Page 54 of My Wild Horse King

“I already said. Witch, move on before I shoot you.”

I should listen to him. Being shot sounds. . .not fun at all. But the woman in front of me’s trembling, and no one else around us has even seemed to notice. “Why do you have a gun pressed against that woman’s head? Is that legal here?”

The man yanks the gun away from the woman, who scrambles away on all fours without so much as even glancing my way. Then he swings the gun around toward me.

I mean, I really should have expected that. He’s clearly emotionally unstable. “Alright,” I say. “But you don’t even know me.”

“You get to take Jazzy’s place.” He nods. “She ran because of you, so you can fix it.”

“Oh, I really don’t think so.” I may not be able to shock the ever-loving daylights right out of him, but I can still shift into a much larger and much scarier being. Without stopping to think about it, I just do it. I shift into my horse form, and I strike at him with my front hoof, knocking the gun onto the ground. It makes a terribly loud sound as it strikes the pavement and skitters away.

It’s gratifying, though, watching the look on his face. I can’t be sure, of course, but it almost looks like he knows it’s me. I can’t help smiling a little, and then neighing, loudly.

Unfortunately, I failed to note that the jerk was not alone. A half dozen other men emerge, some from a nearby parked car, and at least two from the door a few steps behind us.

They’re all holding guns.

I’m bigger and more powerful, but I don’t have six hooves, sadly. And I’m pretty sure the element of surprise is now gone.

“What are you waiting for?” the man in front of me asks. “Shoot the devil.”

Devil? I may have knocked his gun away, but even for someone who doesn’t like horses, I’m stunningly beautiful in this form. I whinny again, this time louder, and to my utter shock, before any of the men can fire, Gustav steps out in front of me. I didn’t even see him—I have no idea where he came from.

“You willnotshoot my horse.”

Oh, no.

He’s even dumber than I am, because he’s not armed,andhe has no magic. Now instead of just me getting shot, we’re both going down.

15

GUSTAV

The first time I came to Manhattan to visit my grandfather, I’d been at Yale for less than a month. He had a party for work, and he wanted to introduce me. I carefully prepared my clothing for the event from among things Grandfather’s personal shopper had chosen.

I was going to make him proud.

But less than three blocks from his New York City office, I was mugged. They took my wallet, my watch, and my pride. When I limped up to the party, my shirt torn, my face dirty from being pressed against the filthy ground, I swore that would never happen again.

The only thing I studied harder for than econ classes was boxing.

Ivy League schools are known for having fine instructors. Yale has the best economics program in the country. Its political theory classes are unparalleled. But my boxing instructor at Yale was, perhaps, not the very best. He wasn’t horrible, but I felt like he was preparing me to perform some kind of shadowboxing showcase.

I wanted to learn how to get out of a bad situation, and that meant I needed to learn street fighting.

Luckily, MMA had really gained a foothold in the United States at the time, and one of the top trainers was only a twenty-minute drive from New Haven. It took me three years to really become competitive, but that last year of school, I focused on multi-opponent fighting. The key is distraction and elimination.

They’re principles I still use in my everyday life.

For instance, I escape my apartment with promises that I’ll return with the best Italian food in New York City, but really I just wanted to get away from their incessant hounding for a moment. I’m still two blocks from Pistoia, my favorite Italian place, when I hear a strange sort of clattering sound. It’s one I’ll probably still recognize when I’m a hundred years old.

It’s the distinct sound of hooves striking the pavement.

I turn around just in time to watch the gorgeous palomino from my dreams the past two nightskicka gun from some man’s hand. I can hardly believe my eyes. What on earth is that horse doing in the middle of New York City? And what’s more, why is it the one from mydreamsfor the past two nights? I’d actually started to worry that the palomino wasme, and that my subconscious was telling me that my destiny was to master my powers and start shifting into some golden horse.

It’s absurd.

Because horses aren’t a superhero form. They aren’t terrifying. But watching this horse strike at the shady character across the street, I rethink my position a little. Only, after disarming the aggressive man, more men pour out of the neighboring building and the parked car, and suddenly, there are six men pointing guns at the poor thing.

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