The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [89]
Daly trails me as I go to Corr’s stall. In my pocket, my hand closes around a stone with a hole through it. If Corr were any other water horse, I’d string it onto his halter tonight, to make more noise in his head than the approaching November sea does. But Corr is not any other water horse, and my tricks will only make him more anxious.
I open my hand and leave the stone in my pocket.
“Keep everyone clear,” I snap. “Keep them out of my way.”
I push open Corr’s door and he charges toward the aisle. I press my hand into his chest and then slap it, shoving him back. One of the thoroughbreds whinnies piercingly.
“Keep them clear,” I remind Daly.
He bolts ahead of me to pass this along, and then I let Corr plunge out of his stall and tug me down the aisle toward the door to the yard. It’s closed against the rain and worse.
“Not out there —” Daly protests from behind me. “Malvern’s out there.”
That’s too bad. So Malvern will know that I’m still among his horses. But I can’t stop any of what is going on in here without fixing the problem out there first.
I push through the door, Corr strong and difficult on the other end of my lead line. I’m instantly wet to the skin. There’s water in my ears, my eyes. I’m drinking the sky. I have to swipe the water from my forehead and blink to clear my vision. Shingles from the stable are scattered all across the yard. Every light in the yard is on, and there are waterlogged halos around each of them. Three mares stand at the gate, pressing, desperate to get in — they’re broodmares from some of Malvern’s far-flung pastures on the way to Hastoway. The fact that they’re free means that something bad has happened to their fencing and they came seeking the familiar. One of them limps so badly that my heart sinks. The largest of the mares must recognize something in my walk, because she stops struggling and whinnies to me, long and entreating. Trusting me to rescue her from whatever made her come here.
And there’s Malvern and David Prince, the head groom. Malvern holds a shotgun; it’s an optimistic thought on his part.
Out here, the scream sounds like it’s coming from all around us. It vibrates in every raindrop, throbs in the clouds overhead. It’s a howl like venom, a paralyzing promise. This storm has driven the island mad.
Corr jerks and hauls at my arm. I see his hooves leave the cobbles and return, but I can’t hear the sound of them. I can only hear the throbbing scream, loud as if it’s in my head. It’s meant to travel miles underwater.
I yank Corr’s halter to catch his attention, and then I haul his head down next to mine. His lips are pulled back in a ghastly grin; it’s not a Corr I like seeing. My pulse races despite every year we’ve spent together. He’s a monster. With one hand, I press those teeth away from me, and with the other, I turn his ear toward me.
Pursing my lips, I keen into his ear. It’s lower than the scream that we hear now. The scream that’s getting closer.
Corr is distracted. His lips are pulled far, far back from his teeth; he is no horse. I twist his ear hard enough to hurt, and again, I hum into his ear, a low hum that dips to a groan at the end.
Malvern lifts his shotgun, looking at something I can’t see in the dark and the mist.
“Corr!” I shout. Rain creeps into my mouth when I do. And I keen again to him.
Malvern fires, but the scream from the approaching capall uisce is unbroken. It cannot get any louder.
And then, finally, Corr begins to keen as I prompt him. Low, groaning, so that I feel it in the lead rope I hold. So I feel it in the soles of my shoes. So it bubbles beneath the scream. Corr’s keen grows and widens to a