"You need to take me to 564 Beachland Crescent. Right away."
I don't bother repeating the address to Larsen. My smartphone has synced to the car's console. I know he's tracking our every move. I also know that he's already looking up the address to see if it's business or residential.
I can only guess that Larsen is staying quiet as to not upset Sorcha while she's under the control of the bridle.
It's a smart move. We have no idea how aggressive she could become if she was to think we were trying to thwart her mission.
The drive brings us to a very ritzy area, farther into the mountains. The roads get winding and narrow. Under any other circumstances, the drive would be scenic. Right now, every turn terrifies me, taking us closer to our final destination. I don't know how this will play out. My heart is racing painfully, I can’t catch my breath.
If I fail, Sorcha could kill someone. I could hurt her. She could hurt herself. The frightening possibilities play out in my head. No matter the scenario, I don't see how this ends well. For any of us.
"Sorcha, can you tell me where we're going?" She doesn't respond. "Who do you need to find?"
"I need to get to 564 Beachland Crescent."
"Who's there?" The address is familiar, but I’m too focused on Sorcha to focus on the thought.
"Rose MacThomas."
Sorcha's eyes are glued to the windshield. Her breathing is shallow, and her skin is pale. She looks unwell and the light that usually shines from her eyes is absent. My beautiful woman isn't herself and it breaks my heart. I feel powerless. The feeling sits in my gut, working its way into my throat to suffocate me.
No sooner have I parked the car in front of an intimidating black wrought-iron fence, than Sorcha gets out. Her movements are languid. Taking my chance, I run through the gate and knock frantically on the door.
"This is Agent Yarrow. I need to speak with Rose MacThomas. It's an emergency."
The heavy oak door swings open and an elderly woman stands in shock. I don't even let her speak. I push her inside her home and lock the door behind us. Sorcha is a few steps away from the front door. It kills me that she's the bad guy right now. But I can't let her get into the house.
"What do you think you're doing?" Rose MacThomas gasps. "I'm calling the police."
"I am the police.” Well, sort of. “You're in danger, ma'am. I need to get you to a safe place."
The older lady looks at me, fear marring her wrinkled face. My bedside manner sucks. I know it’s because Sorcha is on the other side of that door.
"I'm Agent Fitz Yarrow. You're safe. But you need to concentrate for a second. Do you have any enemies? Anyone who could want to bring harm to you?"
“No,” she whispers faintly. Her hands are trembling as she adjusts her shawl.
"I don't know. No. I'm not involved in anything illegal."
"People do some very messed up things for money. Think. Have you had any disagreements with anyone lately?"
She shakes her head, looking too frazzled to string a single coherent thought together.
"Has anyone threatened you lately?" Loud banging starts on the door. Fuck. "Ignore that. Anyone?"
"Well...there is this young man. Charles Murray, my art dealer's assistant. He's a bully and a jerk. He wanted me to give him a few priceless pieces from our pioneer exhibit." The banging continues, growing more erratic. Sorcha is calling out for Rose.
"Keep going," I say, trying to ignore my aching heart and the adrenaline thundering through my brain.
"Murray claimed that the artifacts were family heirlooms and that the museum had no right to keep them from him. It was unfounded, of course. He had no proof, save a few letters mentioning that the items had been taken forcefully."
"Was there a bridle?"
"Well, yes, there were a few."
Fuck. We've got our guy's name. And it may be too late. I push the thought away.
Rose pulls at her shawl again. One of her hands goes up to cover her ears against Sorcha's call.
"Do you have a panic room?"
"No, of course not."
The banging stops. That can't be good. Seconds later, a deafening boom echoes through the entryway.
"You need to hide. Any room that has a thick door that locks. Do not come out unless you hear me or another agent. Do you understand?"
"No," she stammers.
"Go!"
A quick peek out a window shows me Sorcha is hitting the door with an enormous stone planter. Her murderous determination is chilling.
