Three Slices by Chuck Wendig, Kevin Hearne, Delilah S. Dawson Page B
Tags: General Fiction
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she’s watching me—she has eyes only for the white mare, which has been brushed to an incandescent sheen, her long mane and tail as white as driven snow as she trots majestically in the circle, her big red eyes pinned lovingly to the delicate lady holding the golden rope and a long, flexible whip.
Merissa’s eyes shoot to me, and her brow wrinkles adorably before she looks behind her. Standing there is a comically gothic fellow, slighter than me and wrapped in a long, black cloak more than a little like mine, although the cut of his is out of date and the quality is shabbier. I had my cloak lined in emerald green to match my waistcoat, but this fellow’s cape is in a traditional blood red, as if the world couldn’t otherwise tell that he was a Bludman. In all respects, he is less than me. A little shorter, a little narrower about the shoulders, his slicked-back hair a bland brown, his eyes a muddier blue enhanced by a cool rage that I can feel, even with a girl and a horse between us.
Oh, but this is going to be fun.
“What an enchanting creature,” I say, stepping to Merissa’s side and moving fluidly with her as she trains the horse.
“Don’t flatter me while I’m working,” she mutters, but the corner of her mouth twitches just so.
“I assure you I was speaking of the horse. But where is the one from this morning? Kali?”
Her eyes flick to me, a ripple in an emerald-green pond, and her smile is suddenly genuine. “How did you know it wasn’t her?”
I cross my arms to better broadcast my muscular superiority over the weedy gent standing out of the horse’s orbit. “This one has longer fetlocks and her mane falls mainly to the left. This morning’s Kali was younger, probably still has a hand to grow, and her mane fell to the right.”
“Well played, Stain. You’re correct. This is Kali’s new partner, Fausta.”
“I am curious as to how two bludmares can be coerced into cooperation. It was my understanding that they would battle to the death, should they meet in the wild.”
Her laugh sends ripples of want up my arms, her voice as warm as puddled blood. “They would if they did, sure enough. But I’ve developed a new technique for fostering sisterhood.” She puts the rope and whip in my hands. “Keep her trotting, please.” With a dramatic rip, her skirts fly off and flutter to the ground at Phaedro’s feet. Her legs are revealed, clad in green suede breeches and high, padded boots. She watches the horse for a moment, and I tap the mare’s hip gently with the whip before she can falter. With a nod, Merissa skips, catches Fausta’s mane, and swings up onto her back. The horse doesn’t break her speed, shows no indication that she’s been mastered other than an elegant bowing of her head as if to a greater queen.
“I force a blood exchange,” Merissa says, deftly leaping to her feet to stand on the horse’s back. Her voice doesn’t even break; she might as well be standing on a chaise. “Just a few drops, and they become sisters, intimately connected in body and mind. You see, I’ve picketed Kali where she can watch Fausta go through her paces, and she’s absorbing it like a prodigy with an abacus.”
I glance quickly to the direction in which she’s pointing and see the magnificent young beast tethered to the ground and watching us all, her fine head cocked to the side inquisitively. If you gave the mare a quill and a pair of pince-nez, she might be mistaken for a studious clerk taking notes. Damned if Merissa isn’t right, is all I’m saying.
“I didn’t know horses possessed such keen intelligence.” I use the whip to nudge Fausta back out to the end of the rope before Merissa has to ask.
“Anyone can see that hubris is your sin of choice, Stain.” She grasps the horse’s mane in one hand and lifts one leg high overhead in a ballerina’s flawless arabesque that knocks the breath right out of me.
“Oh, but I don’t believe in sin at all, Merissa.”
The
Merissa’s eyes shoot to me, and her brow wrinkles adorably before she looks behind her. Standing there is a comically gothic fellow, slighter than me and wrapped in a long, black cloak more than a little like mine, although the cut of his is out of date and the quality is shabbier. I had my cloak lined in emerald green to match my waistcoat, but this fellow’s cape is in a traditional blood red, as if the world couldn’t otherwise tell that he was a Bludman. In all respects, he is less than me. A little shorter, a little narrower about the shoulders, his slicked-back hair a bland brown, his eyes a muddier blue enhanced by a cool rage that I can feel, even with a girl and a horse between us.
Oh, but this is going to be fun.
“What an enchanting creature,” I say, stepping to Merissa’s side and moving fluidly with her as she trains the horse.
“Don’t flatter me while I’m working,” she mutters, but the corner of her mouth twitches just so.
“I assure you I was speaking of the horse. But where is the one from this morning? Kali?”
Her eyes flick to me, a ripple in an emerald-green pond, and her smile is suddenly genuine. “How did you know it wasn’t her?”
I cross my arms to better broadcast my muscular superiority over the weedy gent standing out of the horse’s orbit. “This one has longer fetlocks and her mane falls mainly to the left. This morning’s Kali was younger, probably still has a hand to grow, and her mane fell to the right.”
“Well played, Stain. You’re correct. This is Kali’s new partner, Fausta.”
“I am curious as to how two bludmares can be coerced into cooperation. It was my understanding that they would battle to the death, should they meet in the wild.”
Her laugh sends ripples of want up my arms, her voice as warm as puddled blood. “They would if they did, sure enough. But I’ve developed a new technique for fostering sisterhood.” She puts the rope and whip in my hands. “Keep her trotting, please.” With a dramatic rip, her skirts fly off and flutter to the ground at Phaedro’s feet. Her legs are revealed, clad in green suede breeches and high, padded boots. She watches the horse for a moment, and I tap the mare’s hip gently with the whip before she can falter. With a nod, Merissa skips, catches Fausta’s mane, and swings up onto her back. The horse doesn’t break her speed, shows no indication that she’s been mastered other than an elegant bowing of her head as if to a greater queen.
“I force a blood exchange,” Merissa says, deftly leaping to her feet to stand on the horse’s back. Her voice doesn’t even break; she might as well be standing on a chaise. “Just a few drops, and they become sisters, intimately connected in body and mind. You see, I’ve picketed Kali where she can watch Fausta go through her paces, and she’s absorbing it like a prodigy with an abacus.”
I glance quickly to the direction in which she’s pointing and see the magnificent young beast tethered to the ground and watching us all, her fine head cocked to the side inquisitively. If you gave the mare a quill and a pair of pince-nez, she might be mistaken for a studious clerk taking notes. Damned if Merissa isn’t right, is all I’m saying.
“I didn’t know horses possessed such keen intelligence.” I use the whip to nudge Fausta back out to the end of the rope before Merissa has to ask.
“Anyone can see that hubris is your sin of choice, Stain.” She grasps the horse’s mane in one hand and lifts one leg high overhead in a ballerina’s flawless arabesque that knocks the breath right out of me.
“Oh, but I don’t believe in sin at all, Merissa.”
The
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