Dead Heat
Page 70
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Portabella’s trot was lilting, but not heavy, so Anna didn’t bang into her back, but she had to really relax to keep her seat. As she did so, the mare’s ears perked up and her gait softened.
“Canter,” called Kage.
And before Anna cued her, Portabella broke into a blistering run, head up and tail flagged. Anna laughed and sat back, slowing her with a light hand on the reins until she was cantering. This was a lot different from riding Jinx. Chelsea ran beside them, stretching out with her tongue lolling in pleasure.
See, thought Anna, there are some things that are amazing about being a werewolf.
As soon as Hosteen tried to ride even with them, Portabella put on an extra burst of speed. The trail forked and Anna took the left, which was up a little hillock. At the top of the hill, she asked her to walk. Willingly the mare dropped speed and let the others catch up.
“We’re going to lose our light,” said Kage. “We ought to turn back soon.”
“I’d like to see what she does in the arena,” Charles said. Maybe there was something to what Hosteen had said, because Charles looked better. He had expressions that Anna could read again, which was an improvement.
“A challenge,” said Hosteen, laughing. “You always were up for a challenge. Okay, fair enough.”
They walked back to the barn. Anna ended up beside Hosteen again.
“I just remembered,” Anna said. “It’s not important to help us find the fae anymore, but I’d like to know, I guess. Do you know a werewolf named Archibald Vaughn who was here back in the seventies?”
“Archie?” asked Hosteen, startled.
“He’s dead,” said Charles, riding up beside them. “Killed by a fae … at least thirty years ago, now. Why do you ask?”
“Killed by a fae?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
Charles just looked at her, but Hosteen said, “I found the body. Yes. I’m sure. It was in the fall, 1979.”
The hair on the back of Anna’s head stood up. “Did he ever tell you that he saved a little boy from a fae creature? June of the year before. We’re pretty sure it’s the same one who built the fetch that tried to make Chelsea attack the kids.”
“Not that I heard,” Hosteen said. “After his mate died, he went to live with his family for a few years. We hoped it would help, but then I found out he’d stayed in his wolf shape the whole time. So I picked him up and brought him back to the pack and made him change to human. He never did go back to being his old self. When I felt him die, I was sure he’d found a way to kill himself. I thought it was suicide by fae.”
“I think,” Anna said, “that maybe it was revenge because he stopped this fae from stealing his grandchild. Or great-grandchild. Great-something-grandchild, anyway. It’s an awfully big coincidence otherwise.”
“Maybe he went looking for the fae,” offered Charles thoughtfully. “And both of you are right.”
“Any way you look at it,” said Anna. “The fae we’re chasing is powerful enough to kill a werewolf.”
“Tore him to pieces with magic,” said Hosteen thoughtfully.
“Makes you wonder,” Charles said slowly, “that such a fae let a handful of federal agents and police officers escort him off to jail.”
“Do you think they have the wrong fae?” Anna asked.
He didn’t quite answer. “I think … I think, Hosteen, that we need to borrow your wolves. This is not a fae that is going to let Amethyst, the little girl we rescued, stay rescued. We probably should send wolves out to protect Dr. Vaughn, too. And we’ll keep a weather eye on Chelsea and the kids.”
“Who is Dr. Vaughn?” Hosteen asked.
“The little boy that your wolf rescued back in 1978.”
“How many do you need?”
“All of them. On our victims, and on the FBI agent and the Cantrip agents who found his latest victim with us. At least two werewolves at all times. And they’ll have to stay out of sight,” he said. “I know that’ll put a strain on the pack. You can tell them that the Marrok will make sure they don’t suffer financially and that I don’t think it will last long.”
“Maybe they do have the right fae,” said Hosteen. “With them, it’s sometimes hard to predict why they do things.”
Charles’s horse snorted and Charles tilted his head sideways, closing his eyes, and murmured, “Can’t you feel it in the air? There’s a storm coming.” When he opened his eyes, they were yellow. He straightened and, though Anna couldn’t see that he moved again, his horse broke into a gentle canter.
They put the other horses away before taking Portabella into the same smaller arena that Anna had ridden in the day before. The mare didn’t look any different than she had before Anna had gotten on her outside. Or if she did, she looked even calmer, because she’d still been a little huffy about Chelsea when Anna had hopped on.
Charles lengthened the stirrups a lot, checked the cinch, and then swung up on the mare. Her head went up, her eyes rolled until Anna could see the whites that were normally hidden, she shifted her weight to her haunches, and she danced uneasily from foot to foot.
Charles just sat there, his body loose and easy; the only motion he made was the motion generated by the horse’s movement. She shuffled a few steps forward, two backward, a hop sideways. He made no move to correct her, just stayed balanced and light on her back.
They fit each other, Anna thought: big dark man, big dark horse, both elegant and strong. The idea made her lips quirk up, even with the worry that the janitor wasn’t the fae they were really looking for.
“You coming to the show tomorrow?” Kage asked. “Michael’s riding in the lead-line and Mackie’s taking the little gray you rode yesterday in the English walk/trot class.”
“I’ll ask Charles,” she said, watching as the mare, left mostly to her own devices, finally stopped moving except for the unhappy swish of her tail. “I think we’re going to try to get in to see the guy the FBI has locked up if we can. But I’d love to come see the kids ride.” And to make sure that they were safe.
After five minutes more (Anna checked her watch), Charles still having done nothing but sit there, the mare lowered her head and began to chew her bit. Immediately, Charles slipped off. He patted her neck and led her out of the gate. “If you want to put her on your list of possibles,” he told Anna, “that would be okay.”
