Page 33 of The Last Kelpie

“When I can.” Áedán didn't look at me. “Small things. Things people wullnae notice. Mostly, they care for their constructions, but I do what I can.” He stopped walking. “I was a guardian once. I still am, I suppose. Even if no one remembers what that means.”

My chest tightened. This was what the stories had forgotten. Not the danger, not the power, but the purpose. Kelpies had been protectors of water and of the people who depended on it. Áedán was still doing that work centuries later, even though no one knew. Even though no one would thank him. The image of his shocked face came to me then—the moment the restaurant manager had taken care of our meal. Then I remembered what I hadn't noticed before—the way he had ducked his head when he passed by those cheering people. It was probably the first time in decades, maybe even centuries, that he'd received praise for something he'd done.

“Here, let me take the bag. A hero shouldn't carry my books.” I grabbed the handles of the bags he was carrying.

Áedán jerked them back at the same time. Then we both let go, and the bag fell to the ground. The books spilled forth. On top of the pile was a children's book with an illustration of a black horse rising from water, its eyes glowing red and its teeth bared. The Bloodthirsty Kelpie, the title proclaimed in cheerful letters.

Áedán went still, his eyes locked on the book.

I'd deliberately hidden the book from him because of that cover. At least adult books (not those kinds of adult books) didn't have cartoons of evil horses on them. Wincing, I bent and shoved the books back into the bag.

When I straightened, Áedán was staring ahead, his expression blank, but I could see the tension in his jaw.

“Áedán—”

“I'm fine.” His voice was flat.

He wasn't fine. I wanted to say something, wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that one book couldn't define him. But that would be a lie. Books did matter. Stories mattered. They shaped how people understood the world, what they believed was possible, and what they feared.

“We should go.” I moved all the bags to one hand and angled them behind me.

He nodded, but didn't move.

I touched his arm. “Come on.”

Áedán let me guide him down the path that led to his cottage. We walked in silence, the afternoon light turning golden around us, and I thought about everything I'd seen that day—the coffee shop, the children with the ducks, and that little girl. And then Áedán seeing his own story turned into a terrifying tale for children.

I didn't know what to do to make him feel better. I thought about my options the entire way to his cottage and discarded each one. Finally, I told myself to be brave and grabbed his hand. Áedán flinched, and I drew it away, but he snatched it back. Weaving his fingers with mine, he resumed walking, a soft smile on his face. And I smiled too. I had lifted his spirits and made a silent declaration. That one little action had told Áedán that I cared about him. I cared as more than a Velascan, and I wanted more too.

And he had accepted that declaration.

We were both still smiling when we reached his cottage. He let go of my hand, his fingers sliding slowly free of mine, and turned to face me.

“Thank you for today,” he said.

“You're the one who suggested it.”

“I know.” He frowned at the bags of books. “I shoulda escorted you to your cottage first.”

“That's all right. I'm not as fragile as I look.”

He smirked. “I don't think you look fragile at all.”

“Thanks.”

“You could leave them here.” Áedán shrugged.

“Oh.” It felt like leaving a toothbrush at a new lover's flat. As if I were creating a reason to return. Or Áedán was. That made me grin. “Sure. That would be great.”

He took the bags with a matching grin. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Yup, bright and early.”

Áedán nodded and went inside. I stood there, watching the door close, and started counting the hours until tomorrow came.

Chapter Twelve

Áedán appeared at my cottage's back door just after sunset that night.