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Quicksilver’s chomping on the bit as I wheel him around. I assume he’s doing that to seem more like a regular race horse, who would likely be prancing around like a lunatic. Most trainers don’t bother teaching very good ground manners to racehorses. It takes too long to turn one of them into a solid citizen when you’re not sure whether they’ll have what it takes. Plus, some people think the nervous energy makes them run faster.
“Why aren’t you using a chute?” Mr. Rimkus asks.
“Next week,” I say. “We’re conditioning now, and he does fine in the chute.”
It’s kind of nice having a horse I can explain things to—a horse who never spooks because he notices his own shadow. My heart accelerates as we circle to the starting line. My hands tremble just a bit where they’re gripping the reins. Quicksilver leans forward, flexing, and on the bit just like I want.
Lukas puts his whistle to his lips and blows.
We explode forward, clumps of dirt flying outward in all directions.
“Easy,” I say. “Let’s save a little bit.”
But he’s not having that—he’s acting like he’s angry at Mr. Rimkus for doubting us. I hunch down over his shoulders, not urging him ahead, but not hauling back. I’ve never had a horse who understood how far we were going and what our goals were until now. I feel more like a passenger than I ever have before.
I’m frankly surprised by the end of the first loop when he’s still running fast enough to churn up chunks of earth, but shortly after we start the second lap, I feel it. He went too hard at the start, and he’s tired. Lactic acid’s a real misery. I let him ease a bit, but as we round the mid-point, I prepare to ask for more.
I’m not sure whether he has any left to give.
When I jostle the reins, his head whips up, and he plows forward, his ears pressed back. In the homestretch, he really pushes, his powerful limbs moving even faster than they did at the start.
He’s such a beautiful monster.
As we lumber past Lukas, his mouth’s dangling open, his eyes impressively wide. That’s not good. What time did we just run? I let Quicksilver cool down, but when I swing back around, Mr. Rimkus is arguing with Kristiana.
“—no way it’s four furlongs. You must’ve measured wrong.”
“At the end of the day, it’s a practice track,” she says. “You can’t bring men in here to remeasure.”
“I have a right to know exactly how fast he is,” Mr. Rimkus says.
“What right is it that you have exactly?” Kris arches one eyebrow. “As Adriana’s closest friend, I feel entitled to ask.”
“It’s a business arrangement between Ms. Strelkova and I, and it’s confidential.” But he looks ticked.
“What was our time?” I ask.
“A minute twenty-nine,” Lukas says.
No wonder he’s losing his mind. We just broke the world record by three seconds.
21
In the end, Kristiana’s stuck agreeing that her track was probably shorter than she thought. It chafes for her, but it’s better than them thinking that my horse is some kind of international champion in the making.
He is, clearly.
But the last thing I need is to have that thug breathing down my neck even harder, demanding I give him my amazing horse, or questioning where I bought him.
“Your fake papers won’t hold up to international scrutiny,” Kristiana says, once we’re safely inside her house and Rimkus and Lukas have left. “You better make sure you pace off the other horses at the real race.”
What a bizarre and strange turn of events. I’ve finally found a horse who could go all the way, but doing that would invite too many questions that we can’t answer. Not to mention the pressure we’d have to breed him if he won. That thought makes me laugh.
“What?” Alexei asks, now human and dressed smartly again for our strategy session.
“Nothing,” I say.
“We’re planning to catch the villain of the century who wants me dead or alive it seems, and we’re dealing with a thug whom I don’t at all like,” Kris says. “I think we could all use a little humor.”
