21. A Rare Beast
21
A Rare Beast
Rory
R ory hunches over the sales counter at the Go-Go, squinting at the tiny television set, as he flips through the channels. He lands on the local news and turns up the volume a few clicks.
The image on the television set is framed in static and slides to the left every few minutes or so. The news anchor’s face is temporarily dismantled and put back together again as he talks solemnly about a recent plane crash that took the lives of over sixty passengers.
The story ends and the news anchor moves on, but Rory tunes him out. He had only been watching to see if they cover the suspicious death of Maddox Grey and, subsequently, the disappearance of Calliope Grey. It’s been at least three days since the local news last ran the segment though. Authorities have since declared her husband’s death as accidental, and Calliope’s disappearance is no longer cause for alarm, or, at least, not cause enough to run news segments on. More likely, they’re just bored of the same old story.
Not for the first time, he wonders if he should update her about her husband’s death. Does it matter? He knows she grabbed the newspaper from the library. It was vague but left no question that Calliope’s disappearance was suspicious. There were even a few thinly veiled accusations that she murdered Maddox Grey and then fled.
He wonders if she did have something to do with it. Based on the brief memory he accidentally saw, Maddox Grey certainly had it coming. He could feel her fear in that moment, a cold dread skittering across his arms as the glint of steel inched closer. The memory was tainted with her emotions for her husband. She loved the man so much that she was willing to face her fear in order to help him, and Maddox Grey used that to his advantage. For Hades sake, Rory would have gladly killed the man himself, based on that one memory alone. Any yet, he can’t see Calliope as a killer. Not really.
The real question circling behind these thoughts is when will Calliope leave? At the end of next week, like they agreed? Her husband is dead. She had nothing to do with it and the authorities are no longer looking for her. Once she masters her cravings, she is free—and it seems like she already has, if he’s being honest.
A tapping at the door draws his attention back to the present moment. He looks up from the small television set behind the counter, and his eyes flash when he notices Kane. There’s only one reason Kane would venture this far from the house, particularly in this weather.
He doesn’t even bother to let the bird in, just curses under his breath as he grabs his keys. He flips the “Closed” sign and lets the door slam shut behind him.
“She fell,” says the bird, chest puffed out in worry. “It was too dark and with the rain, I couldn’t see. I think she fell into the lake.”
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell her to stay inside?” He kneels to scoop Kane up into his hand before ducking out into the rain and slipping into the car.
“I did,” says Kane, hopping down to the passenger seat. “I can’t help it if she doesn’t listen to me.”
“And you have no clue what’s in the lake?” asks Rory, darting a look at Kane as he fumbles with his keys. The engine roars into life and Rory turns the wheel too sharply as he maneuvers out of the parking space. The tires slide dangerously against the tarmac. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
Kane clicks his beak. “I have a list of possibilities…”
Rory slams his palm on the steering wheel, gritting out another curse between clenched teeth. “She can’t drown.” He glances at Kane. “Right?”
“Most likely not. She doesn’t need her lungs to breathe after all. ”
“But whatever the creature is…” Rory’s voice fades. His thoughts are filled with images of her bloodied and broken, body ravaged by an unknown beast.
“I don’t want her to die,” says Kane, quietly. “I like her.”
“Me too.” He presses harder on the pedal. The car lurches forward, tires protesting.
* * *
Finally, after what feels like hours later but is only a few minutes, he turns abruptly into the driveway of Graeme House.
He flings the door open and jumps out of the car, his boots slipping on the dirt drive which is now turned to mud. He feels water seep into his socks and his clothes stick to him as he runs around the side of the house. He pulls himself onto the steps with ease. He blinks, eyes and ears strained for any sign of Calliope, wishing desperately for a flash of pale skin in the dark. Instead, he is greeted by a strobe of lightning, hot-white above him and the sound of thunder echoing low against the earth, so close he feels the vibrations in his chest.
His mind is frantically trying to recall what she was wearing earlier, when he left. Was it the cream cotton dress or the blue sundress that tucks in at her waist? Maybe it was the long white one with the floral pattern and the sleeves that flow down to her elbows? No, it was sleeveless. White. Linen.
Fuck , he thinks, taking the steps two at a time. The rain has done the lake well and the shoreline just touches the rough-hewn steps. By morning, the lake may even be close to full again, the stairs halfway submerged.
