ENTIRELY DIFFERENT
The ride back to Ranger’s was a bone-jarring gallop, the black horse slipping and sliding, melting into a motorcycle at odd moments, throwing itself across small streams once the desert faded and they were back in rolling winter prairie again. The sun was a low bloody coin disappearing behind distant bruise-shadows of western mountains, and Nat Drozdova was fully occupied clinging to reins or clutching handlebars, her shoulders aching every time the big beast veered. Sparks struck from its iron-clawed shoes sent up tiny acrid puffs—very possibly brimstone, though she’d never smelled it before—and she was sure it was doubling back once or twice, running alongside a deep, swift, cold stream chuckling with sharp menace.
Just waiting for her grip to loosen. Just waiting for her to fall.
Sheets of icy water thrown up on either side, her tailbone bruised as the beast landed stiff-legged, bolts of pain zipping up her back, her teeth clicking painfully together over and over again—even the worst bus ride was a cakewalk compared to this. No fluid union, no sense of connected togetherness, just an endless rattling, jarring, thumping as her head bobbled and she clamped her knees to elastic, heaving sides.
Finally, the song of hooves rang on concrete instead of dirt and rock; Nat was almost tossed from the saddle as the horse shook himself angrily, shrinking into a motorcycle again. His whinny became a scream of defiance, but Nat’s fingers had cramp-tangled in the reins and her knees, while numb, still stuck like glue to his sides. He rattled over washboard road at a punishing pace, pavement breaking away on either side in great frost-heaved chunks; nobody had driven here for a very long time.
Icy wind roared, stinging her face, and instead of too hot and sweaty in a magical desert, she was now miserably cold. The motorcycle-horse screamed, shaking his head again as his mane whipped, stinging her hands, but Nat held on.
There was no other choice.
Finally there was a long rubber-smoking howl as he swelled into horse-shape once more, a jolting as if the entire motorcycle would shake itself to pieces as it shifted back, and a billow of nasty black smoke. The world shuddered to a stop and Nat let out a surprised cry, saved only from a girlish scream by the fact that there was no air left in her lungs to fuel it. Westering orange sunlight escaping under a long low band of snow-bearing clouds filled her eyes, and there was a shout.
“Hi there, you bastard!” It was Ranger in his fringed dun rancher’s jacket; the Black man darted close and grabbed at the horse’s bridle. “Ain’t no way to treat a lady, you just mind yourself now.”
Oh, thank goodness. I’m back. Nat couldn’t make her fingers unclench. The reins swelled and stiffened into handlebars once more; the engine’s choppy growl smoothed out and died with a resentful rumble. Fitful warmth returned, her entire body ached, and she couldn’t wait to have her boots on solid ground again.
But she was no thief, and had forced this thing—whatever it was—to bring her back. As bad as the ride had been, she suspected accepting its offer to show her “shortcuts” would be even worse.
“Get her off,” Ranger snapped. “Oh, you sumbitch, thought you’d take the long way home, did you? None of that now.”
Another tooth-snapping sound cut cold air; Nat flinched. Every girl loves horses, yes, but this thing was only horse-like. The shape didn’t make it as advertised; whatever was trapped in its galloping, restless body wouldn’t have hesitated to shake her free in the middle of a river, or while it galloped across the shimmering surface of a winter pond.
And then, those teeth—not the blunt herbivore-seeming ones, but the other set—would close around whatever mouthful it could grab. Or so her imagination informed her, and Nat Drozdova was very sure whatever she could imagine was far less awful than the truth.
For once.
Ranger made a swift movement, his brown fist pistoning out, a bright golden flashgleam lingering over knuckles. There was a crunch, and the horse’s growl cut off cleanly. “I said mind,” the cowboy continued, mildly enough, but his dove-gray hat was slightly awry, his hazel eyes blazed, and if he ever looked at her like that, Nat’s heart might well stop. “And get her off there, horsethief!”
