Page 71 of My Trojan Horse Majesty

“You kept that?”

“Should I have thrown it away? I ripped a mountain apart to get it for you, and it got us the answers we wanted, even if it wasn’t in the way we planned.”

“Is blue beryl valuable?”

He shrugs. “How should I know?”

It’s valuable to me now, not that I’d admit that to him. I stick it in my pocket, and I drop a hand on his arm. “I—I want you to turn into a horse.”

It’s apparently that simple, though it may be less about the words and more about shaping my desire to change him. There’s a jolt, and then a weird kind of ear-popping sensation, and he blurs into Drago. He’s not right that I like the horse version of him better. . .or at least not exactly. As a horse, everything with him felt so uncomplicated. As a horse, there weren’t stories and magic and history. As a horse, he was a little maniacal, sure, but he wasn’t burning things down or reducing humans to ash.

I was just a girl, stealing a horse to bail out her criminal boyfriend.

“So maybe my life wasn’t quite so perfect before, either.” I huff.

Drago whinnies, like he agrees.

I realize the other advantage to this form is that he can’t really make any snide or disturbing comments. I think part of my objection to his human form is that he says a lot of things I shouldn’t really agree with, but somehow, I often do. As a horse, he’s so much less complicated. When he drops his shoulder, I know it’s time to climb onto his back. He’s so dang tall that it’s still hard, even with a lowered front end, but I manage to scramble on very inelegantly. It helps to know that he won’t spook at a bird whistling and kill me. “I do miss having a bridle,” I say. “I know I’m basically a passenger, but I’m used to having a bit to take hold of when a horse misbehaves.”

He snorts, and I know he’s laughing.

“Next time, I’m bringing one.”

He trots off, then, like the scree under his feet doesn’t bother him at all. Shifter-horses must have amazing feet.

That thought leads to others, questions he can’t answer this way at all. “Hey, can you colic? Like, if I didn’t shift you back, and you ate, like, a hamburger, would your stomach get all tied up? Or do you have a different digestive tract than a typical horse?”

He keeps trotting.

“What about paper bags? Do they sometimes suddenly scare you? Are they, like, bigger or billowy-er now that you have horse eyeballs?”

He slows down, whips his head around, and blows a bunch of air at my leg.

“Fine, fewer questions while you can’t answer.” I think that’s why I was asking them all. I can ask whatever I want, and he can’t stop me. “Do you think you just like me. . .and I just like you. . .because of the bond or maybe the soul thing and not really because we justdo?”

He freezes, sliding a foot or so on the debris underfoot, and then he swivels his neck around again and tosses his head.

And neighs.

Loudly.

“I’m not turning you now. Get me down the mountain first.”

He throws his head again.

“Why do you think I asked you all that? You can’t tell me anything, so it’s a safe question.”

He throws his head straight out toward me, and he screams.

“Whoa.” Two hikers duck around the bend ahead of us. “They have horses on these trails?” The one with a knit cap on waves.

The other one, a tallish man, peers at us. “You don’t ride with a saddle?”

“It’s a trust exercise,” I say. “I’m training him to be a good horse.”

“How’s it going?” knit cap says. “I think I’d be scared to do that.”

I shrug. “He’s a stallion, and he’s not very well behaved. I’m thinking of having him gelded, but whenever I say that, he screams even louder.”

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