Kelpie Curse: A Feyland Urban Fantasy Tale (The Celtic Fey Book 2) (2 page)

Corinne woke with her heart racing, the memory of his pleading green eyes searing her very soul. It had seemed so real. Had it just been a dream?

The other night, her dreams of racing through the forest on the back of a white unicorn had come true—in the Feyland game, at least. Could the minstrel's plight have been real?

When his eyes had locked on to hers the first time she'd seen him in Feyland, she'd felt an inexplicable connection—as if they were somehow destined to meet.

Perhaps she should see if she could visit the sim café again this afternoon, just one more time. In case the minstrel needed her.

But first I've got a lost horse to sort out.

Throwing the quilt back, she jumped out of bed.

Feyland would have to wait.

-::-

Elphin awoke to blistering cold.
Again.

Throwing off the fur he was using as a coverlet and fastening his woollen cloak with fumbling fingers, he pushed his feet into stiff leather boots and hurried over to the hearth.
Still a few embers glowing. Good.

A handful of tinder, some strong puffs of breath and a latticework of twigs did the trick. Orange flames began to dance and twirl towards the roof of the large cave, throwing a wavering golden glow onto the silvery granite walls. Spindly stalactites jutted menacingly from the ceiling like dragon's teeth, dripping glacial water onto the rocky floor below. Guarding the entrance, two huge white wolves lay with one ear cocked and one eye open even as they slept.

Elphin shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as an icy blast drove past the large boulder that shielded the cave's opening from the frozen wastes outside.

Here in Cailleach's domain on the slopes of Schiehallion, Elphin felt permanently cold; nothing he did could warm his flesh. It was only when he travelled to the Bright Kingdom or Dark Realm that his body returned to a normal temperature. But the courts of the fey king and queen were equally treacherous, for different reasons, and he could not relax there either.

Nearby, a shadowy pile of furs stirred, and a scrawny arm stretched out; bony blue fingers flexing like the claws on a raptor.
She is awake.

He busied himself filling a kettle with water and hanging it over the fire pit. Everything would need to be just
so
. He had been walking a thin line lately, and if he gave the witch any further cause for ire, he might find himself not just cursed, but permanently incapacitated.

Or worse.

-::-

Sunlight filtered through the trees as Corinne hurried down the track past the farmhouse. Already there was the promise of heat in the air; a dry warmth filled with the smell of drying grass and the buzzing of industrious insects.

In the far field, a combine harvester was already at work, weaving up and down the field in its methodical pattern. Ahead of it lay golden corn shimmering in the faint breeze; behind it was shorn yellow stubble bristling like two-day growth on a Scandinavian chin. From the combine's side protruded a swan-like funnel, which disgorged its hoard of barley grains into a high-sided trailer pulled by a tractor carefully matching pace with the huge green machine.

The low thrum of the engines was a soundtrack that masked the noise of the latch when Corinne opened the wooden gate to the paddock and peered around the hedge.
There he is!

A small flock of spindly-legged black and white Jacob sheep were munching contentedly on the short grass of the front field. Right in their midst was the grey, his coat looking ghostly white against the creamier colour of the sheep fleeces.
Ghost!
That's what I'll call him.
Yes, he needed a name, and that suited him.

Throwing his head up, his keen brown eyes turned in her direction, nostrils flaring to catch her scent. Before she'd even taken one step into the paddock, he came trotting towards her, halting by the gate and dropping his nose into her hand.

Corinne rubbed his forehead in greeting. "Morning, boy. I thought I'd call you Ghost. Do you like that name?" He twitched a nostril. "I think it suits you. You were like a ghost when I saw you last night up on Chessaig." He bobbed his head. "Now, can I put this on you?" She held up the headcollar she'd been carrying and gently slipped it over his nose. "I'm afraid you'll need to behave like the other horses here or people will start to ask questions. Okay?" He bobbed his head again, as if he agreed.

Opening the gate, Corinne led Ghost up to the farmyard and tied him to a ring on the wall outside her stable. Worn cobbles poked through the packed earth outside the solid stone building, and in another part of the farm someone was sweeping rhythmically. Overhead, swallows swooped through the air, chasing invisible prey like fighter pilots in an aerial dogfight.

