My Trojan Horse Majesty (The Russian Witch’s Curse #5)

26. Whitney

November hurricanes are rare, but they do sometimes happen. In fact, Hurricane Whitney hit Houston on the very weekend I was born. Mom was at the hospital when it lost power, and then they evacuated us. Mom was huffing and measuring the time between contractions while driving out of town.

She gave birth to me in the back of our family Tahoe on the side of the road. Dad caught me—he said he’d never been more terrified.

Mom said she should’ve known I’d have a tempestuous personality. Maybe she did. She named me Whitney after the hurricane, after all. So while the rest of my family has always been all sunshine and rainbows and happiness, I’ve always gravitated toward storm clouds, lightning, and gale-force winds.

Even so, my mom and stepdad were shocked when I told them I was getting a handgun. They were even more surprised when I told them I wanted a rifle. And when I started winning competitions—sharp-shooting, shotguns, and handguns—no one really understood it. At least when I ride and shoot from horseback, they get that. Sort of.

But no one understood when I said I was graduating with a Political Science degree—specializing in peace and conflict. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, and they really don’t get that. The Archer-Brooks family is nothing if not practical.

“I guess you can always come back here and help me with the horses,” Steve had said.

“You could go to law school with that,” Mom said. “It’s a good foundation for law and order.”

“Or you could help us run the retreat,” Aunt Helen said. “All your attack training might help the visitors sleep easier.”

I’m sick of people patronizing me.

Even though I know they’re not the problem. They all fit in beautifully with one another. They all belong. I’m the odd one. I’m the square in a family full of circles.

I’m all sharp edges and snarling irritation amidst a sea of “I’m sorries,” and “oh, let me help yous.”

I’m the pea under the royal mattress.

I make everyone uncomfortable. But riding in the car with Leonid? I feel like he might actually get me. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.

“And the brand new truck,” Izzy hisses.

I suppress my smile. She’s so much like our mom without even realizing it. “Yeah, that, too. A new truck will be awesome, you know, for the not-breaking down thing. But also, that awesome toolbox in the back’s going to be perfect for all my guns.”

“Good grief,” Izzy says. “I’m so happy to know that the box I had custom made for saddles is going to be filled instead with weapons.”

Yep. Exactly no one gets me.

When my old yellow truck backfires, again, Izzy grumbles.

“I know it’s not the most comfortable way to ride back to Salt Lake,” I say.

“But you wouldn’t have fit in the back of the Mercedes,” Leonid says.

“And neither would all of my stuff,” Izzy says.

“Which we could have sent back with my people,” Leonid says. “Along with the boxes and boxes of things you’re worried you won’t be able to buy in Russia, like peanut butter and Nutella.”

“It’s a miracle your people got this old bucket to run at all,” I say, “especially with all the errands Izzy kept sending them on.”

“I like having people,” Izzy says. “So sue me.”

“Diplomatic immunity,” Leonid says.

Izzy smiles.

“As for the truck, we Russians are pretty good at getting old, crappy cars to run,” Leonid says. “Russia’s doing much better now, but for years, almost all our cars were crappy. We either had to keep them running or walk.” He’s a good sport about things, though I suppose laughing at yourself is sort of an age-old comedy schtick.

“I still can’t believe you found a guy like this attractive, Izzy,” I say. But really, I’m covering up my jealousy. After she spent two years dating the world’s biggest loser, I haven’t found myself jealous of Izzy much at all.

Until recently.

Her new fiancé’s gorgeous, rich, strong, powerful, magical , and he looks at her like she’s made of stardust or something. I’m happy for her, but it feels like someone like him might have actually understood me. It’s a waste to put someone broody and powerful and half-evil, to hear the others talk, with Miss Sunshine and Yellow Daisies.

“Why are you so sour?” Izzy asks.

I consider telling her it’s because I think she’s a bad fit for her boyfriend and she should hand him over to me, but I’m pretty sure they’d both think that joke was being made in bad form. “No reason.”

“When should we get married?” Izzy asks.

I roll my eyes.

“How about the winter?” Leonid says. “All that white—whatever colors you choose will really stand out.”