All traces of the warm, kind woman I’ve fallen in love with are gone.
Larsen is nowhere to be seen. There's only one thing I can think to do. I swing the door open, narrowly missing one of Sorcha's swings. I manage to duck and grab at the planter.
As we struggle, it crashes to the ground. I kick it away and manage to grab Sorcha's shoulders. She stops and looks me dead in the eyes.
"Sorcha, listen to me." I cup her face in my hands. I can tell she is battling with herself. Or perhaps that is just my hope. I really want to talk her down even if I know it’s impossible.
"This isn't you. You don't have to do this. You don't want to hurt this woman." I drop a kiss on her forehead.
"Baby, please. Listen to me. You do not have to do this."
But it's no use.
Sorcha is being controlled by the asshole Charles Murray. She will not rest or stop until Rose MacThomas is dead.
Nothing will come between her and her goal.
I don't believe that Sorcha would ever intentionally hurt me. I don't even think that she would ever want to hurt anybody.
But when the order comes through, Sorcha is powerless against it. I understand that now.
Moments later, I hear the squealing tires of a car and my name being called. It’s Larsen with the knockout drug. I barely even struggle with the idea.
I’m tired of having to fight Sorcha. It’s not how I want to see her.
With a prayer to the Goddess to protect my love, I inject Sorcha. I feel like a wretch.
It doesn't break my heart. It shatters it into a million pieces. I lay her inert body on the backseat of the car and kiss her forehead.
"I'm so sorry, sweet angel," I whisper in her ear.
"It's what she wanted," Larsen reminds me.
But his words don't help. I've let down the woman I love. There's no coming back from that.
18
-Fitz-
Charles Murray is a dead man. Every time I blink, I see Sorcha’s immobile body and that's Murray's doing. He'll pay for using my sweet woman to do his dirty work. I can't even bring myself to look in the backseat. I know I'd see Sorcha lying there, looking like she's fast asleep. A grotesque mimicry of reality.
She's not sleeping. She's drugged. A heady mix of horse tranquilizers and muscle relaxants.
“It’s holding for now, but we have no way of knowing how long it will last,” Larsen says.
“We need to find Murray. Now.”
"He's a suspect.” Larsen is cool and calm. It’s infuriating. “He has to face justice in the regular way."
"Fuck that. If you had to put Sabrina in a coma to save her, would you go easy on the guy responsible?"
"I see your point." Larsen has the good sense to agree with me.
No sooner have we arrived at Murray's house that I'm kicking down his front door. So much for protocol. So much for a level-headed agent.
Murray comes running into his entryway, summoned by the sound of his crashing door. I have to admit that the gun pointed at his face is merely for show. But he doesn't know that.
"Where is the bridle?" I can't keep the venom out of my tone. It's anything but professional.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He has the gull to lie to me. His poker face isn't convincing. His arrogance, however, is palpable.
"I'm agent Fitzroy Yarrow with the Federal Paranormal Unit. Do you know what that means?" I don't even give him time to answer. I take two steps toward
him, feeling rage and hatred boiling inside me. "It means that I know you found a bridle. I know you order the deaths of Stanley Campbell and Rose MacThomas. Now I'll ask again." I can't help myself. My hand closes around his neck and I squeeze hard, making sure he can barely breathe. "Where is the bridle?"
Murray sputters and coughs, clawing at my hand in a dramatic show. Really, I am not holding him all that tightly.
"Answer me," I press.
"Don't... know..."
"Try again, asshole. I know the kelpie you've enslaved. I know you're responsible. Tell me where the bridle is before any more damage can be done."
"Fitz, a safe." Larsen's voice thunders into my head. I'd actually forgotten he was with me. "The bridle could be in here."
The safe, an old-fashioned iron box is proudly displayed in the entrance. In my rush to get to Murray, I hadn't even noticed it. Judging by the way Murray keeps eyeing it nervously, I know the safe is more than a decoration. The bridle is in there.
