Page 33 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

I remember the sound of thebangwhen they fired last time.

I remember how Drago—Leonid—flinched.

And I remember frantically checking him over after he charged them and finding no damage at all. I hadn’t understood it then, and I’m not sure I really get it now. He said it was because of the remnants of a protection spell, but what does that even mean?

Harry Potter’s not real.

Twilight? As far as I know, there are neither werewolves nor vampires. But yesterday, I’d have sworn there was no such thing as a man who can turn into a horse, and clearly. . . If any of that existed, now would be a great time for a shirtless wolf-man to show up and twist this gun into a hunk of deformed metal. Bopping the guys on the head for good measure wouldn’t hurt, either.

When the short man swings his gun around to point right at my headagain, I panic. I should duck. I could scream. In fact, I ought to dive behind the truck.

But I don’t do any of that.

I stare at him wide-eyed and dopey, my heart hammering.

Until Leonid yanks my upper arm back, stepping into place in front of me. “Put that down.”

The small man smiles. “Before she had a big, scary horse racing to her aid.” He snorts. “Now. . .just you?” He shakes his head. “I’ll be honest. I was way more scared of the horse.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Leonid says. “Because I’m the czar of Russia. One word from me will end not only your life, but also the lives of every person you’ve ever cared remotely for.” I can only make out the side of his face, but the brutality of Leonid’s smile chills me to the bone. Definitely not the white knight I was looking for. Honestly, he looks a lot scarier than the shirtless wolf-man.

And yet, this man, this scary man with his posh British accent is facing the two who are threatening me, and he has no weapons at all.

“The czar of. . .” The small man’s laughter grates on me, like a dentist drilling on a molar. He slaps the tall man on his side. “This fake British man says he’s the czar of Russia.” He sighs. “That’s very interesting, because I just found out that I’m the queen of bloody England.”

“Oh, I think not,” Leonid says. “Queen Camilla has better personal hygiene, and is both much prettierandmuch smarter than you.” He curls his lip. “I’m also more afraid of her than I could ever be of someone who breathes through his mouth like you do.”

The little man may be uncouth, but he understands the insult. He takes one small step closer. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re on Timothy Heaston’s property, and you’re with his girlfriend, so in my book, that makes you fair game.”

“Game?” Leonid doesn’t even look one percent scared. “Game for what, exactly? I feel like chess would be beyond you—checkers, maybe? Can you keep the difference between black and red straight? What if we stack up one of the checkers? Wouldn’t you get confused?”

“Why does he sound British if he’s supposed to be from Russia?” The tall man’s frowning. “Because I do feel like I saw him on TV.”

“My English tutor was British,” Leonid says. “A tutor is someone who teaches you things. Unlike the two of you, I’m quite bright and pick things up right away, so hiring tutors makes sense.”

“If you really are Russian, you must be stupid,” the tall man says. “Here in America, we know not to insult people who are holding guns.”

“Was I insulting you? I thought I was merely stating facts—facts I didn’t think you could comprehend.” Leonid steps toward them, his right hand holding me behind his back. “What’s most entertaining to me is that here in America, the scariest thing you can imagine is a gun.”

“Oh please,” the short man says. “What could be scarier than a gun?”

Leonid turns toward me slightly, just enough that I can see his profile. “Turn me back.”

“Into a horse?” I hiss. “How would I even do that?”

“I don’t know. How did you turn me last time?”

“What are you two talking about?” The small man shakes his gun at us. “Stop it.”

“If you don’t,” Leonid whispers, “I’m not sure how?—”

But the small man’s out of patience. “I’ll show you why we’re scared of guns, big talker.” He shifts so his eye’s just behind the barrel, and then he pulls the trigger.

It all happens so quickly that I’m not sure exactlywhathappens. The bullet never hits us, and somehow, instead, the two men catch fire. The short man drops his gun on the ground, and it goes off again. That bullet never reaches us either, but the screams from the two men as they burn?

They must be able to hear them in outer space.

Their bodies burn on and on and on. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop hearing their screams and smelling the odor of melting flesh.

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