Izzy blinks. “Is that some kind of joke? I would freeze, and so would all my family and friends.”

“Fire, remember?” He holds up his hand, and the entire car heats up ten degrees. “We’ll all stay warm.”

Must be nice.

“No magic,” Izzy snaps.

He sighs.

“Okay, how about the colors?” Izzy’s flipping through a bridal magazine, which I thought hadn’t existed for a decade or more. I can’t help wondering how on earth she got one of those in sleepy little Manila, Utah. “This is nice—ooh, wait. We could do Christmas colors. Red, white, green, and gold.”

“So we’d get married. . .in five weeks?” he asks.

“That’s way too soon,” she says.

“So. . .a year?” He looks sick.

“How about powder blue and white,” I say. “Do a winter queen theme.” I can’t help my smile. “You could wear black, and everyone else could look like fairies.”

“Black?” Izzy looks horrified. “Is it my wedding or a funeral?” She’s frowning.

Until she looks back at me.

“Okay, you got me.” She laughs.

I don’t tell her I wasn’t kidding, but I can’t help thinking of how great the crown would look in all black, with large onyx stones. I’d want a scepter with daggers and glinting black stones, too. It would be sick, especially in the snow.

After another hour and a half of Izzy asking questions, and then being horrified at my answers, I sink into a quiet funk. I decide to go over my meditation techniques in the back.

“Hey, are you melting the snow?” Izzy sounds like some kind of schoolteacher, I swear. “We said no magic!”

“It’s not my fault,” Leonid says. “You wanted to stay longer, and then that blizzard hit.”

Utah weather in the fall is seriously whack.

“It was so pretty, and kind of cozy, being stuck at home with all that snow falling.” Izzy’s looking at him with that disturbingly dreamy look in her eyes.

“Yeah, Dad and Mom thought it was super cozy,” I say. “I remember them walking past my room about one hundred times that night, making sure Izzy was still in there.”

Leonid’s eyes were burning in a very inappropriate way, and I’m wishing I hadn’t been stuck in that room. Being her chaperone when she’s already engaged was. . .awkward.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s talk about what decisions you two disgusting lovebirds made.”

“February wedding,” Izzy says. “Valentine’s Day. Pink and red colors that’ll be super vibrant in front of the backdrop of snow.”

Puke.

“And all my bridesmaids will wear the same dress, but the shade will shift just a hair for each.”

“I’m not a bridesmaid though, right?” I ask. “Because I do not want to wear pink.”

Izzy rolls her eyes. “Of course not. I’ll give you blood red.”

“I’ll accept it.”

All around us I notice the snow that mounded up in big, fluffy piles is melting. Rapidly. “Hey, how hot is it?”

“Freak blizzard,” Izzy says. “And now it’s. . .almost seventy degrees? That’s so weird.”

“I heard there was flooding from something like this in Saratoga Springs last year,” I say. “Snowmelt in big chunks was floating down the mountains.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Leonid says. “I’m here, remember?”

“You’re a normal guy right now,” Izzy says. “And the closer we get to Salt Lake City, the more normal you’re going to be.”

He salutes.

It makes me laugh.

There’s a lot of water running onto the roads, most of it with floating ice chunks, but so far, it’s all good. We’re almost to our exit, where we’ll leave I-80, when a semi truck comes barreling down the steep incline in the road much faster than it should. The Runaway Truck Ramp signs aren’t inspiring confidence, honestly, but clearly this is already a dangerous spot for them.

Leonid’s smart, giving the stupid truck plenty of space, but another driver isn’t. The tiny sports car darts between the semi and us, flying past, spraying snow-melt up and over our windshield. Leonid honks, which is appropriate. Either the honk, or snowmelt, or something else entirely throws the semi truck off, because he slides out of his lane and into ours. Only, with all the melting snow-slush, his swerve turns into a slide, and the truck collides with us, shoving us off the road entirely.

It’s our bad luck that we’re approaching Parley’s Canyon, and other than a small guard rail, there’s nothing to keep us from barreling off to our deaths.

