The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [19]
I scream Finn’s name.
Now the mare tosses part of her victim at me, ears flattened back. I half gasp, half sob, jumping back from the bloody joint. There’s something stringy coming out of it, like jellyfish tentacles. I want to just kneel down and stop thinking.
The piece in front of me is covered with short, dark hair, matted with sand and blood. It’s a ruin, almost unrecognizable. I am in danger of throwing up.
It’s the dog.
People are shouting, “Sean Kendrick!” but I’m shouting, “Finn!” and there he is. He is a copy of the weird carvings on the church doorway in Skarmouth, little old men with big round eyeballs.
He says, “I thought —”
I know, because it’s what I was thinking, too.
“Please don’t ride her,” Finn says, fervent. I can’t quite remember the last time he’s asked me something and sounded like he really meant it. “Don’t ride one of them.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I’m riding Dove.”
CHAPTER NINE
SEAN
That evening, long after everyone is driven inland by the high tide, I bring Corr down to the beach. Our shadows are giants before us; this time of year, it gets dark at five and the sand is already cooling. I leave my saddle and boots at the top of the boat ramp, where grass still grows through the soft sand. Corr’s eyes are on the ocean as it slowly slides back toward low tide.
We leave fresh prints in the hard-packed sand the tide’s left behind; it is frigid against my bare feet, especially when cold seawater presses out of the ground around my skin. My blistered feet welcome it.
End of the first day, the endless first day. The beach has had its share of casualties. One boy fell off and bloodied his forehead on a boulder. Another man got bitten, an impressive-looking wound, but nothing a pint and a few hours of sleep won’t fix. And then there was the dog. I couldn’t be surprised that its maiming was the piebald mare’s handiwork.
All in all, there’ve been worse starts to the training.
This evening, the registration will start at Gratton’s. I’ll put my name and Corr’s there, though at this point it feels like a formality. Then there will be a frantic week of uncertain islanders and tourists trying out horses to see if they have the nerve to truly race, and if they do, if they have the nerve to race on the horse they have beneath them. Horses will be bought, sold, bartered. Men become owners, fifths, riders. It’s a frustrating time for me. Too much negotiation and not enough training. It’s always a relief when the festival ends the first week and forces riders to officially declare their mounts.
That’s really when life begins.
Corr lifts his head, ears pricked, neck curved, as if he’s courting the Scorpio sea. I whisper to him and tug his lead. It’s me I want him paying attention to, not the song of this powerful water. I watch his eye, his ears, the line of his body, to see whose voice will be more potent tonight, mine or the ocean’s.
He jerks his head toward me so fast that I have an iron rod out of my pocket before he’s finished his turn. But he wasn’t attacking, merely moving to study me with his good eye.
I trust Corr more than any of them.
I should not trust him at all.
His neck is soft, though the skin around his eyes is tight, so into the surf we go. I let my breath out in a rush as the cold water creeps up my ankles. And then we stand there, and I watch him again, seeing what effect the magic eddying around his ankles has. He shivers but doesn’t tense; we have done this before and the month is young. I cup a handful of salt water and tip it onto his shoulder, my lips pressed against his skin, whispering. Still he stands. So I stand with him and let the gritty surf work on my tired feet.
Corr, red as the sunset, looks out to the ocean. The shore faces east and so he looks out to night, deep blue and then black, the sky and the water mirror images. Our shadows fall into the ocean, too, changing colors with the breakers and foam beneath them.