by S T Branton
“Cute. Is that the story you plan on telling your kids?” The smarmy smile on Trent’s face was audible in his tone. “I always knew you’d settle down one of these days, Deac. Not sure about doing it with a dangerous fugitive, but hey, to each his own. I mean, stranger shit than this is going on in New York.”
I shot Deacon a withering stare and mouthed, “This is your fault.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shut up, or say something useful, Trent. If you know anything about what’s going on, for instance, now would be a good time to tell us.”
“You mean besides the fact that you must be in a world of trouble if you’re hanging around with her? Listen to you, Deac, asking me if I know anything.” For this, Trent actually twisted around in around in the saddle. “Of course I know about this crazy end-of-the-world mess. Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” I chewed my lip and sat up a little straighter. Hadn’t Deacon just said that this guy had some interesting connections? Maybe they were more interesting than I understood. Trent saw this and grinned. “Oh, now she wants to know about me, doesn’t she? I’m assuming you haven’t told her a whole lot.”
“Discretion is the name of the game right now. You know that.” Deacon’s speech became clipped, as if he didn’t like where he sensed the conversation was heading.
“What are you talking about?” I asked bluntly, prepared to be pissed if it turned out Mr. FBI had been holding out on Forgotten intel all along.
The wide smile remained fixed on Trent’s face. “Deacon and I used to be partners, back in the day. That was what, four, five years ago now? Right when we were just starting out. Junior agents, they used to say.”
“Huh.” I stole a glimpse at Deacon to gauge his reaction. His eyes were locked forward, his jaw set. Definitely not happy. His reaction only served to make me more curious. “Really? And…you’re a horse cop now? What’s with that?” Maybe it was uncool of me to call him out like that, but he hadn’t exactly presented himself in the most favorable light so far. I didn’t know too many mounted patrol officers with serious connections.
Trent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Things happen. And if you want to talk about me, well then…only fair that it’s open season on the skeletons in your closet too.” He smirked. “Although I guess they’re not quite skeletons yet, are they?”
I clenched my jaw against the hot flush of anger threatening to work its way up to my face. Deacon’s old partner or not, Trent had just upgraded himself to a first-rate jackass. But my hands were tied—he was our only way out. Pushing down the overwhelming urge to punch him right in his smug, stupid face, I decided to be the bigger person and not start a horseback brawl in the middle of the park.
“Whatever. Tell me more about Deacon. What was he like back then?”
“For the love of—” Deacon burst out. I snorted. Trent’s grin shifted to something more playful, less blatantly mocking, and the atmosphere lightened. Poor Deacon slumped his shoulders, morally defeated. “No, I give up. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Atta boy.” Trent adjusted his horse’s trajectory over his shoulder. “To answer your question, Vic, he was… let’s say, idealistic. Excitable. Gung ho, if you will.”
I considered the carefully spoken, cool-headed agent I had always known Deacon to be. “I’m not sure if I believe that. At all. But please, go on.”
Deacon groaned.
“With pleasure.” Trent was clearly savoring the moment. I wondered how many times he had pulled this stunt in the past. “It was one of our first cases together, and kind of a rare one. The bureau had gotten a high volume of calls from a pretty wide spread of locations across the country, all regarding similar mysterious sightings. An object in the sky. Weird lights in the clouds. A distinct, semi-spherical shape.” He nodded. “You get the drift.”
I blinked. “A UFO?” Laughing, I glanced at Deacon. “No way you took that seriously.”
His reply was sullen. “Remember Washington? That was ‘unexplained’ too, and I was there, wasn’t I?”
“He didn’t just believe it,” Trent continued gleefully. “He fought over it with the boss. Kleinfeldt thought it was a waste of time and resources, but Deacon? Absolutely not. No stone left unturned. You would’ve thought Independence Day was imminent, listening to this guy.”
A smirk planted itself on my face, although Deacon seemed genuinely miserable. “And how did that work out?” I asked.
“Not well,” Deacon muttered.
