Page 29 of The Last Kelpie

“You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

“See you tomorrow.” Then he picked up the cooler and stepped inside.

I stood on the threshold, rain beginning to soak through my jacket, and realized I had just wasted the day. I was supposed to be investigating his myth, but he had distracted me. Tomorrow, I had to focus. His life depended on it.

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, Áedán appeared at my door before I'd finished my coffee.

“We're going into the village,” he announced from the doorway. “A proper visit. Not just to see Moira.”

I looked up from my notebook. “You want to go into Luss?”

“Nae.” He leaned against the doorframe. “But you've been trying to understand what it's like for me, living in a world that's moved on. I should probably try to understand what that world actually is now.”

“You live in it.”

“I live beside it.” He straightened. “There's a difference.”

“All right, but I need to do some research. I can't present your original myth to the Velasca without all the information about when it changed and how.”

“I'm sure the shops will have some books aboot my legend.”

“Very well.”

Twenty minutes later we were walking down Pier Road. The morning was bright and warm, the kind of Scottish summer day that makes everything look softer. Tourists were already gathering near the pier, cameras ready, voices carrying across the water. The shops were busy, bells tinkling with every opened door.

Áedán walked with his hands in his pockets, watching everything with the careful attention of someone cataloging threats. A car passed too close, and he tensed. A child on a bicycle rang her bell, and he tracked her movement until she disappeared around a corner.

“Coffee first,” I motioned to the shop. “There's a coffee shop near the church.”

“I dinnae drink coffee.”

“Have you tried it?”

He gave me a look that suggested I'd asked something profoundly stupid. “I'm six hundred years old. Of course, I've tried coffee. It tastes like burned dirt.”

“This is different. It's—” I searched for a word. “Modern.”

“Ah yes. Modern burned dirt.”

“It's better now. Trust me.”

The Coach House Coffee Shop was in yet another gray and red stone building. Inside, beams crossed the peaked ceiling and long, pale wooden tables filled the main room. An open doorway led to a little shop with cabinets full of country items. The scent of espresso and fresh pastries greeted us, as did a young woman behind the counter.

“What can I get you?” she asked as we approached the counter.

I ordered a cafe mocha. Áedán studied the menu board with the intensity of someone decoding ancient runes.

“What's a flat white?” He stared her down suspiciously.

“Coffee with steamed milk,” the woman said. “Very smooth.”

“I'll have a pot of tea.”

“We have Earl Grey, English Breakfast, chamomile—”

“Do you have anything that isnae in a bag?”