Page 11 of Slay Ride

“Except that a coachman just killed a coachman over a disagreement about a horse’s coat color,” Kindra fires back. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Let her try, pet,” Ezra says. “The men need the help, and you and I don’t know the first thing about driving horses.”

Kindra looks between us, then relents with a drop of her shoulders. “Okay, but you have to take my knife.” She slides the massive bowie knife into my hand. “You’ll help them get thehorses into the traces. You can ride to pick up the first load of guests too, if you want.”

A few months ago, I would have squealed like a schoolgirl when the Heartbreak Killer placed her murder weapon into my hands. Now, I just slide it onto my belt and carry on.

I’m squealing on the inside, though, just so we’re clear.

I follow the groom to the large barn at the back of the property. Many feet have cut a path through the pile of snow, clear down to the earth beneath it. Grass squeaks under each step I take, occasionally followed by the satisfying crunch of snow when I make a misstep.

The sweet scents of hay and horse manure rush up to greet me as the doors swing open. It’s the bittersweet scent of home—sweet because it reminds me of the good times, but bitter because there were bad times too.

Maybe not bad so much as sad, but either way, I push those thoughts out of my mind. I lock them in a bedroom we don’t open anymore.

As we step further into the barn, another scent hits me. This one is more metallic, and I recognize it.

It’s blood.

The body lies in an empty stall. Well, the body parts lie in the stall, and I can’t identify most of them. The man has been so finely diced that he covers the straw in shades of red, pink, and yellow. If I didn’t know he was a man by the groom’s account, I’d know by the penis nailed to the wall.

“Maybe we should put the coachman to work in the kitchen,” I say as I study the carnage. “His knifework is impeccable.”

“Thanks,” the groom says with a smirk. “I was actually the one who killed the guy, but I didn’t want to get into trouble, so I lied.”

As an uneasy feeling creeps over me, I close the stall door and look for the horses, but the barn is nearly empty. There shouldbe six horses here—four to pull the sleigh and two to swap out if any get tired or injured—but I only see two.

Speaking of the sleigh, it’s MIA as well.

“Where’s the other coachman?” I ask. “And the horses and sleigh, for that matter.”

The knife weighs down my right hip with an insurance policy. If he tries anything stupid, I’m not afraid to go for it.

“He left to pick up the first set of guests over an hour ago. That’s when I killed the other guy. And now, I’m going to killyou.” He takes a step toward me, but I step back to keep some distance between us.

“Why me? What the fuck did I do to you?” I ask.

“I wanted the other one. The boss lady. But any of you elite pieces of shit will do. You think you’re better than us, but you aren’t. You’re one of us, and yet you walk around free as a fucking bird.”

I take another step back and ease my hand to my right hip. “Isn’t this better than prison, though?”

“Why don’t we swap places and find out?”

As he takes another step forward, I begin to backpedal with a quickness, but I never take my eyes away from him. Kindra taught me that. No matter what happens, keep your eyes on your target.

Unfortunately, that advice sends me backing into the wheelbarrow containing god knows how much horse shit. I topple into it, and I’m soon covered in a lumpy brown blanket.

Which also means I can’t get to the fucking knife.

I ram my hand into a few feet of horse crap and dig around for the filigree handle as I scoot backward. My fingers find the sheath attached to my belt, but the knife has fallen out. I have no weapon.

Unable to defend myself, I reach for the only nearby option. I grab handfuls of horse shit and fling them at the skinny little sonof a bitch stepping toward me like an emaciated panther. Most of it’s too dry to do any damage, but some of the harder clumps connect with his head and knock him off balance.

“Oh, you filthy little bitch,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m not a rapist, but I might make an exception for you.”

As he’s making his limp-dicked threat, I spot the knife. The gleaming tip pokes from a nearby clod of manure, and I reach for it. The psycho lunges for me at the same time, and I narrowly escape his strike as I roll across a carpet of shit and clutch the knife to my chest.

And this is it. It’s really happening. I’m about to get my first kill, and even though it’s morally justified in the most legal sense, it still counts.

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