Equus

by Rhonda Parrish

  Father Monaghan handed the garment to her. She winced, her skin blistering under the weight of the blessed cloth.

  Now, Peregrine urged. Run now.

  “Open the door and wish me luck,” she said with a grin.

  Father Monaghan hauled open the door and whatever he said—luck or good riddance—got swallowed up by the storm as she tumbled out into the boiling darkness.

  She flung the robe into the churning gale. It billowed and flared like the Devil’s own bat and gunshots cracked through the clouds. The posse rushed towards the bait like ragged shadows. Keeping low, she sprinted in the opposite direction.

  A whip of fire snapped from the iron gate and her knees turned to dry sand.

  The large one rides tonight. Peregrine’s thoughts prickled with fear.

  She sent him all the courage she could muster, and hastened her pace.

  The boy was right where Peregrine said he’d be, audibly whimpering. How the riders hadn’t found him yet baffled her.

  They weren’t looking for him, Peregrine reminded.

  The child cowered in the darkness, scampering backwards.

  “You don’t know me,” she whispered, “but I know you, West Osmond. Father Monaghan sent me to get you safe.”

  He gave a small nod, and Hennessy scooped him up in one arm. Crouching in the shadows, she waited, feeling Peregrine’s hesitation.

  The large one has come beyond the gate to look at the black dress you threw. His back will be to you, but you must be swift.

  Neither of them spoke their fears, aligning their breath and heartbeat. When it was time to run, she knew it.

  She sprinted for the church and muscle-memory took over, her body recalling something she’d forgotten. Moving like a ghost, she blurred from shadow to shadow. Her blood burned like fire, driving her on faster than ever, until they reached the church.

  The door was flung open from within and she tossed the boy inside, as light flashed behind her.

  Dodge! Peregrine wailed.

  She hit the dirt as the whip cracked above her. A tendril of fire forked down like a snake’s tongue to lick her from forearm to shoulder, sending sparks spiralling like fireflies. She clutched the dirt, gasping, as the scourge zipped back, recoiling for another strike.

  “Got us a filly out in the open, boys.” The voice boomed through the storm. Her soul shook, pulling towards the sound.

  She heard the whip release again and pressed her face down as hands tightened on her cloak. She slid through the dirt…forward, not back…and then kicked frantically trying to scramble inside. The stone floor was shockingly cold against her burnt hands.

  The slam of the rune-etched door echoed through the church. Someone hauled her to her feet, but her mind reeled with more lashings: memories of hungry flame shifted into fresh wounds, and she stumbled. Thin arms caught her and the priest blurred in and out of focus while the church quaked around them.

  The last thing she saw was West Osmond on his feet, little legs pumping as he ran for the cellar door.

  The rush of warm air near her ear jolted her from a fever dream. Breath lodged in her throat, and she thrashed in panic, soreness bursting through her stiff muscles.

  The soft velvet of a horse’s muzzle pressed against her cheek.

  “Peregrine,” she breathed, sagging with relief.

  Her vision adjusted to the pale glow; she was back in the church’s underground chamber. A single candelabra cast inky shadows over the congested bookshelves. Father Monaghan sat at a small table, edgy and watchful.

  Hennessy pulled her arm to her chest, finding her hand wrapped in bandages, instead of the shackles she’d half-expected.

  “You said they weren’t demons.”

  She propped herself on her elbows with a groan. “Yep. That’d be on account of them not being demons.”

  Father Monaghan rinsed a bloody cloth in a bucket of water. “I was taught they were demons…” He broke off with a pleading look. “Priest Yano wasn’t able to finish my training before she…”

  “They’re damned souls,” she offered. “Demons are wild. The damned herd demons—not the other way around.”

  “Of course. They’re damned,” the boy whispered.

  Silence settled and she ran her hands through Peregrine’s soft hair, feeling the tingle of the ointments as they nursed her wounds.

  The cellar door creaked open and Delia descended the concrete stairs into the chamber, a plate in each hand. Her face had some scratches, but she looked heartened, dressed in her silks, her curls all pinned to her head. She passed a plate to the priest and set the other down on Hennessy’s cot.