“Canter,” called Kage.
And before Anna cued her, Portabella broke into a blistering run, head up and tail flagged. Anna laughed and sat back, slowing her with a light hand on the reins until she was cantering. This was a lot different from riding Jinx. Chelsea ran beside them, stretching out with her tongue lolling in pleasure.
See, thought Anna, there are some things that are amazing about being a werewolf.
As soon as Hosteen tried to ride even with them, Portabella put on an extra burst of speed. The trail forked and Anna took the left, which was up a little hillock. At the top of the hill, she asked her to walk. Willingly the mare dropped speed and let the others catch up.
“We’re going to lose our light,” said Kage. “We ought to turn back soon.”
“I’d like to see what she does in the arena,” Charles said. Maybe there was something to what Hosteen had said, because Charles looked better. He had expressions that Anna could read again, which was an improvement.
“A challenge,” said Hosteen, laughing. “You always were up for a challenge. Okay, fair enough.”
They walked back to the barn. Anna ended up beside Hosteen again.
“I just remembered,” Anna said. “It’s not important to help us find the fae anymore, but I’d like to know, I guess. Do you know a werewolf named Archibald Vaughn who was here back in the seventies?”
“Archie?” asked Hosteen, startled.
“He’s dead,” said Charles, riding up beside them. “Killed by a fae … at least thirty years ago, now. Why do you ask?”
“Killed by a fae?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
Charles just looked at her, but Hosteen said, “I found the body. Yes. I’m sure. It was in the fall, 1979.”
The hair on the back of Anna’s head stood up. “Did he ever tell you that he saved a little boy from a fae creature? June of the year before. We’re pretty sure it’s the same one who built the fetch that tried to make Chelsea attack the kids.”
“Not that I heard,” Hosteen said. “After his mate died, he went to live with his family for a few years. We hoped it would help, but then I found out he’d stayed in his wolf shape the whole time. So I picked him up and brought him back to the pack and made him change to human. He never did go back to being his old self. When I felt him die, I was sure he’d found a way to kill himself. I thought it was suicide by fae.”
“I think,” Anna said, “that maybe it was revenge because he stopped this fae from stealing his grandchild. Or great-grandchild. Great-something-grandchild, anyway. It’s an awfully big coincidence otherwise.”
“Maybe he went looking for the fae,” offered Charles thoughtfully. “And both of you are right.”
“Any way you look at it,” said Anna. “The fae we’re chasing is powerful enough to kill a werewolf.”
“Tore him to pieces with magic,” said Hosteen thoughtfully.
“Makes you wonder,” Charles said slowly, “that such a fae let a handful of federal agents and police officers escort him off to jail.”
“Do you think they have the wrong fae?” Anna asked.
He didn’t quite answer. “I think … I think, Hosteen, that we need to borrow your wolves. This is not a fae that is going to let Amethyst, the little girl we rescued, stay rescued. We probably should send wolves out to protect Dr. Vaughn, too. And we’ll keep a weather eye on Chelsea and the kids.”
“Who is Dr. Vaughn?” Hosteen asked.
“The little boy that your wolf rescued back in 1978.”
“How many do you need?”
“All of them. On our victims, and on the FBI agent and the Cantrip agents who found his latest victim with us. At least two werewolves at all times. And they’ll have to stay out of sight,” he said. “I know that’ll put a strain on the pack. You can tell them that the Marrok will make sure they don’t suffer financially and that I don’t think it will last long.”
“Maybe they do have the right fae,” said Hosteen. “With them, it’s sometimes hard to predict why they do things.”
Charles’s horse snorted and Charles tilted his head sideways, closing his eyes, and murmured, “Can’t you feel it in the air? There’s a storm coming.” When he opened his eyes, they were yellow. He straightened and, though Anna couldn’t see that he moved again, his horse broke into a gentle canter.
They put the other horses away before taking Portabella into the same smaller arena that Anna had ridden in the day before. The mare didn’t look any different than she had before Anna had gotten on her outside. Or if she did, she looked even calmer, because she’d still been a little huffy about Chelsea when Anna had hopped on.
Charles lengthened the stirrups a lot, checked the cinch, and then swung up on the mare. Her head went up, her eyes rolled until Anna could see the whites that were normally hidden, she shifted her weight to her haunches, and she danced uneasily from foot to foot.
Charles just sat there, his body loose and easy; the only motion he made was the motion generated by the horse’s movement. She shuffled a few steps forward, two backward, a hop sideways. He made no move to correct her, just stayed balanced and light on her back.
They fit each other, Anna thought: big dark man, big dark horse, both elegant and strong. The idea made her lips quirk up, even with the worry that the janitor wasn’t the fae they were really looking for.
“You coming to the show tomorrow?” Kage asked. “Michael’s riding in the lead-line and Mackie’s taking the little gray you rode yesterday in the English walk/trot class.”
“I’ll ask Charles,” she said, watching as the mare, left mostly to her own devices, finally stopped moving except for the unhappy swish of her tail. “I think we’re going to try to get in to see the guy the FBI has locked up if we can. But I’d love to come see the kids ride.” And to make sure that they were safe.
After five minutes more (Anna checked her watch), Charles still having done nothing but sit there, the mare lowered her head and began to chew her bit. Immediately, Charles slipped off. He patted her neck and led her out of the gate. “If you want to put her on your list of possibles,” he told Anna, “that would be okay.”
