Caroline didn’t move. She just stared as though she was afraid she’d never see Misty alive again.
Without turning, Misty’s mother said “I thought I told you to get to work.”
Caroline blew a shaky kiss to Misty and headed for the barn. Misty opened her mouth to call Caroline back, to say “Don’t go,” but Mother started to unbutton Misty’s shirt.
“Good God, child, you’re all crooked!”
In her panic over Caroline, Misty hadn’t had time to put on a bra. She snatched the front of her shirt closed, backing toward the bedroom. “I can dress myself, Mother.”
“Well, you can’t prove it by me! Now hurry up, we have to do your hair.”
Misty shut the folding door and swallowed her heart back down to its proper position. Her show outfit was hanging on the wall in its protective bag, and the white hat with its pink rhinestone hatband was still in its box on the shelf. She dressed in a daze, more out of habit than conviction.
What could she say? What could she do? What should she do? Would Vulcan even let her mount? She wasn’t sure which she feared more—Vulcan’s horn or her mother’s tongue. At least if Vulcan attacked her she’d be dead.
At last she emerged, fully decked out in gleaming white and glittering pink. Her mother looked up from polishing Misty’s pink Ropers. “There’s my angel!”
Misty thought she might throw up.
Her mother took her by the shoulders and looked seriously into her face. “You’re gonna make me so proud.”
Misty wanted to say “Let’s just get this over with.” But she put on the best smile she could muster and said “Thanks.”
Caroline had Vulcan saddled and ready to go. He tossed his head and sidled, ears back and lips taut. Misty reached out to stroke his neck and he snapped at her. “Easy,” she crooned, but he twitched away from her touch.
Misty’s mother cast a disgusted eye at Vulcan. “What on earth is wrong with that animal?” He growled and snapped at her. Mother backed away and turned to Caroline. “You keep him under control, do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She didn’t sound at all certain.
Mother turned back to Misty, her face aglow, and squealed “I’ll see you in the ring!”
Once Misty’s mother had left, Vulcan sniffed and snuffled Misty all over. She was used to that—she was covered in hairspray and powder for the show ring—but today his examination seemed more intrusive, more urgent. “What do you think, big fella?”
He snorted, which wasn’t exactly an answer.
Caroline said “Don’t do this, Misty. Mary Frances got gored just for kissing a boy.”
“You’re not a boy.” She reached for Caroline’s hand, but before she could touch her Vulcan tossed his head and growled. “Whoa! Easy, boy!”
Working together, with pats and whispers and lumps of beef jerky, they managed to get him calmed down a bit. Eventually he let Misty rub his ears and scratch at the base of his horn.
“I don’t know . . .” Misty said, stroking Vulcan’s warm cheek. “Maybe he’s just a little out of sorts. I think . . . I think I could ride him.”
“And you could get killed trying.” Caroline’s eyes glistened. “I don’t want to lose you!”
“You won’t.” Misty drew herself up to her full four-foot-eleven. “Not ever. But I have to do this, Caro. I have to try.” She started walking.
After a moment Caroline followed, with Vulcan in tow.
They walked Vulcan up to the gate and checked in with the gate steward. He winked and gave them a thumbs-up. Misty smiled weakly back at him.
“Good luck.” Caroline’s voice was trembling as she handed Misty the reins.
Their fingers met briefly on the reins, and Misty stood abruptly up on tiptoe to kiss Caroline on the cheek. Caroline looked surprised, then a smile spread across her face. The expression made Misty’s throat close up and her heart turn over. Flashbulbs stabbed through the semi-dark at them.
Caroline turned toward the stands, stroking her kissed cheek as she walked away.
Misty stood alone in the crowd of unicorns and riders, waiting in the shadow beneath the announcer’s booth. A pall of apprehension hovered over them, riders pale and unicorns skittish—the usual pre-class jitters amplified in the wake of Mary Frances’ accident. No one spoke.
