each other, so I couldn’t put it off much longer. I was afraid that Mud and Esther would kill each other if I continued to disregard the war simmering between them.
While everything was fresh in my mind, I stopped in the kitchen and wrote my reports, sending them to HQ. I also read reports filed by some of the others. I was avoiding the car and the privacy I needed to call my sisters. Cowardice, pure and simple. When I had dithered as long as I reasonably could, I left the house and trudged to my car.
The house and grounds were brightly lit, patrolled by private security as well as deputies. That was probably smart, based on the numbers of lights, cars, cameras, and generators at the far end of the drive. I didn’t see Occam, so texted FireWind’s message about the hotel, and he text-promised back to be along shortly. I stopped at FireWind’s unlocked car, placed the evidence bags containing photo albums on the passenger seat, and locked the doors.
As I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of something pale in the darkness. I squinted against the security lights to see FireWind standing in a paddock, his white shirt the pale thing that had attracted my attention. I hadn’t seen him leave the house and wasn’t certain how he had gotten past me. He was utterly still, both arms out to his sides, his head down, his hair loose. A horse, one whose coat was too dark to identify in the night, flowed around him, prancing, tossing his head. As the light caught him, I recognized the lightning-blazed stallion. I stopped and watched.
The stallion danced, whirled, raced around the paddock, hooves pounding. He reared on his hind feet. A challenge. He pounded down. He snorted.
FireWind didn’t move.
The stallion raced again, around the entire paddock. He bucked. Kicked out with his back hooves. He stopped, snorting like a bull, pawing the earth, his head going up and down. Then he charged. At a dead run he raced, attacking FireWind. My breath caught in my throat. The horse stopped fast, sitting back on his haunches. He whirled away, dancing around FireWind. Closer. Closer still. Around and around. Blowing and snorting and making sounds I couldn’t identify but which were scary and mean. The stallion stopped. Man and horse in the same space. A man who . . . who likely didn’t smell like a human.
Because FireWind was a skinwalker.
The horse pawed the earth. The man didn’t move.
The horse tossed his head. The man didn’t move.
The horse took a step closer. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how curious horses were. Cat-curious. The stallion stepped closer. Kicked out with back hooves. Stopped. Took a step closer. He was within two feet of FireWind’s left hand.
Stretching out his neck, the stallion sniffed the hand. He breathed on FireWind’s hand. A stillness followed, man and horse holding position. Slowly, the blaze shifted lower, down to touch FireWind’s palm.
The hand slowly cupped around the muzzle, stroking. The horse blew out, pranced, and moved up to FireWind’s elbow. To his shoulder.
The two seemed to curl around one another, FireWind’s arm circling around the stallion’s neck. His hands caressing beneath the mane. They stood still, in the dark, entwined. The stallion whickered.
Feeling as if I was encroaching on something private, an intimate experience, I turned and found my car and drove away. Turned into the street. A memorial of flowers, dolls, and teddy bears had been started and had grown into a long row at the fence line. Cameras and cell phones were everywhere, reporters trying to get a shot of my face through the car windows, and probably succeeding. The press had been joined by what looked like hundreds of cars as Stella Mae’s fans continued to gather, standing in small groups, staring at the entrance and at me as I drove down the car-blocked, increasingly narrow road in front of the horse farm, toward Cookeville. As I drove, I called JoJo Jones at HQ. She answered, “Hey there, country hick chick. How you holding up, girl?”
“I’m more a plant person than a baby chicken, but I’m doing good.”
She laughed and I updated her on the case.
JoJo told me about the media frenzy over the death of one of America’s best-known country singers. “I spotted y’all in a few of the aerial shots,” she said. “You’re famous.”
I groaned. She laughed again. And some of the weight I had carried all day began to lighten.