  “You’ve got to be starving.” Her eyes lit on Peregrine as she pulled a red apple from her pouch. “I hear horses like the red ones.”

  Peregrine gave an approving snort. I like her!

  “Me too,” Hennessy replied quietly.

  Delia tossed the apple to Peregrine and made a space for herself on the cot.

  “Any word from the masses?” Father Monaghan asked between bites. “Aside from the usual accusations of madness, of course.”

  Delia pulled an amber bottle from her bag. “People are scared, Sebi. But no pitchforks or torches yet.” She took a drink before handing the bottle to Hennessy.

  “Don’t priests lead the witch-hunts?” she asked, enjoying the warm sensation of liquor on her tongue.

  Delia chuckled. “Some priests operate on a ‘burn first, ask questions later’ method. Sebi dances to a different drum. He’s bought you time, if nothing else.”

  Hennessy offered Father Monaghan the bottle. “Well then. Much obliged.”

  He took the bottle and tipped it back with practiced ease. “One does not squander an offer, be it of asylum or wine.” The priest took another drink, studying her. “You’re one of the riders from the storm, aren’t you?”

  “We were.” Hennessy reached for the bottle.

  He nodded, handing it over. “And what happened last night…that was because of you.”

  Peregrine grunted, scuffing his hoof hard enough to kick up sparks.

  “The part where we saved that kid’s life?” Hennessy snorted. “Yeah, that was us.”

  Father Monaghan shook his head. “I meant no insult. We’ve never had them strike directly before. Terrorizing, yes, but…”

  He’s trying to ask if they will be back for us, Peregrine clarified.

  “They’re on the hunt. That’s what they’re made for.” She sighed, putting a hand on Peregrine’s nape. “Search and seizure. Rogue demons, the fallen, whatever they’re told to pursue. So yeah, they’ll be back like a lynch-mob.”

  The priest chewed his knuckle, frowning. “But if they get you and your horse, that will end their quarrel with our town?”

  Delia scowled. “Not an option!”

  “Not likely. They’ve got your scent now. Besides, Peregrine and me don’t wanna be riders no more.”

  A hazy image surfaced of the times between the rides. Long tables laden with rotting meat, drink that didn’t quench thirst, and huge billowing fires. Debates on Odin versus Yahweh, pantheons or a high god. Fantasies of second chances. Memories of loves lost. Regrets.

  “It’s not the same for everyone,” she said quietly. “Sure, some were malicious bastards making deals in the dark, but some were just hollowed out shells of people, not livin’ while they were alive. And some were just the luck of the draw. Like the kid almost was.”

  A sharp knock made them jump. Sergei stuck his head through the broken wooden door. “Trouble, Sebastian. The clouds rolling in. Black as hell with fire all through them.”

  “Get everyone inside, tell them to batten down again,” Father Monaghan said, calm as quiet water. “I’m praying on the matter.”

  Sergei shot Hennessy a glare before swinging back into the tunnel.

  Delia took another drink. “Praying on it? You have a plan.”

  He offered a half-smile. “Retribution. The city, not the concept. A broken-off rider coul
d mean salvation. They can hold off the storm at Retribution and distribute the information to other cities. Give us a fighting chance.”

  But this village will die, Hennessy thought. That’s not a plan. It’s a death sentence.

  The boy-priest thinks more lives will be saved if we leave them to die here.

  Delia, pale and grim, straightened Hennessy’s collar and fussed with her bandages. “You stay ahead of them.”

  “But…”

  “Sebi will get you out of town.”

  Delia hauled her in with a tight, unexpected hug that ended Hennessy’s protest.

  “What you did for that boy, we ain’t gonna forget. You give us something to believe in.” When she pulled back, her eyes were shining but the set of her mouth was grim determination. “Ride like hell. And don’t look back.”

  They rode with speed they hadn’t matched in a lifetime. It’d be a five-day ride to Retribution, with thunder at their heels and the villagers’ lives heavy on their shoulders.

  Father Monaghan had stolen a precious moment to speak with her before they left. He’d been silent and pensive, but at the gate, the words tumbled out.

  “My heart needs to know about the storm’s purpose, Hennessy.”