The loudspeaker boomed and the first rider walked her unicorn out into the floodlights’ scrutiny to mount in front of the judge. One by one they trickled away, in ascending order of points for the year, until only Misty remained.
“And finally,” roared the announcer, “with four hundred and eighty-seven points, Miss Misty Bell and B. R. Vulcan’s Golden Hammer!”
The gate steward swung the gate open and smiled at her.
Vulcan gently nudged her shoulder with his muzzle. They had done this hundreds of times, and he knew the routine. They should move forward into the glare of the arena.
And she knew. She knew that she could ride him.
She licked her lips and took one step forward. And stopped.
The announcer’s voice came again. “Miss Misty Bell. Two minutes.”
The gate steward looked at her quizzically. Vulcan reached under the brim of her hat to touch her face with his muzzle. His breath was sweet with oats and alfalfa.
All she had to do was walk in, mount, ride this class, and she would win it.
And then she’d win the Nationals, and next year she’d be back here doing it again. And every year after that, as long as her mother’s ambition held out.
Her mother’s ambition. Not hers.
“Scratch,” she said quietly.
“Beg your pardon, Miss Bell?” said the gate steward.
“Close the gate, Harry.”
And the ring steward closed the gate, giving the judge a go-ahead wave.
Misty turned and led Vulcan away from the lights of the show ring and out into the peaceful darkness of the fairgrounds. Behind her, the announcer’s voice called out “Miss Bell scratches.” A mutter of consternation and curiosity ran through the stands, but she just kept walking, putting one pink boot in front of the other, in no particular hurry as she headed back through the evening to the barn.
Her mother caught up to her in the fringes of the barn lights, her face half-lit like a bright half moon. “How can you do this to me?” she screeched, face dark with rage above the white leather of her Show Mother suit.
“I’m not going to ride tonight, Mother,” she said, her boots firm on the packed earth. She’d expected to be afraid, but she wasn’t.
“Listen, little girl . . .”
“I’m not a little girl, Mother. That’s the point.”
Caroline pounded up behind Misty’s mother. “What happened? Wouldn’t he let you mount?”
Misty’s mother froze, staring at Misty with dawning understanding and rage. “You. Little. Slut.” She clenched her fists, and Vulcan growled a warning. “Who was it?” she hissed.
“That’s none of your business.”
Misty’s mother whirled on Caroline. “You were supposed to watch her! How can you let this happen after all I’ve done for you?”
Caroline opened her mouth, but Misty cut her off. “You’ve never done anything for her, you platinum-plated bitch.”
Misty’s mother gawped at Misty, sputters and gasps of frustrated fury choking in her throat.
“You should go back to the hotel, Mother. Have a drink. We’ll talk about it in the morning. And my knee’s fine, thanks for asking.”
“We’ll see how fine you are with no money, you ungrateful little whore.”
“Good night, Mother.”
Left with nothing else to do, Misty’s mother stalked stiff-backed toward the parking lot. Misty felt the muscles in the small of her back unclench.
Caroline could only stare. “Misty . . . what did you do?”
“I . . .” Misty slumped. “I think I just got you fired. Oh, Caroline . . . I’m sorry.”
“I won’t have any problem
finding another job—Jack Thornton’s been begging me for two years. But what about you? She’s your mother!”
“I couldn’t let her treat you like that any more. If I hadn’t done something, neither of us would ever have gotten away.”
“Misty, what’ll you do?”
Misty shrugged, shook her head and couldn’t make herself not smile. “I dunno. Maybe Jack Thornton’ll let me shovel stalls for him or something.” She put her foot in the stirrup and swung up into Vulcan’s saddle. He purred and reached around to nuzzle her boot. “I’m going for a ride to clear my head. Will you still be here when I get back?”
Caroline squeezed Misty’s knee. “You know it, shorty.”
Misty pulled off the pink-rhinestoned hat and flung it into the darkness. Then she nudged Vulcan with her knee, and as they ambled down the quiet aisle between the barns, she shook her hair loose into the cool of the evening.
