Page 85 of My Wild Horse King

“—and Sean, whom you met in that meeting,hatedObsidian Devil,” Kris says.

“And me,” Aleks says. “He thought I was a penniless Russian horse trainer.”

“Which you were,” Kris says.

“Even though this sounds bad,” Mirdza says. “I really do think you’ll be fine. If Kris and Aleks could win the Grand National?—”

“Wait,” I say. “You were riding on your husband in that race?” I can hardly believe it. “Is that legal?”

“You know,” Kristiana says, “I didn’t actually stop to ask the racing commission if they were alright with horses who could also shift into humans racing alongside real horses.”

I guess not.

By the time we’ve arrived, pulling up a hundred yards from Venetia’s house, our SUV partially obscured behind the only patch of pine trees we could find, Kris hands me a rope.

“Where’d you get this?” I take it—it’s blue, and it’s all knotted.

“I bought the rope,” she says. “And then I made it into a halter.”

“How could you?—”

She yanks it back. “Watch.” She twists it around and shifts it, and voila. I see the part that hooks over the nose, the part that wraps around behind the ears. . .she’s amazing.

“Well I’ll be darned?—”

Without any kind of warning, Katerina shifts from a human, standing right in front of me, into a tall, shining palomino mare. She tosses her head, and her white-blonde mane billows out, like we’re shooting a commercial for some kind of mane and tail product.

Kris looks at me and tosses her head, like I’m a dolt.

“Right.” Because I am just standing, staring, stupidly. “I should put it on her.” I hold out my hands, and Katerina slides her face right into the nose hole, leaving me to fumble around trying to work out how to tie the end.

“Like this,” Kristiana says, but from her tone, what she means is, ‘you big idiot.’ I remember that much about girl-speak from when I lived at home.

“Before the lady arrives, you should try getting on her and riding in that loopy pattern,” Adriana says. “It might help you look less half-witted later today.”

Doubtful.

I’m wearing the most casual clothing I have—khaki slacks and brown Ferragamo dress shoes. It’s still about as inappropriate for riding a horse as I can imagine. “I need to get some clothing first.”

“Kris rode me bareback more than she rode in a saddle, and once, she was wearing an evening gown,” Aleksandr says.

“I’m clearly not Kris.” I do, however, want to punch her husband.

“It wasn’t an evening gown,” Kris says. “It was?—”

“Just get on and let’s see whether this is going to be a comedy or a tragedy,” Adriana says.

“Maybe a little of both,” Grigoriy says.

It takes a boost from Aleksandr, which is a little embarrassing, but at least Katerina’s not dirty when I slide onto her back. I didn’t see a dry cleaner for at least fifty miles.

I’m nervous.

Of course I’m nervous.

Other than the walk down eighty-first street, I haven’t been on a horse in more than a decade. With the parents I had, I was pretty much on a horse every day of my life before then, but you never know how much you’ll retain.

My legs aren’t used to gripping the side of a horse.

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