Maggie Stiefvater: The Scorpio Races

Dove begins to make her move.

I realize then that Mutt Malvern has pulled Skata back intentionally.

He never meant to win.

The piebald’s attack takes me by surprise.

Between me and the sea, she rears back as if she means to plunge forward, but then she drops onto Dove. Her teeth close down over Dove’s poll, right behind her ears.

Dove staggers.

I turn my head and look right into Mutt Malvern’s ghastly grin.

I hear Sean shout, his voice unstrung, “This is between you and me, Mutt!”

Trying to keep my stirrups, I lean far forward up Dove’s sweaty neck to grab at the piebald’s ear. Her skin feels slippery and unlike any horse I’ve ever touched. Dove’s spine presses hard into my guts and my blistered hand aches, but I ignore all of that and twist the piebald’s ear sharply. She squeals and drops off Dove.

I barely understand Sean’s shout. “Get out of the way, Puck!”

Dove understands even if I don’t; as Corr presses closer, she shoots from between him and the piebald. I barely have time to drop back down into the saddle, the leather slick with blood or water beneath me.

Skata twists and leaps beneath Mutt, but we are free of her. I glance behind me and only have time to see Corr’s shoulder smashing up against the piebald mare’s. Sean’s gaze flicks toward me for a second. He’s watching to make sure that I’m moving.

I want to wait for him. I know he’s won this four times without me here, but I don’t want to leave him.

I hear Sean Kendrick’s voice: “Go!”

I let Dove’s reins go.

We can’t get clear.

Corr could outstrip Skata if we could pull ahead, but Mutt Malvern has seized my rein. He drags Corr’s face toward him, within reach of the piebald’s teeth. It’s Corr’s blind side and he is wild with the fear of not knowing what he’s up against. His eyes roll; his nose jerks into the air again and again. Skata snaps at him, her teeth grating against his cheek. As I fight Mutt for Corr’s rein, my knee crashes into Mutt’s, bone to bone, searing hot.

Skata and Corr gallop, shoulder to shoulder, every step taking us farther into the surf. I taste salt water; my saddle is slimy with it. Every muscle in Corr’s body shivers and shimmers. Glancing to Mutt, I see that he’s having a hard time keeping his seat.

Too late I see his knife.

I lift my arm. I cannot protect myself or Corr.

But it’s not me he stabs. He slides it along the piebald’s neck, slicing a scarlet line. She is furious with pain.

“Manage this, Kendrick,” Mutt says.

He lets go of the reins.

Skata slams into us.

We catch up to Blackwell and Margot first. She’s a big, lean bay, long as a train car, and she fights him hard. I see that her mouth is cracked open and grinning like the black capall uisce that found us in the lean-to. She was breathlessly fast before, but now he holds her tightly in check. When Blackwell tries to allow her some more rein, she darts toward the ocean.

But Dove cares nothing about the sea. I lean low over her mane – her neck is sweaty and my hands are sweaty and it’s hard to keep my grip – and I ask her for more. She slides past Blackwell.

There is only Privett and Penda ahead of us now. He’s keeping a good distance between him and the surf, and I could move up between them. But if I could push Penda closer to that November water, maybe I could distract him long enough to hold the lead. It would mean getting very close to a capall uisce without any escape plan, and Dove is already frightened to the breaking point.

It’s not much farther. Only three furlongs, maybe. I don’t want to hope, but I can feel it pumping through me.

Only – Corr should be here now. I shouldn’t be up here with Penda by myself.

When I glance behind me, I can’t see him. I can see Margot gaining on us, fast. And the feathers of Dove’s makeshift saddle colors flapping crazily in the wind.

I hear Sean’s voice saying that this is possible. And Peg Gratton telling me to show them who we are. I know that it is not about Dove being brave, in the end. It’s about me being brave for her. I lean over Dove’s neck – Dove, my best friend – and I ask her for one last burst of speed.

I am holding Corr, but I am holding nothing. Somewhere, there is a high, clear scream, and then I’m falling.

In the moment between Corr’s back and the surf, I think first of the dozens of horses behind us and then of my father’s death.

My only chance is if I can get clear. To hope that when I hit that ground, I hit it so that I can roll free of most of the hooves to come. If I stay conscious, I might survive.

For one moment, I see everything with perfect clarity: Corr, his face a mask of red, one of his nostrils torn; the horizon stretching away, far out of reach; the blue, blue November sky above us.

The piebald’s knee lurches up to strike my head.

When I hit the sand, my vision breaks like a wave. I have the surf in my mouth and the sand beneath me rumbles with hoofbeats, and there is red, red, red above me.

The moment we pass Ian Privett and Penda, Ian meets my eyes, and I see that he doesn’t believe it.

But then the race is over.

Even when I see that we have crossed the line first, even when it’s another half second before Margot flashes by, and another second before Ake Palsson and Dr. Halsal crash by nose to nose, I can’t believe it.

I slow Dove, patting her neck, laughing and rubbing away tears with the back of my bloody hand. All of my pain’s melted away; all that remains are ceaseless shivers. I stand shakily in my stirrups, steering her away from the other capaill uisce as they cross the finish. Grays and blacks and chestnuts and bays.

I don’t see Sean.

My ears won’t stop hissing. It takes me a long moment to realize that it’s the audience roaring from up above.

They’re shouting my name and Dove’s. I think I hear Finn among them, but maybe I imagine it. And still there are the water horses at the end of the race, milling and rearing and twisting.

But I don’t see Sean.

A race official comes toward me, his arm out toward Dove’s bridle. My hands won’t stop shaking; I have a terrible feeling inside me.

“Congratulations!” the official says.

I look at him, waiting for what he just said to make sense, and then I ask, “Where’s Sean Kendrick?” When he doesn’t answer me, I turn Dove back the way we came. The beach at this end is a mess of sweaty capaill uisce and tired riders. The beach looks nothing like what it looked like to me galloping the other direction. It is nothing but a stretch of sand when I’m trotting. The ocean is only wave after wave, not a hungry, dark thing. I direct Dove back the way we came, scanning the wet sand. There are smears of blood where fights went down and a dead chestnut capall lying very close to the water. They’re putting a sheet over someone farther inland, which makes my stomach squeeze, but it’s too big to be Sean.

And then I see Corr, standing at the edge of the surf, reflected red in the wet sand beneath him. One of his hind legs is crooked under him, resting on the toe of the hoof. His head is curled low and as I get closer, I see that he’s trembling. His saddle has been pulled around so that it hangs nearly upside down.

There’s a dark, slender form beneath him, the reins all tangled around it. Even filthy, I recognize the blue-black jacket. And the red I mistook for reflection is merely blood, slowly being washed away with each wave.