of positive or pleasant thoughts.

  I'm a killer.

  I especially can't be standing on the porch, drooling over an agent who is responsible for solving the crime I have committed.

  What kind of monster am I?

  Oh, right.

  A kelpie.

  It's what my kind does. We kill.

  Protecting water sources is our entire reason for being. That's what we're taught as foals. We're meant to dispatch mortals who desecrate lochs and streams. And by dispatch, I mean trick the offending mortals onto our backs and lead them into the water to drown.

  With a lung burning sigh, I collapse onto the sofa. I'm completely exhausted. It's taxing to second guess every little thing you say and do. And I've done it twice now in fewer than twenty-four hours.

  Truly, it's a miracle I haven't been arrested on suspicion of murder yet. I'm not a good liar. I feel as guilty as I am. Someone is bound to figure out my secret.

  Head on the sofa's arm and eyes closed, I replay my entire exchange with Agent Yarrow. I want to make sure I didn't accidentally give anything away.

  I kept tucking my hair behind my ear. I needed to make sure he didn't see the piece of seaweed woven into my hair. All kelpies have it. It's the only way humans can spot us in our human form.

  Agent Yarrow must have noticed the gesture. He probably thought it was a nervous tick. If he had pegged me as a kelpie, I would be in the back of his cruiser right about now.

  But he didn't suspect a thing.

  And really, why would he? There's no way for him to suspect that I'm a kelpie.

  My kind are made of deception and lies.

  It's why I spent most of my life hating my shifter form. I used to dream of being something else. A mermaid, perhaps. Something that didn't equate death and destruction.

  Needing a jolt of energy, I pad into the kitchen. The small freezer is stocked full of the best food group in existence.

  Ice cream.

  I don't even bother with a bowl. I take the entire carton to the sofa. I sink into the cushion and tear into the soft, creamy substance. My first bite is massive but perfect. I let the therapeutic chocolate melt onto my tongue.

  I moan as I take a second mouthful.

  My history with ice cream is a long love affair. When freezers became widely available, I bought a small one and sacrificed my good sofa in order to stuff the appliance in my modest cabin on Loch Ach a' Challa. I stocked it with ice cream. Of course, since then, flavors have come a long way.

  Chocolate isn't just a bland flavor. Now it's mixed with large chewy brownie chunks and ribbons of silky chocolate syrup. This is the only bliss I allow myself to have.

  Fifteen minutes with a carton of ice cream is better than any man. Much safer too.

  Men, even sweet ones like Agent Yarrow, are dangerous. They lie, they cheat, and they betray.

  This is something I have learned. If I had not been so trusting, the last hundred years would have been wildly different.

  I must take back what’s mine, my stolen bridle. What a shame I can’t ask Agent Yarrow to help me. I don’t know the area at all. I have no contacts, but someone like him might be able to help me get through some doors. It's risky. He could automatically ascertain my guilt and lock me up without any consideration for my future victims.

  Or I can do this myself.

  Between bites of ice cream, I weigh my options.

  The only reason why I want to contact Fitzroy -er - Agent Yarrow is because I find him appealing and kind.

>   But he is a man.

  The most dangerous creature to walk this earth.

  If my history has taught me one thing, it's that I cannot, under any circumstances, trust a man. No matter how good looking and trustworthy he appears to be.

  I was caught in that trap before and it has led me to this very moment.

  I need to do this on my own.

  5

  -Fitz-

  Nothing against the local flavor of this town, but really the motel is horrible. It takes me about two seconds to make the decision about staying there.

  As in, I wouldn't.

  I decide to splurge and rent myself a cabin on the lake.

  Sure, Sabrina will chew my ass out for it, but I pay for it out of my own pocket. The lure of the water is too much for me. I can't help myself. I blame my naiad heritage.

  Before I even go into the minuscule cabin, I ditch my clothes and throw myself into the water. There are very few feelings that match the bliss of being submerged in crisp water.

  The only other thing that compares is great sex.