“Don’t shout at me, kovboyski.” Dmitri Konets sounded just the same, and Nat’s fingers finally creaked open enough to slide free of solid, chilly metal handlebars. The gangster’s hair was a wild mess instead of slicked back, his black eyes burned with carnivorous glee, and even though he might very well murder her sometime in the very near future he was still familiar, and Nat was almost glad to see him. “Eh, zaika moya, have fun? Should’ve let me drive.”
“Th-th-that w-w-wasn’t…” Her teeth chattered, chopping every word into bits. That wasn’t part of the deal.
“I know.” He dragged her free of the motorcycle, his lean tanned hands strangely gentle; Ranger had the handlebars now and pulled the resisting hunk of glossy black metal, silver springs, wheels, and still-grumbling engine towards the barn. The porch light of Ranger’s trim blue ranch-style house was on, a golden beacon, and more incandescent light spilled through the half-open barn doors. The cold was even worse now that they’d stopped, which shouldn’t have been possible; the warmth in Nat’s core fought a frigid blanket.
“Breathe.” Dmitri held her up, coiled strength belied by his leanness; Nat’s legs wouldn’t quite work. “That’s it, nice and easy. Take drink.”
There was a chill metallic tap at her chin; the gangster tipped a mouthful from a dull silver hip flask past her lips. Nat spluttered; the liquid burned like vodka and most of it went straight down her throat without so much as a hello, a nova exploding inside her ribs. The heat was amazing, tropical, and very welcome; she decided she liked temperate zones better than desert or this winter prairie bullshit. Going from winter to summer and back again couldn’t be good for your immune system.
Did divinities get colds? Did they need flu shots? There were so many questions, and nobody she could trust to answer them.
Nat went limp, every bone inside her aching flesh quivering at a slightly different rate. Her forehead rested against Dima’s shoulder; the flask vanished, and he dug for something else in his pockets. His arm was a steel bar holding her upright, and that unhealthy, unsteady heat blazed from his jacket and jeans like a gasoline-greased pile of burning tires sending great gouts of black smoke heavenward.
“There,” he crooned, with lunatic calm. “Hush now, little zaika-zaya, krasotka moya.” He was stiff-tense as if ready for a punch or some other violence, but Nat was too tired—and too glad to be stationary—to care much. “Eh, Cowboy? They gathering again.”
“I know.” Ranger sounded grim. “Where the hell did you run to, horse?”
“Silly girl,” the horse replied, its voice full of shrapnel and burning oil. He made a low, shuddering, grinding moan, a motorcycle’s various metal joints resisting. “I offered her shortcuts. Stupid, silly girl.”
“For the love of…” Ranger sighed. There was a creak, another sharp thump—sounded like he’d punched metal. “That girl ain’t no horsethief. You and your mischief; I swear I’m half ready to remake you.”
“Go ahead.” The beast was completely unrepentant. “You’ll never have a faster horse.”
Ranger muttered a blistering obscenity, and for once didn’t follow it up with a pardon my French. “Curses work both ways.”
Whatever Dima had forced down her throat worked wonders, or maybe Nat was stronger than she thought. In any case, she found her legs would finally work again, pain receded like the tide going out on a pebbled beach, and she pushed ineffectually at the gangster’s disconcertingly broad chest. “I’m all r-r-right.” Even the teeth-chattering was going down.
A dark line showed high on Dmitri’s left cheek. It looked like a knife-cut, but there was no blood, just flesh swiftly sealing itself back together. The sun’s bleary red eye slipped behind distant, serrated mountains, and a crackling-cold wind brushed over Ranger’s house. There was an uneasy mutter from the barn, animals moving; Nat shuddered.
What else did he have in there, next to the big black motorcycle-horse? She found she didn’t want to know; there was a limit to even her curiosity. Go figure, adulthood was 40 percent figuring things out for yourself, with another 40 percent of avoiding knowledge that might drive you crazy.
Copyright © 2023 by Lilith Saintcrow
