by Parker Foye
All of which meant, of course, that James had barely stepped into his hooves when Tilly led Archie into the stables. There was nowhere to hide and James-as-Ruckus froze where he stood, apart from his twitching ears.
Spotting him, Tilly stopped in the middle of whatever she’d been saying, her step stuttering until she recovered and crossed the stables. Archie followed.
“Ruckus, what are you doing in here? You should be out in the field, unless you escaped again. And you better not have escaped again. You know it only encourages the others.” Tilly’s light tone and gentle pet on his nose was belied by the glare on her face as she covered for his un-horselike behavior. She was sweet when she turned to explain to Archie. “He sulks when it rains.”
He couldn’t reach Tilly where she was standing, but James tried to swat her with his tail anyway. He didn’t always sulk. Just when he was a person.
“I don’t blame him,” Archie said. “The rain isn’t my favorite thing either.”
Tilly made a face like she wanted to roll her eyes and stepped back, closing the door over on the stall and pretending to latch it. “Come on, let’s get inside and let this one finish his strop in peace. I can show you what I was talking about later. He gets enough attention the rest of the time. He can manage without us.”
Archie’s grin was bright even with clouds overhead. He waved over his shoulder at Ruckus, who stomped his hoof and pointedly didn’t wave back, and allowed himself to be led back to the house by the worst sister in Britain.
The rain picked up once they were gone, drumming loud on the roof. Gem nudged at James’s neck and blew air through her nose in a soft hello he returned in kind. He missed her when he was at the flat, like he missed all the horses and the opportunity to shape-shift without making his neighbors suspicious about the noise.
The Kirby family wasn’t designed to live in built-up areas.
Missing eventing was another thing altogether, but so long as he could return to the farm on days like this one, James thought he might learn to live without competing numerous times a year. Gem managed it fine, after all. He just needed to let himself find what else he was good at. There would be something, he was sure. He was more than a one-trick pony.
Horse.
Whatever.
Anyway, the truth—no matter how James tried to avoid it—was Ruckus couldn’t have competed indefinitely. James and Tilly had decided on an age for Ruckus when he first started eventing, using their carefully maintained studbook of family secrets to assure Ruckus’s pedigree and applying for a horse passport to complete his “birth” with the help of a vet who’d known their mother. Fortunately Ruckus missed the introduction of compulsory microchipping, as James would’ve found that problematic to explain to airport security.
Except even all their efforts and collective family experience couldn’t do anything to prevent horses aging every year. Eventually someone would notice Ruckus looked too good for a horse of his apparent mileage and difficult questions would become burning torches—or the modern equivalent—in short order.
The truth was Tilly made the right decision to retire them both when she did. James needed to move on.
He glanced outside at the rain beating on the yard. Today seemed a good day as any to give moving on a go. He huffed out a horsey sigh and flicked his tail, nudging open the stall.
James ran for the trails.
FOR ONCE the traffic wasn’t bad as James took the A1 motorway into Newcastle, and he found a space in the first car park he tried. Suspicious of his run of luck, James was wary as he made his way down to the quayside, expecting a protest or zombies, but there was only the usual Friday night crowd of couples, hen parties, and guys who had been drinking since clocking off work. James gave the latter a wide berth—he was wearing his favorite shoes and splashback would ruin their shine—and made for the pub Archie had chosen for their date.
Archie took James’s light jacket and then struggled on finding nowhere to hang it up. The awkwardness broke the ice, James snickering when Archie very gravely folded James’s jacket and stashed it on a spare seat at their corner table. They acquired drinks and perused the menu, and despite their short acquaintance, James found himself as comfortable as if out with an old friend, albeit a friend he desperately wanted to see naked. Preferably without the threat of discovery, this time. Each brush of knee or mild innuendo ramped up the tension, while every wry expression and well-timed quip made sparks simmer low in his gut like a promise.
By the time they split the bill and headed outside, James was regretting wearing his tight jeans, despite what they did to his legs and ass. Half the blood in his body was trapped in his dick. He felt light-headed, and he’d only had a pint.
“Do you want to walk along the river? I need to stretch my legs after all that food,” Archie said, leaning in close to James as if to shelter from the breeze. The tip of his nose was pink. When he saw James looking, he ducked his head. “I get cold easy, and I didn’t bring a jacket, because apparently I don’t know how seasons work. Feels like it was midsummer yesterday. What’s with this bullshit?”
James snorted. “It’s Britain. If you’re not wearing layers you’re doing it wrong. Here, do you want my jacket? Is that too cheesy?” He was already shrugging off his short jacket, which was less practical and more for posing, but it was better than nothing.
“It’s a little cheesy, but since I think my balls are frozen, I’ll take it. My ancestors would be ashamed of me, northerners all. Thank you,” Archie said, pulling on the jacket and tugging the collar around his throat. The jacket was too big for him, emphasizing the difference in their builds, and James’s fingers twitched with desire to touch Archie.
Turning away, James stuck his hands in his pockets and flicked his head toward the river. “Shall we?”
