Page 13 of Fires of the Forsaken
The horse whined again.
“You were two seconds from being freed before you went full Mr. Hyde—stop with that damn noise.” I stepped forward. “I’ll try again. But if you try to bite me again, Iwillleave you like this. No amount of crying will save you.”
My fingers shook as I reached for the bridle. I didn’t take my eyes off the horse. It kept its gaze trained on me. A stare down. And my opponent was eerily good at not blinking.
“I’m telling you…” I warned.
The horse’s red eye rolled upward, gazing directly into mine.
I wrapped my fingers around the throat latch. “You got one shot. No do-overs. So don’t blow it.”
The horse flinched when I tugged at the buckle. Tensed. The tempo of its breathing changed, sounding like a racecar revving up for a trip around the track, but it kept still.
My fingers fumbled to undo the throat latch.
The horse’s nostrils flared; its hooves shifted.
I had a few seconds before this animal detonated, and no clue which buckle had to come undone next.
“Fuck it.” I snatched the top of the headpiece and yanked.
The horse threw its head back.
Somehow, it worked. It wasn’t smooth (I accidentally wrenched one of the horse’s ears), but it didn’t seem to care. It spat the bit out. And once the bridle was off...
“Shit!” I dove to the ground as the horse let loose a growl that would’ve made Simba proud and bolted.
But this time, it wasn’t trying to hurt me. It had just wanted me out of the way.
I sat there, mud seeping into the back of my dress as the horse steamrolled into the trees. The bridle clanged between its legs for a few strides before being kicked loose.
And then agoddamn knifehurtled toward the horse.
“Yo!” I yelled as the animal bellowed and skittered sideways, narrowly avoiding the oncoming blade.
Viking Viktor walked up to my side, a second knife clutched in his hand.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I sprang up, karate chopping his wrist—
Okay, well, I didn’t do a karate chop. I flailed my arms around like a whack-a-doodle and got a lucky shot. Still, it worked. He dropped the knife.
The horse disappeared.
Viking Viktor gave me a long, indecipherable look as he bent to retrieve his weapon. “Did it bite you?” he asked.
And, y’know what, for a weird Viking dude,damnif he didn’t have a nice voice. Smoother than melted butter: a slow drawl with a slight accent that might’ve been Swedish. Or Norwegian? Or something else entirely. I sucked at guessing accents.
He sighed.
Wait. Shit, he’d asked me something, hadn’t he? “What?”
“Did it bite you?” he repeated slowly.
“Ummmmm, it tried.”
“Where?” He reached out, grasping my hand lightly.
“Whoa!” I flung backward. Why? Because, A.) he still held a knife and, B.) his calloused hands felt like steel wool scraping against my wrist. “The horse didn’tactuallyget me—”