  She studied him, feeling Peregrine weigh his sincerity and find him worthy. The more time she spent with him and Delia, the more the fog surrounding her mind lifted. She and Peregrine were coming back to themselves.

  “Before the Fall, times were good for the posse,” she told him. “We had a purpose. Saw the sunrise sometimes. I wasn’t askin’ for much in my penance. But afterwards, everything went to shit. We had no purpose, no one to keep our reins tight. We started doing what we could do. We’re supposed to be empty, but now we’re looking for a way to feed that hunger. And it’s makin’ us crazy.”

  Peregrine rubbed his head against her leg. So we left.

  “So we left,” she echoed, holding back a torrent of sadness and heartache. “The Fall wasn’t some apocalypse rained down to restore faith. The gods didn’t open the doors to let hell loose; they just left. Whoever was guarding those doors isn’t watching the locks no more. And the storm ain’t gonna end until someone mans those empty thrones, locks those gates, and gives these things something to answer to. You see angels fallin’ from the sky since no one’s tellin’ them to fly.”

  Father Monaghan grimaced in disbelief. “Priest Yano always believed it was faith that worked, not the deity.”

  Hennessy nodded, speaking Peregrine’s thoughts. “The damned brought their faiths with them.”

  The priest’s smile turned pained. “I believed her research. I saw a rider dissipate at the sight of an ankh.”

  The fact that Father Monaghan would die knowing the truth wasn’t even a cold comfort.

  The hurt was a fresh wound at her heart even after an hour riding. They were high on the edge of a dune, free from the suffocating sulphur from the storm, when Peregrine stopped.

  With shared distress, they turned, looking back into the valley.

  The clouds looked like a burning tornado in the wasteland, circling the town. Fire flashed, casting passionate silhouettes, and Hennessy’s breath caught.

  “We can’t do this,” she said, watching fire ensnare the clouds.

  We cannot, he agreed. They will be dead or damned before the sun sinks.

  “We have to go back.”

  Peregrine tossed his mane, catching the hues of sunset. Guilt forged our shackles. Because we did nothing, someone died. And inside, we wanted to die too.

  “We’re not that person anymore. We have a choice, and I choose to die with them.”

  Peregrine shook his head, reins jangling. We won’t hide again. She felt his muscles tense and braced for his explosion into a gallop.

  “Being damned ain’t so bad,” she said, pressing herself to his back, the wind tearing at her.

  We have vantage and power, Peregrine offered. And faith.

  “In each other!” she yelled, letting out a whoop as he took a shortcut across a gorge, leaping right across it.

  Hanging onto his tangled mane, she smiled, feeling the strength return to her, the blood blazing in her veins.

  As he hit the peak of his speed, fire streamed back from his eyes and nostrils, grazing her face. Sparks burst up from his hooves like a kicked hornet’s nest, burrowing into her clothes, her hair, catching in Peregrine’s mane.

  When they both began to burn, something in the rider who named herself Hennessy sang out with wild joy.

  They tore across the desert like a comet, burning a trail behind them and when they hit the miasma of the storm, it ignited around them.

  The crackling clouds encircled the village like a blanket. The spires hung low, bent and deformed, and Peregrine slowed.

  “That’s new,” she murmured, running her fingers through the dancing flames. His ink-black hide was now a shifting pattern like the coals at the heart of a blistering fire. The veins on her hands shone with light and she felt horribly, painfully, exquisitely alive.

  I like it, Peregrine decided, snorting white flame. I am magnificent in every colour.

  She smiled. “Let’s find our friends.”

  The church loomed at the end of the main street, gnarled as though something had been pulled from deep within and bust forth from its belly.

  Figures of shadow moved within a billow of black clouds that swirled through the town. The shapes of men and galloping horses, swells of flame and bursts wild laughter cut like a sharpened blade.

  She kept her hand on her gun as Peregrine moved towards the mass.

  When they reached the end of the road, the boiling shades solidified, their bodies a wall between her and the desecrated church. Fire swirled from their hands, forming into blades and other weapons.

