Page 53 of My Wild Horse King

“With that face—with your hair. You must be lying.”

Now I’m a little flattered—not that the women on the billboards really look that attractive, but clearly someone thinks they do. “I don’t look like those women.” I point. “I’m not bony.”

“No, you’re not, but you’re just the right kind of thin for this campaign.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I just can’t.”

“We pay in cash on site.”

I’m about to walk away, but I feel compelled to ask. “How much?” I have some money, thanks to Aleksandr’s generosity, but it’s shrinking by the day, and it would be nice to add to it.

The amount he states—it takes me a moment to put it in terms that make sense to me, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all. “How long will this take?”

“All morning and part of the afternoon, but you’ll be done by two. Three, tops.”

It takes them anhourto add what appear to be dark smudges over my eyelids. They paint darkener on my eyelashes. Some person with a terribly pinched face snips at the ends of my hair, in spite of my objections. She keeps muttering, “Split ends. Splitends!”

But finally, they have me do a lot of walking back and forth with large fans blowing in my direction. At some points, they even have people throwing buckets ofleavesin front of the fans that pelt me in the face and get stuck in my hair.

It’s very, very odd.

The shoes they give me make one blister. Then two more. But finally, we’re done, and they do pay me, as promised.

“I threw in my business card,” blocky glasses says, “as well as a small tip. Please call me and leave your number. I can think of a half dozen other things you’d also be perfect for, and a fresh look in the New York scene is always appreciated. Heroin chic gets old fast.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Sure.”

But as I wander down the streets once again, more makeup on my face, and more money in my pocket, I can’t help thinking that the United States’s biggest, baddest city isn’t so bad. I’m not paying much attention to where I’m going, just meandering, and I keep coming back to the same question.

What am I doing here?

None of the people I came to help want me here. I’ve given up on Alexei. Gustav will be fine, as long as he sticks to his guns and shoves them all away. And clearly Adriana, Mirdza, and Kristiana do not need me around. I could return to Russia, but I’m still scared of Leonid.

Yes, I know more about him than most. I understand how he got started. But he’s powerful, and he’s amoral, and it’s a dangerous combination. What I really should do is stay as far away from him as I possibly can. In that regard, my present company’s nearly as bad as he is. The easiest way to get blown up is to hang out near a bomb.

In that moment, I decide to figure out where on the map is the farthest from both New York City and St. Petersburg, and then go there with the money I just earned. It’ll be enough to buy a ticket there, assuming I can escape their customs as I did recently, and then I can figure out what to do to support myself once I’m there.

Maybe they’ll need scarf models.

I’ve pulled out my phone and I’m peering at the tiny screen, trying to figure out the midpoint. Thereissomething in between, and as I pinch at the screen, zooming in, I realize it’s a small island called Iceland.

It sounds cold, but I’m sure I’d acclimate—it can’t be much worse than St. Petersburg.

I wonder whether they have horses there, and whether Boris might join me. He has been working with Leonid for a while now, but I’m not sure he’s happy. I’ve often wondered, if given an alternative, whether Boris would do the right thing. Would he walk away? Would he give it all up? I can at least ask—as long as I’m vague on where I’ll be.

I’ll probably need to throw this phone away, just to make sure no one can track me with it.

I’m distracted by details when I bump into someone. A rather large, rather smelly person. He smells of that smoke that’s not the processed tobacco I’ve seen people using. It’s the other thing—it’s almost sweet, but not in a good way.

I’m not sure it was my fault, but I apologize anyway. “Sorry.” I duck my head, and he turns back to what he was doing when I interrupted him.

Only, now that I’m paying attention, I can see what that is. He’s pointing a gun at a woman who looks barely more than a few years older than me. She’s shivering, and not only from the cool air. She’s not wearing nearly enough clothing for the brisk fall weather, but her arms aren’t pebbled with flesh. She does look like her skin is crawling, though.

“Walk along, witch,” he says.

I’m not sure why he called me a witch when I haven’t exhibited a single bit of magic, until I realize that’s not the word he used. His word does rhyme with witch, however, so I refuse to feel too stupid. “Should you really be waving a gun around in broad daylight?” The words just pop out of my mouth. I swear, it’s like I just keepforgettingthat I have no magical powers right now. Picking fights is very stupid when he outweighs me, and he’s clearly better armed.

Not that I’d know what to do with a gun even if I had one.

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