A Hunter's Ode to His Bait
Carrie Vaughn
“YOU’RE sure she’s untouched?” “For God’s sake yes. She’s just a girl.”
Duncan took the girl’s face in his hands, tilted her head back, pried apart her lips and had a look at her teeth. Her frightened gaze darted between him and her mother. “Doesn’t mean anything. There are whores younger than her.”
She was twelve or thirteen, small and thin for her age but healthy—good teeth, straight back. In a year or so, with a few good meals in her, she’d be a beauty with golden hair and clear eyes.
Her mother stood a few steps away, wringing her hands and trying to maintain a business-like lack of expression. “I’ve heard men pay more for virgins.”
“You heard right,” Duncan said. “But you already agreed to my price. I’ll take her.” He tossed the pouch of silver at the woman. It landed at her feet, and she hurried to pick it up. Her husband was dead and she had eight other children to feed.
He went to where he’d tied his horse to a fence post. “Get your cloak, girl, and come on.”
Barefoot, she stood in the dirt in front of the hovel and didn’t move. “I don’t have a cloak.”
“Eleanor, go on.” Her mother gestured, brushing her away like she was a wild dog.
She still didn’t move, so Duncan picked her up and set her at the front of his saddle. He mounted behind her, wheeled his horse around, and rode off without a backward glance. She didn’t struggle or cry at all, which worried him at first. Perhaps she was an idiot child.
Then she said, “What’s a whore?”
He considered how to answer. The less she knew about such things the better, so he said nothing.
He kept her steady with an arm across her shoulders, and she was limp in his grasp.
In three days they reached the wilds of Northumbria, plunging straight into a forest of twisted oak. What few local folk there were would notenter the place because they said it was haunted. Duncan made camp in a glade where a spring flowed clear. He set the girl on the ground and left her huddled in the crook formed by an immense protruding root. He’d bought a cloak for her, and boots.
Late that afternoon, just before dusk, he took her to a glen dipped in the shadow of a hill. He carried his longbow, a quiver of arrows with varnished shafts, and his sword. He set about building a blind, a crawl space shadowed with leaves and branches that allowed a view of the whole clearing. The girl watched him with her wide, blue eyes and slack, numb face.
He bade her sit on a grassy hillock. She began to tremble, clutching the edges of her cloak and hugging herself. For a moment he doubted. What was he doing, paying silver for a slip of flesh and then dragging the poor girl out here? The prize, remember the prize. This would work.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be over there. Sit quietly, and the beast will appear. When it does, calm it.”
“What beast?”
“You’ll see.”
He left her and went to his blind.
Wind shivered through the trees, sending autumn leaves raining.
One landed on the girl’s cloak, and she brushed it off. Duncan held his bow with an arrow notched and watched all around the glen. Every whisper of leaves he took for footsteps.
Her fear passed with the time. She scratched at the dirt with a stick, played with the edges of her cloak. She started humming a country jig, a little off-tune. Over the next few days, Duncan kept the girl warm and fed, and she never complained.
After a week of sitting in the cold, the creature came.
It stepped out of the trees, out of the twilight mist, head low to the ground and nostrils quivering. A silver shadow in the form of a horse, seemingly made of mist itself. The long, spiral horn growing from its forehead reflected what little light remained in the world and seemed to glow.
The girl’s gasp carried all the way to Duncan’s blind. The unicorn’s head lifted, ears pricked forward hard, and he feared that she’d startle the thing away. But no, her scent was strong, and its instinct was powerful. Instead of cringing in fear, she got to her knees and reached toward it with both hands, whispering to it.
It leaned toward her, like a horse would to a bucket of grain. It made careful, silent steps, not even rustling the fallen leaves. Its thick mane fell forward, covering its neck. It huffed quick breaths at her, stretching forward to sniff at her fingers. The girl cupped her hands. The unicorn rested its muzzle on her palms and sighed.
Duncan shot his arrow, striking the creature’s neck.
