A shiver slides down my spine.
The hidden tattoo at the base of my neck flares in warning, as though whispering, Tread carefully with this one.
I intend to. For now.
What I am not prepared for is the response we receive as we near the gates.
People stop. They gawk. They stare on in stunned silence and part without being told. Their gazes linger on us long after we pass, and some even follow in a sort of daze as though drawn by something they do not understand.
One man bows. Bows!
The vehemence I have kept simmering on low ignites once again beneath my skin. Righteous anger burns hot and bright. The hatred I have held in careful restraint for this immortal rekindles and spreads.
The deeper we ride into the heart of the city, the stronger it grows.
The Horseman, like the politicians in the historical texts I’ve studied, performs as though this is a role he’s rehearsed. He smiles and waves, nods graciously, and bends to shake hands as people approach.
When one man gestures toward me—because the rest seem entirely uninterested in the bound woman slung across his horse—the Horseman simply says, “Horse thief.”
It is not only odd how they react, but it’s beyond strange. They don’t pepper him with questions or prob for more of an explanation. They merely turn all at once and resume their business. Dozens of people moving in unison, their movements somewhat mechanical.
“Mmph! Wha'—wha' d'them?”
“What?” He asks.
When I try to mutter through the gag again, he grins as if the lack of ability to speak clearly amuses him greatly.
Reaching down, he pries the gag out of my mouth and moves it to my lower chin, then my neck.
“What are you doing to them?”
“Just encouraging them to go about their business.”
“By manipulating their minds.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“What else would I call it?”
“They accept it because I demand it so.”
I twist sharply and glare up at him. He is looking ahead, not at me. But those were his words, spoken not aloud, but in my mind.
I tell myself he spoke. That he did not enter my mind. It’s happened before, but I convinced myself it was only my imagination. A byproduct of my reality bending at times.
The same honeyed voice—heavy with his accent—slides through my thoughts again.
It is real, little one. You and I share a connection, it seems. What it is—and why—is what I intend to find out. Until I do, this is how you will remain.
“Your prisoner?” I ask tightly.
A sly grin curves his mouth, and his gaze flickers toward me.
“More like my pet, you could say.”
His devious smirk lingers as we turn left. He murmurs a single word, and the horse increases her pace. We enter a less populated stretch of back alley, and his horse navigates without guidance, clearly knowing the path to the stables.
What awaits me, I am not certain. But I am prepared for whatever outcome presents itself.