  With thoughts of the beautiful Sorcha Ross swimming through my head, I do laps in the lake. My muscles tingle with excitement. Every stroke is more pleasant than the last. Thank the Goddess I can breathe underwater. That ability facilitates my workout.

  When I finally pop my head out of the water, I'm surprised to see dusk has fallen. The sun is setting behind the mountains, pitching the entire sky in pastel hues. I laze around, floating on my back watching the sun take its daily bow.

  The piercing sound of my cell pulls me out of the water. Sabrina. I feel like a kid being called in by his mother.

  "Yarrow." Sabrina's tone is cold.

  "Hey, boss lady. What's up?"

  "A cabin, Fitz? Really? What did you not understand when I told you to not fuck this up?"

  Wow. She has got to be clairvoyant. That took no time at all.

  "The motel was shit. And you should see this lake, boss. It's a real beauty."

  "I can't see the lake. I'm too busy doing my job."

  Oops. Right. That.

  "I'm doing my job. I interviewed Sorcha Ross. I have a line on what I need to look into next. It's all under control."

  And it will be. Just as soon as I get my head in the game. With rushed steps, I dart into the cabin. Putting my phone on speaker, I pull my FPU laptop on the crooked table. It takes me a few seconds to log into the secured internet access.

  "I see you're just longing in now. Why do you do this shit, Fitz?"

  Her question stops me dead in my tracks.

  "What do you mean?" Droplets of water drip down from my hair onto my neck, making me shiver.

  "You want to be taken seriously. You want better cases. But when I give you one shot, you spend all day swimming like a damned water nymph."

  "Technically, a naiad is a water nymph."

  "And do you know why we don't usually have nymphs on staff?"

  I know what she is going to say before she goes on. It bruises my ego. Or, you know, rips a sea serpent size hole through it.

  "It's because nymphs are flighty. Easily distracted and prone to fits of fancy." Sabrina could give my father a run for his money with a speech like that.

  I am properly reprimanded, and I feel it down to the marrow of my bones. I did fall right into the water without thinking about the case.

  Because I can't stop thinking about Sorcha Ross and her luscious curves.

  Because I don't think this case is actually worth my time.

  All traits of my naiad heritage. All shit that I know I have to fight.

  "Okay. You're right. I just got a bit sidetracked. I'll have more information for you before the witching hour."

  "See that you do."

  With that, the line goes dead.

  Now I don't just feel like a failed agent, I feel like a scolded child.

  I have to get my shit together.

  With renewed determination, I put all thoughts of red hair and green eyes out of my head. I dive headfirst into my research.

  It takes me very little time to find out all I can about the deceased Stanley Campbell. A wealthy and renowned arts and artifacts dealer in the region, he specialized in the history of Scottish settlements in South Carolina and Virginia.

  Huh.

  Interesting.

  The alluring Sorcha Ross assured me she didn't know Campbell. Yet this is a fairly big link between the two of them. That can't be a coincidence.

  I jot down the information and make a note that I'll have to go back to her cabin.

  For strictly professional reasons. I have to stay focused and on task.

  I begin typing a quick email to Sabrina to let her know my next steps. I double-tap the Send button with the hope that this is enough to placate her for now.

  With a sigh, I slam the laptop shut. There's nothing more I can do for now. Tomorrow, I’ll lock my naiad deep down and focus on my job. I will not, under any circumstances, let myself be distracted by Sorcha.

  6

  -Fitz-

  The morning could have had a better start.

  First, I wasn't able to get any internet access. Second, the cabin was devoid of any food or drink.

  Naiads may not be known for their appetite, but we are known to get testy when we don't have coffee.

  Well, at least this naiad goes a bit medieval when no coffee is to be found.

  The fifteen-minute drive to the diner, halfway into town, isn't as bad as I expected it to be. I'm soothed by the rolling hills in the distance and the proximity to the water. I feel energized by the thought that after some hard work on the case, I'll be able to spend an hour or two swimming.