"What's the combination?" I ask Murray.
"Get a warrant," he gasps.
I feel all of my self-control, the little I have left, snap. I tighten my grasp on his neck and grit my teeth.
"Combination," I say through my clenched jaw.
"He can't answer you if he's dead, Fitz. Lay off the guy."
Murray looks at Larsen with relief. I loosen my grasp ever so slightly.
"Combination," I repeat.
"If you give us the numbers, you might save your last victim. You'll go down for one murder. Not two. Do the smart thing." I'm grateful to have Larsen with me playing good cop. His appeal to Murray's sense of self-preservation is helpful.
"Seven-twenty-six." Murray's voice is loud and clear, proof that he was laying on his injury thickly.
I keep my grip solid as Larsen opens the safe.
"Is this it?" he asks, holding up a bridle.
"Has to be," I respond.
Larsen holds the bridle carefully, keeping it at arm's length.
"What are you doing?" I can't help but ask.
"I'm scared of thinking an order while holding the thing. I don't want to mess with this."
"You're an idiot. Cuff this guy so I can take the bridle to Sorcha."
All isn’t lost.
I rush back to the car, feeling hope blossoming in my heart. But I’m too late.
The backseat of the car is empty. The door is wide open and Sorcha is nowhere to be seen. I call out her name, but I know she won't answer. I throw the bridle in the backseat with a frustrated cry.
Larsen comes out of the small house, Murray in tow. His face falls.
"Give a new order over the bridle," he says.
"Won't work," Murray pipes up. "Once an order has been spoken, it can't be undone."
"That's bullshit," I say. "We don't know that and we sure as shit can't trust your sorry ass."
I jump in the car, leaving Larsen with our perpetrator. The tires screech as I book it down the small service road. Sorcha couldn't have gotten too far. Unless she shifted into her kelpie form.
The bottom of my stomach drops.
She would have resorted to her kelpie form. It would have been her only mode of transportation, seeing as I had taken the car keys with me. I have no idea if a car can outrun a kelpie, but I have to try.
Pedal to the floor, I drive back to Rose MacThomas's house on the lookout for a large, supernatural horse.
It's no surprise to me that I don't spot her until I'm almost all the way back to 564 Beachland Crescent. I jump out of the car, grabbing the bridle from the backseat.
"Sorcha!" I yell, hoping to stop her in her tracks.
With the damned bridle in my hands, time stops. I don't know what to do and for a second, I feel completely lost. Caught in a trap.
I never want to give the woman I love orders. It's not who I am and it's not what she deserves.
For a wild second, I think that perhaps giving Sorcha the bridle back will end Murray's order. But I have no way of knowing if it'll work.
I can't take that chance with all the lives at stake.
"Sorcha, stop. You do not have to kill Rose MacThomas. Stop."
Her kelpie form comes to a halt. Her breath is erratic and labored.
"Sorcha, look at me. Come back to me. We need to talk."
She shakes her head, her mane flying around her. She’s fighting with herself, with the order.
"Shift back," I plead.
The words are out of my mouth before I can even realize that I've given her a command. While holding the bridle. Guilt and regret rips through me. I didn't mean to, but I still commanded her.
I watch as she shifts back into her human form.
Sorcha stumbles and stops. She looks around, completely lost and disoriented.
"What?" her voice is hoarse and small.
I rush to her and close my arms around her, running my hands everywhere on her to make sure she isn't hurt.
"Fitz," she cries. Her entire body begins to shake. "Fitz, what did I do?" Her voice breaks on a sob.
"You didn't do anything, sweet angel. Not a thing. Everything is okay."
I close my eyes and duck her head under my chin. I want to keep Sorcha safe in my arms. I need to make sure that this moment is real.
"Fitz, please tell me what happened."
"We found the man responsible. We stopped the order. We got your bridle back. It's going to be okay."
"Can I have it now, please?"