He can’t see her from the steps and there is no evidence of her on the shore. He calls out her name, but his voice is snatched away by a crack of lightning. He looks up at Kane, who is hiding on the porch, feathers soaked. Kane opens his beak and Rory thinks he, too, is calling Calliope, though only the sound of the rain and wind roars in his ears.
So, he does the only other thing he can do: he jumps into the water, pausing only to slip off his boots. He dips his head below, his focus pulled by the faint green light pulsing in the center of the lake.
He begins to swim. As he approaches, he sees a white blur and his stomach swoops with relief when he recognizes Calliope, her hair fanning out around her like rays of sunshine. She’s clutching to the remains of a canoe that was wrecked and abandoned there a decade ago at least and staring into the green glow. When he reaches her, her features are relaxed, almost in awe of what she sees. She looks like a river nymph, green light casting an ethereal hue against her pale skin, white dress swirling around her slim body. He grabs her hand, and she turns, startled to see him.
But then she points toward the light and smiles, mouthing something that Rory hopes is, “It’s okay.”
She lets go of the canoe and tugs on Rory’s shirt as she kicks upward. When they reach the surface a few seconds later, it is to the fine mist of a fading storm, the soft pitter-patter as gentle as a lullaby. A sizzle of lightning resounds above them as they tread water, and Rory pulls her along back to the stairs.
Kane is on the steps as they approach, hopping from side-to-side. Rory helps her up, his broad hands encircling her waist. The dress is clinging to her, tangling around her legs. Even from behind, he can tell it’s somewhat see-through, and he averts his eyes awkwardly.
She doesn’t seem to notice as she wipes at her hair plastered to her forehead. “I know what the creature in the lake is.”
“You shouldn’t have gone investigating like that,” says Kane, nipping at her elbow. “It was dangerous.”
“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely, wiping at the water dripping into her eyes. “But there’s a creature out there who needs our help.”
Rory is squeezing out his shirt. “Come on, inside.” He scoops up Kane, whose feathers are still wet, and he keeps a hand hovering near Calliope’s lower back as he ushers her up the stairs and into the kitchen.
He deposits Kane on the table and disappears through the living room, only to reappear a minute later with the blanket that usually hangs off the back of the couch .
He wraps it around Calliope’s shoulders, mapping the parts of her he can see, looking for signs of injury or distress. He cups the back of her neck, thumb tracing a pattern behind her ear. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, eyes softened at the tender display of his worry. “I know what’s in the lake, though, and it’s hurting a lot.”
“What is it?” asks Kane, hopping closer to them, head cocked to the side.
She looks over her shoulder at the window. It’s still dark and her own ghostly reflection stares back at her. “It’s a kelpie.”
Kane’s neck twists even further to the side. “Kelpies don’t stay in lakes like this. At least not for long.”
She looks down at the bird, her lips pale and shaking. “They have if they’ve lost their bridle.”
* * *
The sun dawns with renewed strength, but none of the residents of Graeme House seem to notice. All three are ensconced in the library, surrounded by books, tiny motes of dust swirling around them as the sky gradually lightens.
Rory had gone back to finish his shift at the gas station, and the three remaining hours passed by agonizingly slow. He wracked his brain for any knowledge of kelpies, but he’s never seen one, let alone met one .
Even when the Blood Wars intruded upon other magical communities, Rory would often find himself fighting against witches, warlocks (he had been unaware that they were not the same as witches at the time), and even the occasional shifter—but never the Fae. They rarely get involved in such earthly squabbles. Probably for the best, he always thought. The Fae are notoriously tricky to deal with, capricious and unreliable.
When he returned home, he joined Calliope and Kane in their research on kelpies. They sit in silence as they read, marking pages of significance and, even, occasionally sharing interesting sections out loud.
When Rory does notice the lightening of the sky, he closes his book and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with two glasses of blood.
“So, kelpies are water demons that can shapeshift,” begins Calliope, in between sips, “but more often than not, their true shape is a horse. I knew that, and that they’re very protective of their bridle, but so far, I haven’t learned much more. There’s a lot of speculation and not so many facts.” She takes another sip and licks her lips, pressing a thumb to the corner of her mouth to catch a fallen drop. “Actually, there are a lot of contradictions even among the three books I’ve read through so far.”