Leonid snaps to attention, bracing our battered old truck with what I assume are bands of air, and then shoving us back onto the road. Up ahead, the semi’s still struggling, knocking another truck and two cars over the edge. He glances at Izzy, who’s paler than an albino snowflake, and she nods. “Just do it.”

He uses his left hand to guide all the cars back into place on the road without a word, and then he melts the snow chunks along the road ahead and flicks the water all off the road in a whoosh.

I don’t think it’s an accident that the rest of our drive’s clear and dry, but that’s an awful lot of magic for someone who’s supposed to be playing it safe. All of us hold our breaths—barely speaking—for the last few miles of our drive. When Leonid drops me off at my new truck and helps me unload all the guns into the tool box, he seems relieved.

“Looks like we didn’t destroy the world yet,” he whispers. “Now, you be safe until you come out for that Valentine’s Day wedding. Got it?”

I nod.

“Thanks for not being a hater.”

I hug him.

He grunts. He doesn’t hug me back, but he doesn’t incinerate me, either. I feel like it’s a good first step towards making him a Brooks-Archer. “Take care of Izzy while I’m not around to do it.”

“I’ll sure try.”

Then I watch, a little sadly, as he and Izzy climb into a big, black SUV and drive away. Izzy’s face is pressed to the glass until the very last moment, and then she sticks out her tongue. I’m smiling as my sister drives away—headed very far away indeed.

I have three hours before my competition, and since Izzy gave me her key—she’s paid up on her apartment for four more months, apparently—I decide to take a little nap before I compete. I’m one of those people who goes hard and rests hard, too. A nap always helps me focus.

When I wake up, I realize I’ve overslept. That’s hardly a shock to me, since I sleep in about once a week. I snatch my bag, brush my teeth, and slide into my boots. I’m going over my mind-calming exercises as I open my new truck and climb in.

“Hey,” a guy says. “Who are you?”

I startle. “Uh, I’m Whitney. “Who are you?”

“Theo,” he says. “I live next to your apartment.” He points. “You must be Izzy’s sister.”

I frown.

“Izzy’s single little sister, right?” He shrugs. “I saw you visit, like September maybe?”

“Oh.” I nod. “Yeah—early October. I came for a school thing and stayed for a Halloween party.”

“Black cat,” he says.

And now it’s getting a little creepy. “Alright, well, I’ve got some bullets to fire.” I pull my gun out of my holster and show it to him. “You into guns?”

He blinks. “Uh, no, not really.”

I can’t help my smile as he walks away. Failed the litmus test. I doubt Leonid would have run from a gun. Most all the other guys I meet do.

A few minutes later, I’m surround by guys who like guns. You’d think I could find my perfect match here, but I’ve discovered that my skill makes it even less likely. Most of the men I compete against resent the fact that I’m a better shot than they are. It’s funny—guys think they’ll love the idea of a girl who can shoot. And they do, right up until I shoot a perfect circle around their one lopsided, off-center shot. Not many guys like to be shown up in the activity that makes them feel manly.

So I keep beating them all and going home by myself.

Every guy I meet’s either not manly enough, or too ‘manly’ to handle being shown up by a girl.

Today’s a little different, though. In the middle of my third round, there’s a massive earthquake. I glance at my watch and realize my sister’s plane’s already in the air. It’s probably for the best. Another huge earthquake would have her freaking out for sure. I’m not sure I buy that there’s some kind of horrible death-monster lurking in the mountain, but they all sure seem worried about the prospect.

After watching Leonid wrap cars in air—I’ll take their word for it.

The competition takes a hiatus, and they’re making calls, and people are frantically rushing around when there’s another quake. This one’s much larger, and it’s loud .

People all around me start screaming, and then the mountain behind our targets rips open with a horrible screeching wail. Everyone loses their ever-loving minds. That’s very, very bad when they’re all holding guns. In spite of what we’ve been taught, at least two people fire a shot off—at what, I’m not sure.

“Knock it off,” I say as loudly as I can. “Everyone should have their safety on.”