  The sea of damned parted and she froze, bracing for what came. She felt the heat rise as he moved through the crowd, her soul pulling toward him as it was meant to: follow the commander. Follow Vayne.

  Peregrine shied beneath her, whinnying.

  “Steady,” she pleaded, her voice shaking.

  The final layer of damned moved aside like good soldiers, and the boss gave her a gold-toothed grin, winding his fiery whip in his hands.

  “Hello, darlin’,” he said. “I was beginning to think you were avoidin’ me and the crew.” He glanced back and a delayed chuckle rose from the crowd. A massive steed appeared behind him, at least three hands higher than Peregrine, snorting black smoke.

  “Nasty rumours goin’ round. Talk of deserters. Brings out the beasts in us, you know.” He rolled his neck, his powerful stare fixed on her.

  Hennessy wanted to speak, but words wouldn’t come. Peregrine’s dread churned in her gut and the newfound fire around them wavered, suddenly as fragile as one of Father Monaghan’s candles.

  Vayne beckoned for her to join him. “Come here, sweetheart. Look at what you done.”

  Every part of her obeyed his command. She slid from Peregrine’s back, taking his bridle in a numb hand, and followed. The damned closed in behind them.

  Vayne pointed to the town’s square and the black fog ebbed to reveal a wild bonfire. Father Monaghan was on his knees, bare, bloodied, and bound by a yoke. More townsfolk were shackled nearby, some sobbing and shaking with veins black as midnight—damnation perverting their souls. Others had the life torn from them, their faces warped in horror.

  “Seems we can’t damn a priest, but we can escort them out real slow.” Vayne chuckled. He smoothed his hair ruefully. “Little shit puts up a mean fight, all kickin’ and hair-pullin’.”

  Vayne’s words pulled her from her haze and she stopped, reaching for Peregrine’s mind, tearing him from the compulsion.

  “You made me angry, sweetheart.” Vayne removed his hat and fidgeted with the brim. “I thought we meant something to you. Now I’ve gotta remind you who you answer to.”

  He gestured and shackles of flame ignited on her wrists, links forming into a fiery chain that wound aroun
d his fist. Peregrine reared, letting out a panicked whinny.

  She screamed as he yanked her to her knees, dragging her through the dirt, and lifting her to face him. “You got a lot of guts coming back here, after you betrayed us.”

  “I betrayed you?” she choked, teeth clenched. “It was you who betrayed what we were. The second they let our reins loose, you went for broke. Not all of us were pieces of shit when we were alive.”

  Growling, he flung her through the blaze, and everything was fire until she slid to a stop in the dirt. The cord on her wrists snapped tight, jerking her back towards the flames. Staggering to her feet she ran with the tension, jumping to burst through the inferno, smashing into Vayne and driving him to the ground.

  The chain dissipated into smoke and she stood, digging her boots into the sand. Whispers erupted, silenced as the boss got to his feet.

  A shimmer of blue satin snagged on the edge of the bonfire’s metal pit caught her eye. Cold horror coiled in her belly. And like a match set to gunpowder, her fear burst into rage.

  His whip untangled at his side and he scoffed. “That’s what’s gonna set you off? No need to worry, darlin’. We relieved her of that dress so the rest didn’t get torn.” He cracked the whip and fire lashed towards her.

  Hennessy yelled, and Peregrine reared, but no pain came. There was shock written plain on Vayne’s face. The flames had returned, bursting from her skin, and the coils of his whip fell broken, sputtering to limp curls of ash at her feet. Her skin blazed with the heat of her anger.

  “Damn you, this isn’t what we are!” she snarled, feeling Peregrine’s strong body behind her, supporting her. “You tainted our purpose. Sending us to slaughter and terrorize whoever you saw fit, but we’re not your trained dogs. We’re not yours.”

  The damned shifted, not like a storm, but like a group of bodies. Murmurs rose, silenced by the crack of a shortened whip snapping overhead.

  “You’re gonna shut your mouth,” Vayne growled, striding forward.

  “You sold your soul,” she spat, her fists clenched. “You’re the one that’s not one of us.” Her eyes flickered to Father Monaghan, crouched on the ground with wounds as deep as bone. His eyes met hers, helpless and pleading.