Page 8 of The Last Kelpie

He pointed to a shelf. “Right there. Under water spirits.”

“Under German spirits.” Agnes removed her spectacles, polished them with a cloth from one of her many pockets, and replaced them with the air of someone preparing for battle. “You have filed Welsh lake spirits under German ghosts.”

“But they're both water—”

“Mr. Pembroke.” She stepped closer. “The Gwragedd Annwn are not ghosts. They are not German. They are Welsh lake maidens with a documented history spanning twelve centuries, and they have absolutely nothing in common with Rhenish river phantoms except the presence of water. Would you file a phoenix under 'birds'?”

“I, uh, no?”

“Would you categorize a dragon as a lizard?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Then why, in the name of everything sacred, would you file Welsh lake spirits under German ghosts?”

The young man looked as if he wanted to sink through the floor. “I'm sorry. I'll fix it right now.”

Agnes handed him a slip of paper. “This is the proper classification system. Memorize it. If I find one more misfiled manuscript, you'll spend the next month reorganizing the Scandinavian collection. By rune.” She turned and walked away, her skirt swishing with righteous indignation.

Julian smiled. “Agnes takes organization very seriously.”

I made a mental note never to misfile anything. Ever.

We continued deeper into the Archive, Julian motioning at the Scottish collection, not to be confused with the Celtic collection, even though some Scottish myths stemmed from Celtic culture. Movement caught my eye, and I looked up. On the second-floor balcony, a tall man crossed from one section to another. He was barefoot, his steps silent on the wooden floor. Auburn hair fell past his shoulders, threaded with leafy vines. He wore a modern dark green suit that hung like an ancient robe. As if he felt my attention, he paused at the railing and looked down.

For a heartbeat, brilliant green eyes met mine. I had never seen their like. Those eyes held the knowledge of centuries. They'd seen kingdoms rise and fall, forests grow and burn, and myths fade from memory.

Where he paused, flowers bloomed. Slender green stalks pushed up between the floorboards, and white flowers blossomed on them, opening toward him as if he were the sun. He smiled at me and then disappeared into the shadows between the shelves.

“That was Caelum,” Julian said.

“The founder.”

“Yes.”

“Should I—” I looked toward the stairs. “Should I introduce myself?”

“No.” Julian's tone was gentle. “Caelum will meet you when he's ready. He's over twelve centuries old, Ethan. He doesn't rush.”

We walked in silence for a moment. I kept glancing up at the balcony, hoping for another glimpse of Caelum, but he was gone.

“The myths who survive are those who adapt. Many learned to hide among humans by shapeshifting into human forms.” Julian led me out of the Archive. We had circled the bottom floor. “But sometimes, adaptation becomes assimilation. The myth blends so completely into human culture that people forget it was ever real. Sometimes the myth forgets. And when that happens . . .”

“They fade.”

“Yes.” He looked at me. “They fade.”

We went back to the main hall and climbed a back staircase to the second floor. Julian led me down a corridor lined with closed doors, each marked with a brass plaque engraved with a name. At the end of the corridor, to the left, was a door marked Director of Field Operations, Dr. Julian Baptiste. Beside it, capping the end of the corridor, was a door with a plaque that had only one word engraved on it: Caelum.

Julian took me into his office. Inside, the space was smaller than I'd expected. Bookshelves lined three walls, crammed with volumes in a dozen languages. A window overlooked the gardens, where Velas's oak stood. The desk was old wood, scarred and worn, covered with papers, maps, and files.

In the center of the desk sat a single file with an old compass on top. Julian moved the compass, picked up the file, then handed it to me. “Your first assignment. If you accept it, you'll be a probationary Velascan. Complete the assignment successfully, and we'll offer you a permanent membership.”

The file was thin, bound in brown leather, and tied with a cord. No label. I untied it with shaking hands, eager to see what myth I'd get. Inside was a single sheet of paper. Typed and marked with the Velasca seal.

Subject: Kelpie

Location: Loch Lomond, Scotland