The Scorpio Races

CHAPTER TWENTY

That night, instead of dreaming, I lie in my bed and stare at the small square of black sky that I can see out the window of my flat. Though I’m dry now, I feel cold to my bones, as if I’ve swallowed the sea and it lives inside me. My arms ache. I’m holding up the cliffs.

I think of Fundamental swimming so purposefully behind the boat. No, that’s not what I think of. I think of Fundamental’s head thrown back, the whites of his eyes, the vanishing beneath the water churned to mist around me.

Again and again I dive into the water. Again and again it is too dark, too cold, too fast, too late.

Again and again I see Mutt Malvern standing on the point of the cove, watching.

I haven’t heard from Benjamin Malvern yet, but I will. It’s just a matter of time.

Kendrick! Daly’s voice, warning me, too late.

I can’t stay in bed any longer. I roll to my feet. My jacket is still wet and gritty where I hung it over the iron curl of the radiator. Without turning on the light, I find my pants and my wool sweater and make my way down the narrow stairs to the stables.

The three lightbulbs that have been installed in the main aisle illuminate circles just below them. Everything else is in shadow; the way the sound of my breath disappears makes the darkness feel vast. As the thoroughbreds and the draft horses hear my footsteps down the aisle, they nicker hopefully. After what happened this afternoon, I can’t look at them. I watched them all being born, just as I watched Fundamental being born.

I can’t block out their sounds as I pass, though. They slowly chew hay and stomp their hooves as an itch tickles their legs. Straw whispers against straw. Comfortable horse sounds.

I walk past all of them to the stall at the end of the aisle, and there is Corr. Just out of the reach of the light, he is the color of old, dried blood. I lean on the edge of the stall, looking in. Unlike the land horses, Corr doesn’t loiter over hay all night or sigh through his lips. Instead, he stands in the center of his stall, utterly still, his ears pricked. There is something in his eyes that the thoroughbreds will never have: something intense and predatory.

He looks at me with his left eye and then looks past me, listening. There is no way for him to relax; with the sound of this rising sea, with the smell of horse blood on my hands, with me restless before him.

I don’t know why Mutt Malvern was in Daly’s place, and I don’t know how he thinks it will escape his canny father that Mutt was on the point when the capall uisce entered the cove. I think of Fundamental again, of his wide, rolling eyes. Mutt was willing to sacrifice him for the possibility that it would hurt me. For the possibility of getting what he wanted.

What am I willing to risk for the possibility of getting what I want?

“Corr,” I whisper.

Instantly the red stallion’s ears turn to me. His eyes are black and mysterious, pieces of the ocean. He is more dangerous every day. We are more dangerous every day.

I can’t bear the idea that Mutt Malvern would ride him if I left.

Mutt thinks Benjamin Malvern will have my job for what happened today. I could just quit, instead. I think of the satisfaction of that possibility, of taking the money I’ve saved and leaving the Malverns and everything they own behind.

Corr makes a night noise – a barely audible, descending wail. It’s the sound of a scream underwater. But from Corr, it’s a homing beacon. A confirmation that waits for an answer.

I cluck my tongue, once, and he immediately falls quiet. Neither of us moves toward the other, but we both ease our weight off one foot at the same time. I sigh, and he sighs as well.

I can’t go without Corr.