Archie fell into step, and they ambled through the crowd, crossing under the huge steel girders of one of the city’s bridges and walking alongside the river, glittering with reflected streetlights and neon signs. James was about to ask something asinine about the river, or the city, anything to prevent himself from saying something gormless about how attractive Archie was, when movement ahead caught his attention. A figure had taken on sudden speed, angling through the crowd in precise, predatory motions, coming their way with a determined stride. Instinct perceived a threat, and James tugged Archie toward the rails running alongside the river.
Archie followed, frowning. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, I just—Shit,” James said, recognizing the man stalking through the crowd. “This might be awkward.” Although, on the plus side, James’s jeans were abruptly roomier.
Simon McAllister swaggered up to them like he’d sold a nag for a bar of gold. James flared his nostrils at the familiar scent of Simon’s aftershave, and he felt the shift of muscles as his ears pulled back. For the first time in years, he was annoyed at his inner-horse: where had those primitive giveaways been when he was dating the bastard?
“Simon,” he said, affecting the icy tone Tilly used on cold callers. He knew the evening had been going too well. Thanks, universe.
“Evening, Jim,” Simon said, because he’d never cared when he wasn’t welcome. “Funny to run into you like this, after last night.”
Christ, the way he phrased even the most innocuous things. James glanced sidelong at Archie to check his reaction. To his surprise, Archie was leaning against the railing with his long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest, smirking like he was amused by the whole thing. He caught James’s eye and winked, before turning to Simon.
“McAllister, isn’t it? I remember reading about you,” Archie said.
Simon puffed up because he was an unbearable braggart. James had no idea what he’d ever seen in the man. Past-James had a lot to answer for in that respect.
“Is that right? I was with Duke Latimer at Badminton—”
“No, that’s not it. Something to do with a doping scandal, I think?” Archie’s ligh
t tone contrasted with the sharp lines of his smirk. He tilted his head like a bird, considering. “Yeah, I think that was it.”
James had never seen Simon go that color. The evening was drawing in around them, but there was plenty of light to let James appreciate the particular apoplectic shades of Simon’s face.
“That accusation was unfounded,” Simon ground out from between his teeth.
Pushing away from the rail with casual grace that made James wish again for looser jeans, Archie nodded and tugged his borrowed jacket more tightly around his body.
“Was it? Apologies. I suppose it’s difficult to shake that sort of thing, once an investigation has been made.” Archie stepped around Simon, half turning to extend his hand back to James, who was still frozen against the rail. “Are you coming, James? I thought we might go for another drink.”
With a last look at the unhealthy color of Simon’s face, James unclenched his fists and reached out to hold Archie’s chilly hand. They rejoined the flow of the crowd along the river, and James concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other with as much focus as when he was learning to piaffe.
Archie squeezed James’s hand and nudged their shoulders together, his hair brushing James’s throat. “Everything all right? Sorry for hijacking and coming over all possessive, but you looked like a deer in headlights. A foal?” His laugh was soft. “Something like that.”
“It’s okay,” James said. It had felt nice, actually, for Archie to step between him and Simon. He was just thrown that Archie managed to instantly find Simon’s weak spot when James spent months oblivious to the fact that Simon gave twice as much attention to his pride as he ever did to James.
“Did you want to go for another drink?” Archie asked.
James shook his head, was about to say he’d prefer to call it a night, when the back of his neck prickled with cold. Shit. He’d been stupid to think Simon would let things go that easily, not after all the fuss with the messages. He released Archie’s hand and turned around, squaring his shoulders and taking brisk steps to meet Simon before Simon could get any closer. His shiny shoes clicked on the pavement like a metronome.
“Look, can this not wait? You’re wrecking my date.” James took advantage of his height and loomed as best he could. “Piss off, won’t you?”
He was pleased he’d managed to get his words out without stumbling—not through intimidation, but anger, as all the anger he hadn’t had time to use at Burghley or any point since was running hot in his blood to such an extent it was a challenge to keep hold of his shape. James clenched his fists, running his thumbs over his knuckles to ground himself in his body. He reminded himself that, while kicking Simon with his hind legs would be viscerally satisfying, it would be difficult to explain to Archie.
And also a crime.
Simon sneered. He had a good line in sneers. “You’ve been getting my flowers, then.”
James threw up his hands, playing to the crowd. “I’ve got enough flowers to start a fucking florist! Which you’re not helping with. Do you have a share in Interflora or—”
“I was waiting for you to return my call, Jim. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“And don’t fucking call me Jim!” James finished with a shout, chest heaving like he’d been chased all the way to the finish. He wasn’t built to be a racehorse, shit. It felt like his heart was beating in his brain.
At the shout Simon had drawn back and put his hands in his pockets. Now he squared his shoulders like he was telling himself to get back up to bat. He tilted his chin at James, eyes glittering like the river.
“I know, James,” he said pointedly. “I’m going to expose what you are, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I just thought it would be polite to give you fair warning. You know what that is, right? Fairness? Cheater like you, I’m not so sure.”