“Same,” says Kane, nails clicking against the table. He pecks at the book in front of him. “This one does mention a few important tidbits. The author, Phillipa Ledbetter, spent time with a kelpie tribe in Ireland. One of the last tribes, it seems. The kelpie population has since dwindled. I think that’s why you might be finding so many contradictions. They seem to be more solitary creatures these days.”
Rory pulls Kane’s book closer and inspects the cover. The second edition of Rare Beasts by Phillippa Ledbetter is a hardcover printed in 1984. The cover image is a painting of a dark skeletal horse-like creature with glowing red eyes. The beast’s legs melt into darkness.
“So far, I’ve learned that kelpie tears can purify any body of water,” continues Kane, “and that they mate for life.”
Rory flips to the inside flap of the dust cover where a black-and-white photo of a woman smiles up at him. Phillippa Ledbetter, as her bio proclaims, is “the number one authority on Fae heritage and culture currently living in the United States.” Her first-person account of her time spent with the last kelpie tribe is a “shimmering, visceral story that is sure to quickly gain a place among the Fae lexicon.” He flips through the pages. “So, the kelpie in our lake, how did it get here?”
Calliope lifts a shoulder. “I’m not sure. But the important thing is that she can’t leave. Her bridle was lost. Or stolen. She didn’t specify.”
“She talked to you?” asks Kane.
“Sort of. It’s hard to describe. I could hear her voice in my head. She was so…so sad. And in pain. It hurt. ”
Kane hops closer to her. “You felt her pain as your own?”
Rory, who had been flipping through chapters, reading snippets here and there, suddenly looks up. “Have you read this?” He shoves the book toward Kane. “The part about a kelpie’s bite?”
Kane squawks. “Yes, but—”
“A kelpie’s bite is fatal to vampires.”
“So?” asks Calliope. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t help her.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“She’s in pain, Rory.” Calliope leans closer, a hand pressed to her chest. “I’m in pain. I can hear her, even now.”
Rory blinks at her, noticing, for the first time, her strained expression, eyes rimmed in red, and the rigid line of her shoulders. Her face is pale and the book she clutches is shaking slightly in her white-knuckled grip.
He hadn’t realized that she was still hearing the kelpie’s cry. He can’t hear it—has never been able to hear it, in fact. He sighs. “I’m sure there’s a way to help her while keeping our distance.”
She nods enthusiastically. “Yes. We can use a location spell to find the bridle. Once we have that, we can leave it somewhere she can grab it.”
“Can you still do magic like that?” he asks, gently.
“Sorry, when I said spell, I meant potion. Which is really just alchemy. Right? Or, not really, but close enough, yeah?” She scoots forward, grabbing Rory’s hand. “And you can do that, right?”
His fingers twitch against her grip and, feeling a surge of something like bravery, he interlaces his fingers with hers. It feels like he’s reached into an open flame. The edge of a manacle digs into his wrist. “We’ll do whatever we can to get that bridle,” he assures her.
“Thank you,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek, her lips warm as he leans into the touch. She pulls back, a small smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, her emerald eyes sparkling with excitement.
Kane squawks. “We can search the grimoires for a location spell.”
Calliope looks away, though Rory can’t help but let his gaze linger on her, storing the image of that smile, like a pebble in a pocket.
“I’m way ahead of you,” she says, reaching for a sage-green book. There is a delicate floral pattern gold-stamped into the front cover. “Our good friend Griselda has the perfect spell.”
Excerpt from the Grimoire of Griselda Jones - 1890-1891: For the Finding of Lost or Stolen Items - particularly if they are sentimental
Start with Common Base (see Appendix A).
Add—
A piece of the object you are searching for, or something from the owner, such as nail clippings, blood, or hair. If this cannot be acquired, one may find some measure of success with a representation of the missing object, though results may be lacking
Shavings from the horn of a minotaur, willingly given
Rosemary, cut with a silver ceremonial knife, tied with a piece of string soaked in thieves’ oil.
Petals of forget-me-not, ground up as fine as possible
Poke berries, pressed and strained
Cowslip—a small bunch, tossed in
Leave for three days to cure. Coat an adder stone. Follow.
Excerpt from the Grimoire of Griselda Jones- 1890-1891: Appendix A: Common Base
Purified water
Salt
Gum arabic powder
Neutral spirits
Bring all to a boil in your favorite cauldron. Remove from heat. The boil should die naturally. Use only once water has stilled.