She swallowed hard, backing down.
“Just make sure everyone is calm. This is nothing; everything will be handled.”
With that, Phoebe hesitantly retreated up the stairs to join the others.
When I opened the door, the cold bit at my face and my nose with such force that you wouldn’t have remembered what it was like to be warm if you hadn’t just been inside.
The street was dark, almost murky. A subtle fog from steadfast snow, a warm light here and there in a lone window or two. Small, timid candles danced in the windowsills, shyly winking for no oneat all. The pathway was decorated for festivity, which made it all the more harrowing to see it so devoid of life.
I closed the door tightly behind me, fighting against the steadily growing winds. At first glance, the streets were empty. There were no coaches, no people, no discernible creatures. One way was just as empty as the other, the alleyways retreating into darkness. That is when I caught a glimpse of slight lumps in the snow that were already being smoothed over by the weathering, trailing beside our building.
I turned the corner into the alleyway, the footsteps becoming clearer in places shielded from the wind. There was no streetlamp, not much aside from the moon and its shadows to dance among the path. The snowdrift piled against the sides, large from having to dig the path daily, making a convenient track directly to the small livery stable behind the buildings.
The small, wooden leftover of the past was overwhelmed by the progression of brick around it in the present. A single glimpse of a leftover by necessity withstanding the trial of time.
Inside was dry, the smell of barley, straw, and the stink of animal hitting thick like a wall of humidity, despite the scent-dampening cold. Even with the smell, it was peaceful, still. It was relatively empty, to my knowledge used only for Phoebe and Alina’s horses, relatively abandoned since the last owners of the tenement.
As I ventured farther into the swelling, a gushing, squelching sound cut through the noise of the night. I thought it had been from stepping through the slush.
I stopped, listened.
Now that I was pulled from my thoughts, I did not see Phoebe’s horse, who was impossible to miss considering the size. I didn’t think the mare had left the stable on her own.
I stepped forward, avoiding any hay or gravel on the floor, one step at a time as I went down the line of stalls.
There was the first one, I peeked over.
Empty. Some undisturbed shavings, anticipating a tenant that had yet to come.
The next one beside it.
Empty.
The noise augmented, the details of the disturbed sound becoming clearer.
The next stable door was open.
I stepped slowly, looking away as if I could anticipate the image.
There in the stall was a jittering mess of a woman that I maybe would have mistaken for an addict escaped fresh off the pipe.
She was gnawing at the horse’s neck like it was the first time she was eating at all. If she opened her jaw any wider, it might dislocate. In all honesty, that was the likely case.
Despite my interruption of her feast, she paid me no mind. She was dressed in white, despite the blood quickly dying the fabric of the thin cotton, and the blue bandana in her hair did little to keep the matte of hair from becoming unruly.
She bit down on the hide, jerking herself backward to pull at it, to tear it off since her flat teeth would do little to make her feeding efficient.
The woman paused after she tore a piece, distracted from her meal. Her posture straightened, vertebrae by vertebrae. Her eyes twitched to me, her irises shaking among the black expanse of her eyes, jittering almost as much as her jaw.
Then, a shotgun fired.
The woman let out a harrowing squeal, like a mountain lion. She turned, half her face dappled with fresh pellets patterning her face in inky blood. Her blackened eyes darted, looking for the source of the disruption as if it were just a stone cast in her direction. When her gaze landed on me, her trembling mouth opened wide.
Then, another shot. The woman lurched, the back of her head smacking against the wood of the stall. Lifeless this time, she slumped over next to the horse.
I slowly checked over my shoulder.
Phoebe held a sawed-off shotgun, holding it up still. Her gaze never left the woman or the horse, frozen in her place. The look she held was grim, too much so for a graceful thing like her.