  Some agents rely on dark gallows humor to cope with the darkest aspects of our jobs. I trust in the healing power of water to keep me sane.

  Once I've been properly caffeinated by the nice elderly waitress at the diner, I make my way to the City Center. The large elaborate sign announces that the City Center isn't only City Hall, but also the library and the city archives.

  What interests me most, however, is the small museum attached to the City Center. That's where the deceased, Stanley Campbell, worked.

  Who knew I'd be able to do one-stop shopping for all my investigating needs?

  My first stop is the library. One of the dead guy's closest associates works there. The information he has could be crucial to clearing this situation of foul play.

  When I walk into the library, the quiet unsettles me. It's not the peaceful buzz you get underwater. All of those sounds are actually comforting and pleasing to the ear.

  This feels unnatural. Forced. It's devoid of all life. It creeps me out. I try to shake the eerie feeling as I walk up to the gentleman manning the counter. The nameplate on the desk reads Stewart Grange. The hyped-up librarian is just the man I've come to question.

  Though I stand in front of him for a few moments, he doesn't look up. He is typing away furiously on an outdated desktop computer. His glasses keep sliding and he keeps pushing them up with a deep, frustrated sigh.

  "Excuse me," I say in my most professional tone.

  My badge is displayed, ready for his inspection. The flustered man ignores me and my official identification.

  "Excuse me," I repeat.

  The guy doesn't look up, but raises one finger, gesturing for me to wait. I have to say, I'm impressed that this doesn't hinder his maniacal typing.

  "I need to ask a few questions about Stanley Campbell."

  The man freezes, his fingers hovering over the keys. His breathing becomes erratic and he starts to shake.

  "Oh? Well, you might not want to talk to me about him just now."

  If there's one thing you don't want to say to an investigator, it would be that. I school my face into my best I-mean-business look.

  "Why would that be?"

  The force of his sigh nearly blows me away.

  "That—" he stops himself. I’m pretty sure he was about to berate the dead guy. "I'm the
one left to clean up his mess."

  I don't say anything. I've learned that silence is heavy. People are more likely to divulge all of their secrets if you just take a beat and wait.

  It works.

  "He had to go and die just as the new special exhibit was set to open. The biggest pieces of the exhibit are missing. Oh, and let's not forget that he left no documentation about his own pieces. The museum can't display them because they are a part of his estate. What am I supposed to do? I'm a librarian. I just agreed to help him because... because..."

  The man stops himself and takes a few deep breaths. He looks stunned to see me, standing there listening to him vent.

  "Wait, who did you say you are?"

  My badge is still displayed so I merely nod toward it.

  "Oh. So what, you think someone drowned Stanley?"

  "It's a theory," I say, purely to see his reaction.

  Let's face it, anyone this rattled by the man's sudden death can't be responsible for it. However, he could have some valid information.

  "Do you think someone wished him ill?"

  The man scoffs.

  "Stanley was a jerk. No one liked him. He was brilliant. Knowledgeable. Arrogant." Well, I guess that means I can't quite rule out foul play just yet.

  "Mr. Grange, you're chief librarian and liaison officer between the library and the museum. Is that right?"

  "Yes, that's right. Why?"

  "Did you like working with Mr. Campbell?"

  "No. I mean, he was a difficult man to please."

  "So you wanted him dead?"

  Grange's gasp causes him to choke. I asked the most inflammatory question. The shock usually gets me the most accurate reaction.

  "No! Of course not! I need him. The entire exhibit needs him. It was his brainchild. It was his connections that were going to make it popular. Without him, all the work will be for nothing. The exhibit might have to be canceled."

  "And that's bad?"

  "Well, of course!"

  "You'll have to be more specific." I lean against the counter, trying to gauge the man's reactions.

  "Look, this library is completely publicly funded. Without the museum and all of Stanley's crazy ideas for exhibits, the library would be severely underfunded. If it wasn't for him, I would be out of a job. He might have been an asshole, but he was needed here."