Page 79 of The Last Kelpie

He didn't look at me when I approached.

“Do you want to wait here while I buy the luggage?”

“I'm so tired, Ethan.”

“I know.” I pulled him close, held him against the wind. “But you're not alone anymore. We're going to fight this together.”

We stood there for a long moment, two figures against the Orkney wind, holding onto each other.

Then Áedán pulled back and swiped at his eyes. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” I squeezed his hand. “Let's go.”

We bought several hard-shell suitcases, packed the books and scrolls, and headed to the airport. The Velasca was already working against the new kelpie myth. I hoped that would buy Áedán some time. Because now we had to fight lies about Áedán too.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Julian met us at the airport. He didn't ask questions, just helped us load the luggage into the trunk and backseat and then drove us to the estate. The sun was setting by the time we passed through the gates. The metal arch with its inscription—Ne Obliviscaris—caught the last of the light. Do not forget. The words felt heavier now than they had before, more of a warning than a motto.

Caelum was waiting outside when we drove up. He helped us carry the luggage into the Great Archive. Agnes jumped up from her desk when she saw us. Her face flushed as she followed us, her gaze on the luggage. As soon as we set them down on a few tables, she rushed to one, opened it, and her breath left her with a sigh.

“The earliest book was dated around 500. I assume it was 500 AD, but I assume the scrolls are even older.”

“Dear God,” Julian murmured.

“Show me the books of lies.” Caelum sat down at a table.

We opened all the suitcases. I pulled out the modern books while Agnes carefully began to remove the scrolls. I set the seven books before Caelum, laid in a line, so he could look at each of them. He inhaled sharply. On every cover was that spiral. Caelum stared at it as if it were a snake.

Caelum set a finger on the first book and slid it closer. He opened it and stared at the name written at the top of the first page. “Agnes, would you retrieve one of Velas's journals? The one from 1486, I believe.”

Agnes disappeared into the Archive without question. The rest of us waited in silence. Áedán's hand slipped into mine, his fingers colder than normal. I leaned into him, sharing my warmth. Caelum turned the page. Nearby, Julian scowled at the books.

When Agnes returned, she carried a leather-bound journal. She set it beside the modern book Caelum was reading. Caelum opened the journal. His gaze went back and forth between the books. He turned a page in each and continued in that manner for several minutes.

I read over Caelum's shoulder. Velas's journal contained notes about a forest spirit in what would become Germany. There were lists of sources—oral and written accounts as well as regional variations. There was also a careful analysis of which elements appeared consistently across all versions, and which were later additions.

The core truth, Velas had written, emerges when you strip away the embellishments, like revealing bone beneath flesh.

I looked at the modern book, noting the way the words didn't just add things, but also changed the core of the stories. “Oh, God,” I whispered.

“You see it.” Caelum leaned back in his chair and looked at me.

“It's the same process.” My hands were shaking. “Velas developed a method for finding the truest version of a myth. He gathered every source he could find, then carefully removed the newer additions until only the original remained.”

“And whoever wrote these—” Agnes hovered a finger over the modern book, as if it might burn her.

“Reversed it.” Áedán stared at the books, his face drained of all expression. “They took the original and twisted it with additions, one word at a time.”

Caelum nodded slowly. “They aren't inventing monsters. They're editing reality.”

The words hung in the air between us. I thought about Edmund Ashford's printer's proof, about the careful changes marked in red ink. Each change had been small enough to seem insignificant. But together, they transformed an entire myth. The same had been done with Áedán's life. Editing reality. Yes, that was it. That was the subtle difference I hadn't noticed. This wasn't just changing human belief about a written myth, it was also changing the myth itself—not by making the myth forget, but by making them remember something else. Change the story, and you change the myths it birthed.

“Áedán wasn't affected until he read the lies about himself.” I looked at Caelum. “So, as long as he stays away from that book, will he be all right?”

“I don't know.” Caelum opened each book until he found Áedán's. Then he frowned and looked at another book. “I remember this myth.” He flipped through the book. “The Velascan assigned to her assumed her stories had changed naturally over time. But this proves him wrong.” He looked at Áedán. “I believe when you read the lies about yourself, you quickened the spell, giving it direct access to your memories. If you had never found the book, the stories would have been printed, and the lies read by humans—the source of our existence. The effect would have been the same, but slower.” He shifted his gaze to me. “Will Áedán be all right? Yes, I think he will recover, as long as we destroy this spell.”

“You can destroy it?” My heart leapt.