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Authors: Nina Mason
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icy knives through her clothes. Shivering at the memory, she followed McLeod back into the sitting room and gazed uneasily out toward the loch, seeing nothing apart from blackness. A harrowing feeling of desolation swept over her.
“There’s tea and coffee in the larder…and some of that powdered creamer. Oh, and some nice salmon filets in the freezer if you’re hungry. I’ll be sending Mrs. MacLeod around in the morning with fresh milk and other provisions. There’s no grocery this side of Benbecula and your employer’s offered to pay for everything. So, if you’ll be wanting anything special, just let the missus know.”
The messages in Corey’s pocket jabbed her conscience. “Are there any, em…wild animals on the island I should know about before I head toward the cliffs?”
He shrugged and offered her a small smile. “Nothing apart from the birds and a few red deer…and the occasional storm kelpie, of course.”
Corey’s mouth fell open. Had she heard him right? “Did you just say storm kelpie?”
“Aye, lass.” His eyes twinkled and his smile broadened into a grin. “The Blue Men of the Minch. Have you never heard the legends?”
Eyeing him skeptically, Corey took a minute to think back on her mom’s stories. There had been merrows, finfolk, selkies, and nuggles—Orknian lore’s version of the water horse—but none, as far as she could recall, had been blue-skinned storm kelpies.
“I don’t believe I have,” she said, “but do feel free to enlighten me.”
“It’s said they live in a sea cave under the Shiant Islands,” he said as casually as if they were discussing the price of tea, “and haul out here from time to time. To sunbathe, mostly…and during the breeding season, which doesn’t start for a few days yet.”
She blinked at him in disbelief. Surely, he wasn’t serious. “How will I know if I see one?”
“Ask the missus when she comes round in the morning.” He moved past Corey toward the front door. “She can tell you more than you’d care to know about the wily blue buggers.”
As soon as MacLeod departed, Corey set out toward the beach. Flashlight beam leading the way, she picked her way across the loose rocks, stumbling more than once.
I’ll be lucky if I don’t break an ankle. Or worse, my neck.
The cold wind lashed around her, stinging her cheeks and making her nose run. There were lighted boats anchored several yards offshore. Coastguard cruisers, she guessed, though she couldn’t make out exactly how many. She shone the flashlight up and down the beach, looking for the reporter or the on-site commander. She saw neither of them, but what she did see turned her stomach. The white sand looked as though it had been dipped in chocolate and dead fish, seals, and seabirds littered the expanse. A sound behind her drove her heart into her throat and spun her around.
“Would you be the flack for Conch Oil, then?”
The question was posed by a tall man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He had short hair, a day or two’s worth of stubble on his jaw, and light-colored eyes. In the beam of the flashlight she’d shone on his face, she couldn’t tell if they were blue, green, or gray.
“Who are you?” She had a pretty good idea she’d just located the obnoxious reporter from Skye.
“Lachlan MacInnes.” He stuck out a meaty hand. “With the West Highland Free Press.”
She took his offered hand, cold as her own, and gave it a firm shake. Letting go, she stepped back and looked past him toward the rocks, still hoping to find the site commander. “Have you spoken to Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Not yet,” MacInnes said, his voice gruff . “I motor-boated over from Skye half an hour ago and all I’ve seen so far is the coastguard and the occasional news helicopter.”
Corey was still looking around for the on-scene commander. “I wonder where everybody is.”
“I was wondering the same thing myself,” he said, frowning. “Along with what the
“There’s tea and coffee in the larder…and some of that powdered creamer. Oh, and some nice salmon filets in the freezer if you’re hungry. I’ll be sending Mrs. MacLeod around in the morning with fresh milk and other provisions. There’s no grocery this side of Benbecula and your employer’s offered to pay for everything. So, if you’ll be wanting anything special, just let the missus know.”
The messages in Corey’s pocket jabbed her conscience. “Are there any, em…wild animals on the island I should know about before I head toward the cliffs?”
He shrugged and offered her a small smile. “Nothing apart from the birds and a few red deer…and the occasional storm kelpie, of course.”
Corey’s mouth fell open. Had she heard him right? “Did you just say storm kelpie?”
“Aye, lass.” His eyes twinkled and his smile broadened into a grin. “The Blue Men of the Minch. Have you never heard the legends?”
Eyeing him skeptically, Corey took a minute to think back on her mom’s stories. There had been merrows, finfolk, selkies, and nuggles—Orknian lore’s version of the water horse—but none, as far as she could recall, had been blue-skinned storm kelpies.
“I don’t believe I have,” she said, “but do feel free to enlighten me.”
“It’s said they live in a sea cave under the Shiant Islands,” he said as casually as if they were discussing the price of tea, “and haul out here from time to time. To sunbathe, mostly…and during the breeding season, which doesn’t start for a few days yet.”
She blinked at him in disbelief. Surely, he wasn’t serious. “How will I know if I see one?”
“Ask the missus when she comes round in the morning.” He moved past Corey toward the front door. “She can tell you more than you’d care to know about the wily blue buggers.”
As soon as MacLeod departed, Corey set out toward the beach. Flashlight beam leading the way, she picked her way across the loose rocks, stumbling more than once.
I’ll be lucky if I don’t break an ankle. Or worse, my neck.
The cold wind lashed around her, stinging her cheeks and making her nose run. There were lighted boats anchored several yards offshore. Coastguard cruisers, she guessed, though she couldn’t make out exactly how many. She shone the flashlight up and down the beach, looking for the reporter or the on-site commander. She saw neither of them, but what she did see turned her stomach. The white sand looked as though it had been dipped in chocolate and dead fish, seals, and seabirds littered the expanse. A sound behind her drove her heart into her throat and spun her around.
“Would you be the flack for Conch Oil, then?”
The question was posed by a tall man who looked to be in his mid to late thirties. He had short hair, a day or two’s worth of stubble on his jaw, and light-colored eyes. In the beam of the flashlight she’d shone on his face, she couldn’t tell if they were blue, green, or gray.
“Who are you?” She had a pretty good idea she’d just located the obnoxious reporter from Skye.
“Lachlan MacInnes.” He stuck out a meaty hand. “With the West Highland Free Press.”
She took his offered hand, cold as her own, and gave it a firm shake. Letting go, she stepped back and looked past him toward the rocks, still hoping to find the site commander. “Have you spoken to Mr. Trowbridge?”
“Not yet,” MacInnes said, his voice gruff . “I motor-boated over from Skye half an hour ago and all I’ve seen so far is the coastguard and the occasional news helicopter.”
Corey was still looking around for the on-scene commander. “I wonder where everybody is.”
“I was wondering the same thing myself,” he said, frowning. “Along with what the
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