It screamed, a piercing wail, and reared straight up like it might fly. Duncan shot again and hit the crook of its throat, where the head joined the neck. Twisting in midair, it tried to leap back to the shelter of the woods, crying with strained breaths. After one stride it fell, chest plowing into the earth, head and horn still raised. Groaning, it rolled to its side.
He didn’t know how much it would take to kill it. The stories were vague on that point. Heart racing, Duncan drew his sword and approached. The thing shuddered, sighed quietly, the sound of air leaving a bellows. He sprang at it, driving his blade into its side, through its heart, but it didn’t move again. Dark stains ran from all three wounds, matting the hair of its mane and coat.
His hands were trembling. He’d done it. Bracing his foot against the unicorn’s ribs, Duncan pulled out the sword, stumbling back and dropping it. Its horn was a foot long. Worth a fortune. He took his hunting knife, and it occurred to him that no one would believe where the horn came from if he didn’t take the whole head.
Belatedly, he looked at the girl.
She huddled on the ground, covering her head with her hands. Slowly, her face emerged. She stared at the dead unicorn, blood congealing on its side.
“You did well,” he said, attempting gentleness. His voice shook.
This was another part he had not thought to plan for—what would she do after? He expected sobbing. But she merely gathered her cloak around her and got to her feet. She seemed older, wrapped in the gloom of the forest, mist-glow turning her hair silver.
She stepped to the body, knelt by its head, and pressed her hand to its cheek. Quickly, she drew away. “It’s already cold.”
“It’s just a beast,” he said. “Just a hunt.”
He started cutting, and she moved out of the way. As he cut the final strand of muscle joining the head to the neck, the body began to shrivel, drying up, turning to dust, blowing away piece by piece. The girl put her hands in it, clutching the ash-like powder and opening her empty hands as it faded to nothing.
“It was beautiful,” she said.
Eleanor gave a final tug on the cord that secured the bundle to the pack horse. The mass of it was awkward, wrapped tight in oilskin. A long, thin piece jutted out, lying flat along the horse’s flank. It was the head of their ninth unicorn.
She’d grown like a weed the last five years. Regular meals worked wonders. Duncan kept her fed, and she put on weight, developing healthy curves and roses in her cheeks. He bought a horse for her, along with the pack
horse. They made quite the little company now, a world of change from when he stalked the woods alone.
She scratched the pack horse’s ear and went to kick dirt on the last embers of their campfire. “Do we ride far tonight?”
“Yes. I’d like to cross the border without guards watching. And—these woods are angry, I think.” It was spring, but the trees still looked like skeletons, black shapes against the sky, reaching for him. He’d made a habit of killing magic, old magic, and he found himself looking over his shoulder more and more these days. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” She said it sharply, but when he looked, she was smiling, watching him as she tightened her saddle’s girth.
Of course she’d be all right, living wild in the wood and traveling like a bandit as she had. He avoided civilization as much as possible, kept her away from towns with their taverns, from people who might say a corrupting word. She was still pure; the unicorns still came to her.
They left the road before they reached the border and cut overland, picking their way through the ruins of the old Roman wall. No one saw them, and they stopped before dawn to rest.
In two days they reached their destination, where a wealthy lowland chieftain bought the horn, then opened his hall for a feast in honor of the hunter. Duncan relented. They wouldn’t stay long.
Eleanor, wearing a simple gown of green wool, hair tied up in a braid, stood with him, untroubled by the great hall, the gold, the rich folk, and the stares. She had never been very excitable, but there was more to it than that. She was a creature of nature and didn’t know to be wary here. She stood calmly, chin lifted, meeting every gaze that came to rest on her, refusing to be cowed by the noble company. She only gave a nod to the chieftain himself. They all saw she was proud, haughty even, and a wild beauty showed through with that pride. How had she learned to carry herself so, this waif from the hovel?
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
He hadn’t trimmed his beard or combed his hair to appear before the chieftain. His clothes were clean at least, but they were still hunting clothes, leather breeches and jerkin. And he, who slew unicorns, owed them no obeisance.