Chapter Five
The train ride north took six hours, and that was after the cab to London.
I watched England dissolve into Scotland through rain-streaked windows, fields giving way to hills, hills becoming mountains.
The landscape turned wild in increments.
Stone walls. Sheep scattered across impossible slopes.
Lochs appearing like mirrors dropped between peaks.
I'd imagined arriving in the wilderness. Remote shores, ancient forests, the kind of landscape that was still what it was centuries ago. Instead, the bus from Glasgow dropped me in Luss at three in the afternoon, and I stepped into a carnival.
Not an actual carnival. If only. No, this was a circus of activity.
Tour buses and minibuses idled in a car park at the edge of the village.
Families spilled out of them, parents shouting after their children while dogs tugged at their leashes.
A bagpiper in full Highland dress played for tips near a shop selling tartan scarves and shortbread in tins decorated with thistles.
The air smelled like fried fish, sunscreen, and car exhaust.
I stood on the pavement with my suitcase and backpack, staring around with my mouth agape.
Loch Lomond stretched out beyond the village, blue and impossibly beautiful despite the army of tourists laying siege.
Mountains rose on the far shore, their peaks disappearing into low clouds.
The water caught the light in a way that made my chest tight.
But between me and that wild beauty were paddle boats shaped like swans, a tour boat advertising “Kelpie Cruises,” and at least two hundred people taking selfies.
A child ran past me holding a rubber toy. It was bright green, horse-shaped, with enormous fangs and red eyes. The label on the attached tag read: Loch Lomond Kelpie - Beware the Water Horse!
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
The last real kelpie in existence lived somewhere beneath this chaos. Six hundred years old, fading from the world, and hiding in a loch that had been turned into a tourist attraction complete with novelty toys. The absurdity was almost unbearable.
The Velasca had rented me a cottage that was, thankfully, away from the main part of town.
As I walked down School Road, the cacophony softened into a dull roar.
The cottage—a-two bedroom one-story with a small garden out front—was off Murray Place.
I found a key box attached to the door handle, punched in the code, and got the key.
Once inside, with the door shut behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was clean and quiet, smelling faintly of lavender.
On the table beside the door was a pamphlet titled Legends of Loch Lomond.
Taking the pamphlet with me, I put my suitcase in the bedroom and unpacked a few things, including the file Julian had given me. Sitting on the bed, I opened the file and pulled out the photograph of áedán. Just looking at his picture made me nervous. What would it be like to talk to him?
Shaking my head, I set the picture aside and picked up the pamphlet.
The cover showed a black horse rising from water.
Instead of the blocky teeth it should have, it bared sharp fangs, and its eyes glowed red.
Seaweed and bones hung tangled in its mane.
The text inside described kelpies as malevolent spirits that lured travelers onto their backs before drowning them.
Monsters. Child-killers. Demons in horse form.
“What the hell is this?” I scowled and pulled out the stories from the Velasca.
The contrast was stark. The historical accounts in Julian's file described kelpies as guardians.
Protectors of sacred waters. Dangerous, yes, but only to those who polluted or committed violence.
They killed with purpose, not malice. So why did this pamphlet describe them as killers?
Then I remembered that toy with the red eyes.
What was going on? And why didn't the Velasca know about it?
“Maybe it's just a couple of mistaken portrayals.”
I'd check the tourist shops for more kelpie lore later.
At the moment, I was too eager to find áedán.
So I changed into hiking boots and a waterproof jacket and then packed my backpack with a torch, water, and the Velasca file.
With the cottage key in my pocket and my pack over my shoulder, I headed toward the water.
I walked along the shore, away from the village. The path was well-maintained at first, paved and marked with signs pointing toward scenic viewpoints. Families passed me with strollers. Couples held hands. A group of teenagers went by, laughing about something on someone's phone.
I kept walking.
The path turned to gravel, then dirt. The crowds thinned. After a mile, I was alone except for the occasional jogger. After two miles, even the joggers disappeared.
The landscape opened up. Mountains rose on both sides of the loch, their slopes covered in heather and bracken turning gold in the fading light. The water stretched out smooth and dark, reflecting clouds that looked like bruises. The air smelled different there, untainted.
I climbed a stile, surmounting a low wall, and left the path entirely. There, I followed the shoreline into an area that looked untouched. No footprints in the mud. No litter. No signs warning about safety or wildlife. Just rocks, grass, and the loch lapping quietly against the shore.
The sun dropped behind the mountains. Shadows pooled in the valleys. I kept walking, scanning the water, looking for something I couldn't name. A ripple that moved wrong. A shape that didn't belong. Any sign that something lived here beyond fish and tourists. There was nothing.
By the time full darkness fell, I'd walked nearly four miles from the village. My legs ached, and my jacket was slick from mist rolling off the water. I stopped on a flat stretch of shore where the grass met the rocks and admitted defeat.
This was ridiculous. I was a researcher, not a tracker. I had no idea how to find a creature that had been hiding successfully for centuries. The Velasca had sent me to help a myth, but I didn't even know where to start looking for him. I turned off the torch and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
Nearly full, the moon rose, casting silver light across the water.
Despite the gentle breeze, the surface rippled, and those ripples moved across the loch.
Night animals crept through the brush. Without the chaos of humanity suppressing it, the loch came alive.