Fetching a hoof pick out of the grooming box in her stall, Corinne had bent over to pick up Ghost's left front foot when a snide voice behind her made her jump.

"Replaced Midnight already, have we? I always said that you didn't really deserve him." Sonya Tavish. Wannabe show-jumper and queen of the yard clique. With her jet-black hair and pale skin, she looked like a modern-day version of Snow White.
Or Morticia.

Clenching her jaw, Corinne straightened up—and found that half of the teenage horse-owners at the farm livery also seemed to have been dropped off by a parent on their way to work that morning. Either that, or word had somehow got around about her new horse and everyone had got there early to satisfy their curiosity.

She put a hand on his neck. "This is Ghost. I—I'm looking after him for a bit."

"Not yours, huh? Better watch you don't make
him
sick like you did Midnight. His owners might not take kindly to getting a dead horse back."

-::-

Phemie had heard enough. She stepped around the corner of the stone barn and planted herself in front of the group of girls, leaning on the top of her broom.

"Sonya Tavish, you seem to have conveniently forgotten that when
your
horse was lame the other month, Corinne was kind enough to let you ride Midnight."

"Yeah, like once." Sonya crossed her arms defiantly.

"Three times, actually," muttered Corinne.

"So do you no' think she deserves a little more understanding when she's lost her poor horse? It might be
you
that has the sick animal next time."

"But it was only colic. She didn't have to get him put to sleep." That was Mandy— Mandy
something
from the new 'executive' housing scheme up the north road. Five en-suite bedrooms, three public rooms and a tiny postage-stamp of a garden. Father was some bigwig lawyer. Phemie glanced round at the other teenagers. All of them had rich parents who could indulge their children's love of horses.

Phemie, however, had been born to a family of farmers and, whilst she had inherited the family business, she was far from well-off. But it was her little corner of paradise, and she wasn't having bitchy princesses spoiling the atmosphere for her other liveries.

She raised an eyebrow. "
Only
colic?" Her voice was laced with sarcasm. "Of course, being the expert in veterinary matters, you'll know that there are many types and grades o' colic. If you're lucky, it's a mild case that will pass with a dose o' painkiller. If you're unlucky—like Corinne was—the horse has a twisted gut which is inoperable and excruciatingly painful, and the only humane course of action is to put the poor beast out o' its misery."

Mandy flushed, her cheeks turning such a bright shade of red they almost matched her hair.

Perhaps I've been too blunt. As usual.
Phemie softened her voice. "So just be thankful it wasn't your horse, okay?"

The girl nodded.

She turned to Sonya. "And you, Sonya—remember who your friends are. You never know when you might need help from someone like Corinne again. Now," she brandished her brush, "off with the lot of you and look after your own ponies. Stop annoying this new horse."
And me.

-::-

"Thanks," Corinne whispered, as the other girls disappeared. She'd always thought Miss Irving was a little scary, and now she was convinced of it. But at least the farmer had been on her side, and she seemed to have silenced the other girls. Maybe things would be better now. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

"Eh, Corinne." Phemie's sharp voice cut through her thoughts. "Did you get in touch with the police about the horse?"

She nodded. "Mum phoned them last night and again this morning. Nobody's reported a missing animal."

Phemie's eyes narrowed, and she ran a hand along the horse's neck, then down one of his legs. "He's a fine beastie. You'd think someone would've missed him by now."

"Yes. Maybe they'll phone this morning."
Or maybe not.
"But the police contacted the National Animal Protection Charity, and they said I could look after him if nobody claims him."

Phemie nodded slowly. "You said you found him on Chessaig?"

Corinne nodded.

"Right at the top? In the circle?"

"Yes."

"Just as it was getting dark?"

"Yes. Sunset."

Phemie's eyes narrowed again, and she scratched the horse's ears absently. After a pause, she asked, "Have you chosen a name for him yet?"

"Ghost. I thought it suited him."