Only, in that very moment, there’s another grinding sound, the loudest yet, and then a crack like Thor struck the mountain with a hammer the size of an elephant. And then a large, long, dark crack opens up in the earth and starts running right toward us.

People are screaming even louder now, and most of them are racing for their cars. Because that makes sense. Trap yourself in a small, metal box while we’re running for our lives.

And that’s when a massive black horse leaps through the opening in the side of the mountain and lands on his spread hooves, his mane and tail billowing out around him, smoke pouring from his flared nostrils, and flames burning where his eyes should be.

It’s the most beautiful horse I have ever seen.

I pick up my phone, and I call Izzy. It goes right to voicemail, so I leave her a message. “You’re never going to believe this, but I’m standing right in front of Xolotl.” I chuckle. “He’s the most magnificent beast I’ve ever seen, and I want him.”

I try to snap a photo, but my phone starts to melt in my hands. I drop it, unsure whether the message went through. I realize that I may be about to die. The woman next to me has begun screaming like a banshee, and then her head bursts into flame.

I pick up my gun, click the safety off, and then unload all eight bullets into the black horse, just in case. It doesn’t appear to have any effect at all, until he rears back, throws his head forward, and screams at me. I figure this is probably when I die, so I cock my arm back as far as I can, and I chuck my Ruger right at his head.

It spins, end over end over end, but my aim’s not as good with throwing as it is with shooting, and it winds up smacking him in the chest instead.

“Well, shoot,” I say. “That’s just going to piss you off, isn’t it?”

He throws his head again, his mane rippling beside him, and then he takes off at a dead run. I’m sure he’s going to run me over, but instead, he swerves, and I realize he’s going to run right past me. Only, there’s a crack following along behind him like a freight train, preparing to swallow me whole.

So when he passes me, I flip sideways, brace my arms on his withers, and leap onto his back. “If you’re going this way anyway, be a doll and give me a ride.”

He screams, but he doesn’t buck me off.

Good enough.

Only as he runs, I notice something. Houses on either side of us catch fire. People run from them screaming, but he doesn’t slow or stop. He just keeps galloping. He’s headed for town, and that seems like a very bad place for the fire-starting misery beast to go. I decide to do something else that I’m sure is very stupid, and instead of clinging on for dear life, I use my legs to try and guide him to the side, and back toward the mountains where no people live.

It works. He swings wide, and pretty soon, we’re not headed for town. We set fewer and fewer homes on fire, and I’m a little proud of myself for sparing all those people this miserable death. Plus, you know, property damage averted is always a good thing. Higher taxes on everyone and all that.

But mostly the death thing.

And then, abruptly, he stops. He swings his big old head around, and he neighs, right in my face, smoke surrounding me.

I cough. “Dude, someone needs to teach you some manners. That’s just rude, and also you need some massive breath mints. Or maybe, like, a toilet bowl cake. Those are minty.”

He shakes then, and it forces me right off his back. I land pretty hard on my butt on the ground.

“Yep, you’re a grade A jerk. I was trying to help with the mint suggestion.”

In a strange sort of flickering avalanche of lights and sparks and blackness, the horse changes into the tallest and the most terrifying man I have ever seen. Eyes black as night. Ebony hair flowing over his shoulders, and teeth so white they’re nearly blinding. “You.”

“Hey.” I shake my head and snort. “You learned a word. Nice work.”

“ You are mine .”

“Yours?” I shake my head. “Nope. I’m mine. You are yours. But that was three words. Pretty good job for a newborn baby who throws fiery tantrums.”

He scowls.

“You are mine, human. You will help me restore the balance.”

Oh, shoot. He knows lots of words, which means all of mine probably didn’t make him less cranky.

He turns and starts to walk, his massive black boots tromping on the ground ahead. “Come.”

I try to turn and sneak the other way, but it’s like something’s tying me to him. I find myself tripping along behind him, stumbling and bumbling, and nevertheless walking as fast as I can to try and catch up.

Even with as beautiful as he is? I hate this guy.

I hate him a lot.

And I have a feeling we’re just getting started.

***

I hope you loved My Trojan Horse Majesty!