It was as if a veil had dropped, and I was finally seeing the truth.
This was the beauty everyone missed, too intent on having fun to notice.
I stood there for a long time, just taking in the beauty that felt forgotten.
As forgotten as the myth it guarded. There was so much to admire.
The loch even had its own symphony—water against rocks, wind through grass, the call of creatures.
My breathing added to it, making me feel as if I were a part of it all.
Then a voice behind me said, “You've been reading the wrong stories.”
I jerked, my whole body snapping to attention at the sound of that voice—masculine, but not too deep, with a hint of a Scottish brogue. It tickled my skin and set my heart racing. I spun around.
A man stood on the grass about ten feet away. He wore jeans and a sweater, both dark enough for him to fade into the shadows. Moonlight highlighted his raven hair with silver, outlining its length—past his shoulders. I couldn't tell what color his eyes were, but he stared at me warily.
áedán. The last kelpie on Earth. And the most handsome man I'd ever seen.
His photos didn't convey how attractive he was.
How could they? You needed to experience him in person to see the perfection of his skin, the bone structure that couldn't be captured in flat photographs. He had the kind of beauty that made you forget how to breathe properly. Sharp cheekbones and a full mouth that looked made for kissing. Broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs. Even the way he stood was enchanting, hip cocked casually, as if he didn’t know the effect he had on people.
I realized I was staring. Realized I hadn't said anything. Realized my mouth was open. “I, um.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry. You startled me.”
“You were standing at the water's edge in the dark.” He tilted his head and looked me over. “I thought you might be lost.”
“No, I'm not lost.” Not lost, but I felt oddly found. “I was just admiring how beautiful the loch is without so many people here.”
His eyes widened, and he stepped closer. “Aye, it becomes itself when they leave.”
I nodded. “I felt that. But here I am, one of those people who ruins it by my presence.”
“I disagree. You have walked along its shore with respect, careful not to break a single branch or scare the animals. You are nothing like the people who tear across the loch in their metal boats, dumping filth into the water.”
“I would never do that.”
He nodded. “As I said, you're different.”
A shiver ran down my spine. There was more to áedán than his beauty or his myth.
From just the few words we'd exchanged, I felt an eagerness to know more about him.
Something inside me screamed to grab his hand and never let go.
To stop myself from giving in to such insanity, I adjusted my backpack.
áedán's gaze dropped to it. His expression changed. Not anger, exactly. Something colder. I frowned as he stepped closer. I should have stepped back, but I couldn't make my feet work. I followed his gaze to the pamphlet tucked into my pack's outer pocket.
He pointed at it. “Kelpies dinnae look like that.”
I went still. Julian told me not to reveal myself right away, but it was so hard to hold back. “How do you know what a kelpie looks like?”
“Because I've seen one.” He smiled, but it oozed danger. “They're a bonnie race.”
The wind picked up, carrying the smell of water and something else.
Something wild and spicy. Man, but more.
He was standing close enough now that I could see his eyes were green and admire the way the striations in them glittered.
His long lashes should have softened the glint of danger in his eyes, but they only enhanced it.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
“Someone who lives here.” He looked past me at the loch, then back at my face. “Who are you?”
“Ethan.” I held out my hand. “Ethan Clarke.”
“Ethan Clarke.” He repeated it slowly, as if he were tasting the syllables. He took my hand and held it without shaking. “That's a very English name for someone standing on a Scottish shore in the middle of the night.”
“I'm visiting. England isn't that far.”
“Visiting.” His smile widened. “Looking for kelpies? Is that why you're out here at night?”
“I'm interested in folklore.” It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. I looked down at our hands. His thumb was rubbing the back of mine.
“Folklore.” He said the word as if it amused him, and drew his hand away from mine. “Is that what they're calling it now?”
I didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know what he meant. I especially didn't know why my hands were shaking or why I couldn't look away from his face.
He stepped back. I could breathe better, but I also felt a strange sense of loss.
“You should go back to the village, Ethan Clarke. It's not safe to walk alone here at night. The shore is slippery. People fall.” He turned to leave, then paused. “And if you're going to read aboot kelpies, find better sources. That pamphlet is an insult.”
“Wait.” I took a step forward. “What's your name?”
He looked back over his shoulder. The moonlight caught his eyes again, and for a second they looked silver. Reflective. Wrong.
“Does it matter?”
Then he walked away into the darkness, making no sound, and within seconds I couldn't see him anymore. It was as if he'd dissolved into the night itself.
I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, stopping myself from going after him. I had met him. That was the first step. Hopefully, I'd made enough of an impression that he'd show himself to me again. Chasing him would only make him run.
I turned and looked out at the loch. The water was still. No ripples spreading from whatever swam beneath.
When my heart finally calmed, I started the long walk back to the village. And I couldn't stop thinking about áedán's eyes. The way they'd caught the light. The way they'd looked silver for just a second. And the way his thumb had stroked my hand. Had he been flirting? Did I like it?
I wouldn't answer that last question until I was safely inside my rental with the door locked behind me. I threw the pamphlet away, undressed, and went into the bathroom to wash up before bed. It was there, standing at the counter and staring at my reflection, that I admitted the truth to myself.
That little touch had awakened a longing in me for more. A lot more.