The old woman inclined her head. "Aye. Ghost." She jerked her chin in the direction of the back field. "Put him in the paddock with the other geldings when you're finished with him." She glanced sideways at Corinne, her eyebrows raised. "I've a feeling he's here to stay."

I
T
WASN
'
T
QUITE
as good as riding in Feyland. But it was pretty close.

Trotting around the schooling paddock with the sun on her face and a light breeze to keep her cool, Corinne found it hard to stop a huge grin from spreading across her face.

Until she realised that she had an audience.

Hanging over the post and rail fence at the bottom of the paddock were Sonya and her cronies, whispering to each other between furtive glances at Corinne on Ghost.

Hard not to feel paranoid and assume they were talking about you.

She steadied Ghost back to walk and turned towards the far corner of the paddock, where there was a gate out into the woods.
Think I'll see how he enjoys the countryside.
Away from prying eyes.

Light dappled the dirt path through the trees, pockmarked with hoofprints where the clay soil had dried after that last bout of rainy weather. The stillness of the wood made her recall the magical forest in Feyland. "Does it remind you of home, boy?"

An ear flicked back, but he plodded quietly onwards until they came to a fork in the path. Right would take them on a longer route through the forest; left would take them to a harvested field and then they could loop back to the farm. "We should probably head back. I want to try and play Feyland again this afternoon." She guided him to the left.

When they got to the harvested field, a thrill of excitement tingled through her at the sight of the freshly-cut barley, dotted with rectangular bales of straw. There was something about a stubble field which seemed to invite even the most placid of horses to run—to gallop like a racehorse in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, racing the wind and skimming the ground with hooves hammering, lungs straining and heart pounding.

As if he'd read her mind, Ghost's pace picked up, and he tossed his head and lightened his shoulders in anticipation. "You want to run, boy?" She could feel the grin tickling her lips again. "Okay!"

With only the slightest encouragement, he was off; racing up the field like the Wild Hunt was chasing him once more. But instead of veering away from the straw bales which were haphazardly strewn where they'd dropped out of the back of the combine harvester, he headed straight for the nearest set of bales.

Really? He wants to jump them?
She hardly had time to blink the wind-blown tears from her eyes before they were flying through the air over the first bale. The next bale lay some distance ahead at a slight angle, but his long stride took them there in a few heartbeats and he sailed straight over it, ears pricked and looking for the next one.

Corinne's heart quailed when she saw the upcoming obstacle. This time it wasn't just a single bale. It was a stack of four—double the height and double the width. Her shoulders tensed.
I've never jumped that high before.
But Ghost was galloping towards it, his stride unerring and his eyes locked on his target.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Corinne pushed her heels down and took a firm grip on the reins. She was just going to have to trust him.
He saved us in Feyland. Surely he'll look after me here?

And of course, she needn't have worried. Ghost sprang over the bales as if they were just a tiny blip on the landscape. It felt like flying!

-::-

In the cab of her tractor on the way out to relieve one of her harvesters, Phemie sat open-mouthed as the girl on the white horse streaked up the field, sailing over the straw bales as if they were a mere trifle.
That horse can jump!
He could jump for Scotland. She pursed her lips.

Or fairyland.

Phemie might be a level-headed farmer. But she was also a Highlander who'd been brought up on tales of 'the wee folk'—and she was sure she could see their handiwork here, just like she was sure she'd seen it in the past…

The girl had found the horse on Faerie Hill—at the stone circle on Chessaig. Nobody had reported him missing, and he'd followed her to the farm with no bridle to lead him. And he could jump like a stag. The horse was obviously gifted.
Or a gift
.

Stepping down from the tractor, Phemie hurried over to the gate between the fields to meet the girl as she trotted back towards the farm. "You looked like you both enjoyed that!"

Corinne pulled the horse to a stop and patted his shoulder, her chest heaving. "Yes. I'd no idea he could jump so well!"

Ghost was breathing somewhat faster than normal, but he hardly seemed to have exerted himself. He really
did
seem to be talented. And fit. "You should enter him for the jumping at the local show this weekend. I've a schedule in the house somewhere."