Page 43

Chapter 43

Kat

“A brown mare, yes, with a white splotch near her eye and four white stockings on her legs. What did you do with her?” I cannot keep the desperation out of my voice as I speak to the man Charles said he sold Bartholomew to.

The market is busy, and several people are lined up behind me to speak to this same man at his stall. Behind the stall is a pen of horses. I already searched there for Bartholomew, despite knowing there wasn’t a chance she would still be there.

“I don’t know, ma’am,” the man says with an impatient huff. He looks beyond me to the people who wish to do business with him. “We buy and sell a lot of horses.”

My throat almost collapses on itself. “Yes, yes, I understand that, but you must have something . Something about when she was purchased, or who might have been interested based on the description—”

He sighs deeply and plants both hands on the wooden table of his stall, fixing me with his full attention. “Look, all I know is that we had someone buy a lot of horses the day after you said yours was sold. Your horse might have gone with them. Or someone else. I don’t know.”

It’s something.

I take the address eagerly and give it to Clifford, who drives the carriage, and climb inside. If only I hadn’t had to wait so long to find her!

When we arrive at the address, the sign out front makes my vision split in two. “Oh saints,” I breathe, fighting the mounting panic as I rush out of the carriage before Clifford can give me a hand.

It is a large warehouse, rather rundown. It takes me a minute to find the door, only to be stopped by a burly man with a blood-smeared apron wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Can I help you, my lady?” he asks. “We don’t usually have visitors here.”

“I think my horse might have been sold to you by mistake,” I blurt, failing to keep the fear out of my voice.

He shifts uncomfortably on one foot. “When was this?”

“About three weeks ago.”

He winces. “I don’t know what to tell you, little lady. We buy up the old horses from the market and turn ‘em into sausage. If it has been that long . . .”

I stagger. Clifford suddenly appears at my side, catching me under the elbow. “You shouldn’t be here, my lady. Please let me take you home.”

All protest inside me dies. I let Clifford drag me away and help me back into the carriage. I stare out the window numbly. My Bartholomew. Gone. Slaughtered .

It’s too much. My mind invents vivid pictures of her struggling, her frightened. And I can’t stop it. I’m so sick by the time we reach Rahk’s estate that I can barely move. Somehow, I find the strength to get out of that carriage, walk past Edvear who says, “The master is out, if you are looking for him,” and head straight to my own servant’s closet.

When the door is firmly shut behind me, the torrent of tears finally comes.

Rahk

“There was a young lady asking about the same horse not long ago. This is the address I sent her to. It’s all I’ve got.”

I glance down at the address he scrawls on a dirty scrap of paper. “Did you sell the horse to this person?”

“Couldn’t tell you for sure. She said the horse was older. I don’t get many buyers for old horses. Except the butcher.”

I take the address and leave without another word. This horse better be alive. If I find anything else, heads are going to roll.

At the butcher’s, I swing down from my horse and march inside. The stench is so potent I almost take a step back. Quickly, I grab my ollea from my pocket and smear a drop under my nose.

Carcasses hang from the ceiling. I stride past them toward a man at the far end of this dimly lit warehouse. I hope Kat did not step foot in this place. Dark energy stirs inside of me at the thought of just how distraught she would be by this.

“You, there!” I call toward the man, and then curl my lip at the way he cleans his knives. “I’m here for a horse.”

He grunts. “It wouldn’t happen to be the same horse a young lady was asking about an hour ago?”

“What did you tell her?”

“Oh, just that there’s nothing I can do for her. We make ‘em into sausage. If we bought the horse that long ago, there’s really no—”

I cross my arms over my chest and enunciate my words carefully. “You are going to take me back to all the horses. Even the ones in line to be slaughtered. You are going to show me every single horse on this property, and you had better hope I find what I’m looking for.”

The butcher’s face pales. He seems to take in the rest of me then. His mouth opens. “You’re a fae. You’re—you’re that fae.”

I incline my head. “Yes. Someone sold my wife’s horse without her permission. I will get it back.”

The butcher lays down the knife he was cleaning and gets up, using a dirty rag to mop the sweat off his forehead. “Come this way. I will show you what we have.”

We survey many, many horses. None of them match the detailed description of Kat’s horse that I got from the Vandermore stable hand. The butcher takes me out to the pasture then.

“We don’t keep many out here,” he says, pushing open the wooden gate. “But there are a few.”

Almost immediately, I catch sight of one particular horse, grazing beneath a tall tree. She’s a beautiful mare, with a shiny copper coat and four white legs. I don’t even need confirmation. There is something very . . . Kat about this horse. I smile. “That’s her.”

“That’s her?” the butcher repeats, squinting at the horse. He shrugs. “My wife liked her so much she asked me to delay putting her on the line. She said she liked her spirit.”

“Does your wife enjoy being married to a horse butcher?” I ask dryly.

“She manages it.”

I reach into my coat pocket. “What is your price?”