Sean’s feet kick up sand even as he shouts. “David!”
Prince looks up.
Quick as a snake, Corr’s flat teeth crush into his neck.
Mutt Malvern hauls back on the reins; Corr climbs into a rear. The crowd shouts and scatters. The other two men who were with Mutt leap back, uncertain if they should defend themselves or help Mutt. Sean jerks to a stop, face turned from the spraying sand. On the ground, Prince arches his back, his feet scrabbling. I can’t look away.
Corr rears again, and this time, Mutt can’t keep his hold. He rolls out of the reach of Corr’s hooves and comes up bloody. Prince’s blood, not his. The stallion’s eyes are white and rolling as he spins. His gaze is on the surf. Everyone else’s gaze is on him and on Sean, but none of them is moving.
When Corr circles another time, I dart across the sand to where Prince lies. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt; there’s too much blood to see his skin. I’m afraid that Corr will trample him, but I don’t know if I can move him. The best I can do is stand between him and the hooves and try to press down this horror inside me.
Corr turns and cries out again; this time it’s like a choked sob. There’s a spiderweb of veins standing out on his shoulder.
“Corr,” Sean says.
He doesn’t shout it. It doesn’t seem loud enough to be heard above the sound of the hoofbeats and the surf or the sound of Prince’s gagging, but the red stallion stills. Sean holds his arms out and approaches slowly. There’s blood on Corr’s lower jaw; his lips quiver. His ears are flat back against his head.
“Hold on,” I whisper to Prince. Up close, he’s not as young as I thought; I can see every line carved around his eyes and mouth. I don’t know if he can hear me. He holds fistfuls of sand and his eyes on me are a terrible, terrible thing. I don’t want to touch him, but I reach down. When he feels my fingers, he clutches my hand so hard that it hurts.
Near Corr, Sean shoulders off his jacket and abandons it on the sand, then tugs his shirt off over his head. Underneath, he’s pale and scarred. I’ve never given much thought to whether broken ribs healed straight before now. Sean speaks to Corr in a low, low voice. Corr shakes, his eyes rolling toward the ocean.
Prince’s blood is all over me. I’ve never seen so much blood before. This is how my parents died. I tell myself not to imagine it, but it doesn’t matter; I can’t picture it. There’s just no way to make my mind accept the possibility of it, and I’m sorry that I can’t. Because as terrible as imagining that might be, it has to be better than living in this current reality with Prince’s shaking hand gripping mine.
Sean slowly approaches Corr, speaking in the same low voice all the way. He’s three steps away. Two. One. Corr lifts his head, pulling back, his teeth bared and bloody; he’s shaking as much as Prince. Sean balls up his shirt and then presses it to Corr’s muzzle. He waits a long moment until Corr smells nothing but Sean Kendrick, and then Sean wipes the blood from Corr’s mouth. As the stallion stands, rigid, Sean folds the shirt so that the blood faces the sky, then wraps the fabric over Corr’s nostrils and eyes.
“Daly,” Sean says. Beside him, Corr’s nostrils suck the fabric of his shirt against them, showing the outline of his muzzle through the shirt, and then blow it back out again. One of the men who’d come with Mutt jerks at his name. He looks terrified. Sean’s eyes flit away, disappointed by whatever he sees in Daly’s face, and then they find me. “Puck.”
I don’t want to leave Prince as long as he’s holding my hand so tightly, but I realize suddenly that somewhere along the way it switched to me holding his hand and not the other way around. Horrified, I drop his fingers with a start and climb to my feet.
Sean gestures to the reins that trail from Corr’s bridle. “Hold this. Will you hold this? I need …” The red stallion still quivers beneath the mask Sean’s made. I can’t seem to feel afraid — it’s like my fear has fled somewhere deep inside me. Someone needs to hold the horse. I can hold the horse. I wipe my bloody palm on my pants and step forward. Taking a deep breath, I hold out my hand.
Sean puts the reins and a bunch of fabric in my fist, whether or not I’m ready. This close, I hear a faint metallic humming, and I realize that it’s the bells around Corr’s bridle and pasterns. The stallion shakes so subtly and constantly that the metal balls inside the bells whirr like metal grasshoppers.
Sean checks my grip and then, swift and certain, he crouches and slides beneath the red stallion. He produces a knife from his pocket, and runs his palm down Corr’s foreleg.
“I’m here,” he says, and Corr’s ear trembles and turns to catch his voice.
Sean deftly slices off each of the red ribbons, casting them angrily behind him with a tinny jangle. I start as the stallion moves. Now that his hooves are free of the bells, he picks up and puts down his legs, trotting without moving. Sean exhales sharply; he’s trying to unfasten the breastplate and Corr’s moving too much. I’m not sure how handling a killer capall uisce is any different from handling Dove, so I just react the same way. I pop the reins down smartly and the stallion jerks his head up. I think he’s trembling less, but it’s hard to tell without the bells singing to tell me. I try not to think about how it’s Prince’s blood still wetting my palm. I try to remember what I’ve seen Sean doing with the horses.
Shhhh, shhhhh, I say to the stallion, like the ocean, and his ears instantly prick toward me, his tail hanging motionless for the first time. I’m not entirely sure I like his attention, even blindfolded.
Sean looks at me over Corr’s withers, his expression odd — approving? — for just a moment. Then he throws the iron breastplate behind him into the sand by the bells.
“I’ll take him now.”
“What about that man? Prince?” I ask, not releasing the reins until I’m sure that Sean has them.
“He’s dead.”
I glance over. Now that Sean and I have calmed Corr, someone from the crowd has pulled Prince to safety. But they’ve put a jacket over his face. I shudder in the wind. “He died!” I know it’s stupid to say it, but I can’t not say it.
“He was dead before. He knew it, didn’t you see it in his eyes? My jacket.”
“Your jacket?” I say, with enough force that my shaky voice makes Corr start. “How about ‘my jacket, please.’”
Sean Kendrick looks at me, perplexed, and I can see that he hasn’t a clue of why I’m upset with him. Why I’m upset at all. I can’t stop shaking, as if I’ve taken all of Corr’s trembling and made it my own.
“That’s what I said,” he says after a pause.
“No, it’s not”
“What did I say?”
“You said my jacket.”
Sean looks a little bewildered now. “That’s what I said I said.”
I make an angry noise and go to get his jacket. If there was any chance that the tide wouldn’t take it before he got back down here, I’d have left it. All I can think about is that that man is dead, the man who was just holding my hand, and the more I think about it, the angrier I get, although I can’t think of who to blame except this capall uisce that I just agreed to hold. And somehow that makes me feel like I’m complicit, and that makes me angrier still.