Swallowing back his knee-jerk denial, James tried to keep control of his face as a chill crawled down his body and sweat prickled along his hairline. Copper was thick in the back of his throat; being found out had been his greatest dread since he’d been old enough to realize not everyone turned into a horse, and in likelihood most people would be terrified rather than thrilled to discover shapeshifting was possible. A steady diet of his mother’s paranoia and creature features in his teens had cemented James’s entirely rational fear of crowds wielding torches and pitchforks.
When they’d started to compete, Tilly’d had concerns about ethics—her horse, after all, was not really a horse—and he knew she had struggled with the notion throughout their career, but James’s chief concern had always been his mortality. Now here was this dickhead who thought he knew something when he didn’t know shit. And he was ruining James’s date.
James took a deep breath and released it in a controlled exhalation on a ten count, the way he did before competitions. His fingers twitched. He wished he was holding Archie’s hand.
Archie. Crap, he was probably watching this car crash.
One thing at a time. James tipped his chin and looked down at Simon, the way Tilly did when she was being superior. “And how are you going to prove this thing you think you know, exactly?”
Simon’s sneer deepened for a second, his mouth opening to deliver harsh words, before his jaw clicked shut. He opened his mouth again and shut it as blood drained from his face, which was way more entertaining to view from the other side of things.
“Photographic evidence,” he said after a moment.
Again, James swallowed back his knee-jerk response in favor of taking a second to breathe, to think. And he realized there could be no photographic evidence; James had been raised by his paranoid mother, an overprotective sister, and his own neurosis, and unless Simon had been following him around with a camera for the past twelve months, he was bluffing. That was Simon’s style all over; he might have put two and two together to equal shapeshifter, but if he had hard proof, he would’ve gone straight to someone daft enough to publish. Until then, he wanted James to fold the same way he always had, whether it was choice of restaurant or agreeing he was a supernatural creature.
Not this time. While the thought of Simon turning his clever brain toward collecting proof was alarming in the extreme, James was drawing the battle lines here and digging all four of his feet in the sand.
He pulled up a smirk. “Bullshit. You’ve got nothing on anything.”
“But—” Simon started. He gestured unflatteringly to James. “You’re—”
“I’m devastatingly attractive, and you should really get over me,” James finished, feeling heady with victory as a fear he’d harbored for decades was realized and—temporarily—overcome. He waited, uncertain Simon wasn’t going to pursue the matter—and a little concerned Simon was going to pass out on the street—but it looked like he’d come to the same conclusion as James and was totally fucked up by it.
“Is he all right?” Archie’s hand slipped into James’s, his pointy chin resting on James’s shoulder. The frame of his glasses pressed into James’s face. “I’m not sure people are supposed to go that color.”
James craned his neck to brush a kiss on Archie’s cool cheek. “Don’t know, don’t care. Do you want to get that drink now?”
Archie did.
ONE DRINK turned into two, which turned into wine at Archie’s flat in Heaton, since James couldn’t drive and Archie reasonably pointed out he’d need to take out a mortgage to afford the cab fare back to Alnwick. The legal stance on drinking and riding was opaque when the alcohol consumption related to the horse, but James decided against taking the chance after skirting one discovery already that evening. Hence Archie’s comfortable couch and the wine warming on the radiator until the air was thick with the scent of fermented grapes.
“Learned this trick when I was a student,” Archie explained, retrieving the wine and topping up their glasses. “Fuck letting wine ‘breathe.’ Cook it.”
From his position sprawled at the far end of the couch, James scrunched his face. “I’m
not sure that’s how science works.”
“Pft. Science,” Archie said derisively. He replaced the wine on the radiator with great ceremony that made James snort.
Point made, Archie dropped heavily to sit next to James, managing not to spill anything, and slouched back. He stretched his legs out to playfully nudge James’s socked feet. There was a flush high on his cheeks James was sure matched his own.
“Do you miss eventing?” Archie asked, out of nowhere.
James blinked. “I—What? It’s only been a month. Is this—Why do you ask that? I didn’t compete. So.” Christ. He took a generous slurp of wine to stop himself babbling.
Archie held out his glass with a pointed glare, shaking it. Confused, James took the glass and watched as Archie heaved up from the couch and crossed the room to the window where several framed photographs were arranged on the sill. James had noted them in passing, but he’d spent more attention on the cut of Archie’s jeans and the soft promise of his mouth.
That mouth was thin and pale when Archie thrust one of the photo frames at James.
“Look at this,” he said.
“I don’t have any more hands,” James said, gesturing with the glasses of wine.
Rolling his eyes, Archie traded one glass for the frame and retook his seat on the couch. He curled his knees up and pressed close to James, tapping with one slim finger at a figure in the photo. James turned his attention from Archie’s hand to what he was pointing at.
The photo was a candid shot of a number of horses, jockeys, and probably associated trainers, at James’s guess. The number of poor hair and outfit choices, coupled with the grainy texture of the photo, suggested the date at several decades previous. James scanned the image, trying to work out what Archie wanted him to see. There was something….
“Wait, is this—This is the 1970 Grand National, isn’t it?” His grandmother, Illustrious Sands, had distinctive coloring. “I think we’ve got this shot at the farm somewhere.”