I hand her the bridle. This time, I study it. It's actually a beautiful work of leather, gold and silver. Though it's aged, it's clear that very good craftsmanship went into this work.
"How did I stop? Nothing can stop an order."
Guilt and shame rip through me.
"I had to give an order." I can't even look at her when I say the words.
"Oh" is all she answers.
"It's not like I had a choice, Sorcha. Really, if there had been any other option..."
"No. It's fine. You did the right thing."
I can only guess at the thought she isn't finishing.
She knows I did the right thing, but she hates that I've also used her bridle against her. Am I any better than that asshole Conrad MacGregor who enslaved her in the first place?
The harsh comparison feels wrong. I didn't actually do anything to control Sorcha. I only did it to save her. That has to count for something.
"I need to go," Sorcha says, holding the bridle close to her chest. "I need to put this somewhere safe. Someplace only I know about. I can't let this happen again."
I nod.
"Yes, of course."
"Then you can take me in or arrest me or whatever it is you need to do."
I shake my head in confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm still responsible for that man's death. I have to be brought to justice."
"How about we let the powers-that-be decide that."
I want to take her in my arms again. I want to kiss her until we're both silly from it. I can tell that Sorcha needs space, though. So I don't reach out for her.
"Let me take you wherever you need to go to take care of that thing."
"Thank you, Fitz. Really. But I need to do this myself."
As I watch her walk away, I can't even say I blame her.
19
-Sorcha-
I run my fingers on the gold and silver threads woven into the leather. When my mother first gave me this bridle, I was enamored by it. Its luxurious metal, thick leather, and decorations made me feel special. Now that I look at it with the eyes of an adult, one who has gained knowledge through some hard lessons, I see the bridle for what it is.
A symbol of control.
It represents quite literally how I can lose myself.
The bridle is beautiful, but its beauty masks something so very ugly. A curse. One I will no longer be controlled by. I can't bury the damned thing. I can't take the chance that one day it will be dug up and used against me again.
The bank's safety deposit box is the best place I can think of to keep it until I return home. I'll find a more permanent and secure place for it then.
With a heavy sigh, one that holds the sadness of hundreds of years, I drop the bridle into the grey metal bin. I close the lid and lock it.
Somehow, the moment feels anti-climatic.
I feel like something should happen. Anything to bookend all of the heartache and tragedy this object has brought me. But there's just the click of metal against metal as I slide the box into the wall made of hundreds of other boxes. It looks like a mausoleum.
Fitting. Let the bridle die, taking with it the part of me who accepted being controlled.
I walk away, not turning back. The key in my hand might be small, but it’s all I need now. I have complete control over myself.
The taxi ride back to the cabin is difficult. Though this entire ordeal has been a specific kind of hell, I can't help but feel that losing Fitz will be the hardest part of all.
With him, I felt like I could be me. Sorcha the woman. Sorcha the lover. Sorcha the hopeful.
And really, how does a budding relationship recover from something as heavy as murder?
Fitz is a naiad. He understands that I wasn't responsible for the actions I committed. Yet, he is still a man with a heart, a conscious. A very strong ethical code.
He's an agent. I know he said he could look past all this, but really, how could he? Honestly, I don't know if I could ask that of him.
My plan is to go back to the cabin, pack up my things, and head off to whatever paranormal facility they have in mind.
Fitz is already waiting for me on the cabin's front porch. Part of me dares to hope he has been waiting for me to return. To him. But that's silly.
He's here to arrest me. I open my mouth to apologize, but he beats me to it.
"Can you forgive me for putting you to sleep?"
"What?" I can't even contain my shock. "Fitz, I told you to do it. I'd be mad at you if you hadn't done it. Was it a loss of control? Giving away my power? Yes, absolutely. But at least in that instance, I was relinquishing power of my own volition to someone I love and trust. It's completely different. At least knocked out, I couldn't hurt anyone. You weren't just protecting Rose MacThomas. You were also protecting me."
The Kelpie's Redemption Page 9