“What he means is, he nearly got himself canned. They decided it was one of the usual suspects—a weather balloon or just the weather itself. People who want to witness the extraordinary end up seeing all kinds of shit just by coincidence. Funny how that happens.” Satisfied with Deacon’s level of utter mortification, Trent swiveled forward in the saddle and prodded his horse in the side. We were deep in the park, surrounded on all sides by greenery and the occasional glimpse of fountains or statues. All I could really hear was the horses breathing and their steady hoofbeats. In a way, it was a kind of respite.
But we all knew it wasn’t going to last.
The close-knit tree line ended up ahead, and I could see part of a clearing through the last of the trunks. The air hanging above the open grass seemed darker, heavier. As we drew closer, the smell of smoke wafted up into my nose. Bluebell tossed her head. Her ears flicked nervously.
“Well, well…” Trent drew his horse to a stop and motioned for us to do the same. “This is new.”
Deacon stood up in the stirrups to try for a better look. “What’s going on?” Large swaths of grass were matted down and smoldering in clumps—the source of the smoke haze. Despite the fact that we had stopped moving, I swore I still picked up the sound of hooves not that far away.
“More horses? Is it possible you were followed?” I did my best not to sound accusing, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel suspicious. The timing felt a little too perfect.
“Nothing’s impossible,” Trent answered tersely. He began to inch forward without dismounting, coaxing a step at a time out of his horse. Unsure what else to do, I reluctantly followed his lead. Even I knew it would be a dumb move to leave a horse fending for itself against potential Forgotten. At best, I’d have to get back on again, which could cost me precious time. At worst, no more horse. I wasn’t ready to sacrifice my only mode of transportation.
We stayed in that limbo of not knowing for less than a minute, but just like before, it could have been hours. My eyes stayed glued to that window of clearing, straining to see past the dingy layers of smoke. The fire was pretty fresh.
All of a sudden, a shape passed across my field of vision. It was foreign and familiar at the same time, and my brain struggled to process it. The one thing that stuck with me was the burning orange flash seared into its side. More brands, which meant more demons.
“What the hell was that?” I demanded, already drawing my sword. The blade surged instantly into being. Our time for caution had passed. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I’m taking it down.”
“Damn. You’ve got balls to spare. I like that in a woman.” Trent flashed me his annoying, overconfident smile, but the sight of the Gladius Solis shut him up fast. I didn’t wait for him to recover, or for Deacon to try and stop me yet again.
“Come on, Bluebell! Don’t let me down!” My feet struck her solid flanks. She took off, snorting, and I thought, This is what they do in movies, right? I swung the sword up above my head, mostly to keep it at a safe distance from the living creature underneath me, and we barreled toward the opening at breakneck speed. Nothing was getting in my way.
Chapter Six
Even as I careened on horseback to my first ever mounted battle, my thoughts were consumed once more by the first branded guy I’d ever seen, the one in California. He had gotten away back then, and I kept wondering if I would find him in New York, shades on his face, swinging that hammer around. In fact, I half expected him to be there when Bluebell and I burst out
of the tree cover, dust and dirt spraying behind us.
He wasn’t. What I saw instead almost made me faceplant straight off Bluebell. These guys weren’t even all the way human. From the waist down, they looked more like Bluebell than anything else. Fucking centaurs. They were circling the clearing, organized into a sleek formation, getting ready to mount their own charge.
If I wanted to beat them to it, I had to act fast. Fortunately, Bluebell’s considerable momentum didn’t give me any other choice. As soon as they saw me, they started to angle for a collision. My heart pounded in my chest. I had no idea what was going to happen, but damned if we were going to back down now. With the reins gathered into a clumsy fist, my sword arm outstretched, I bent low over Bluebell’s neck and spurred her on. She shifted into high gear.
We were going to hit like a freaking truck.
The lead centaur caught my eye and stared me down. He had a wild, weirdly silky mane of hair, like Fabio on some serious roid rage. His four legs carved a rut into the grass. The burning brands criss-crossed over his body threw sparks as he ran. He opened his mouth to release a bellowing, wordless war cry that was picked up and echoed by the herd at his heels.
“What would Marcus say?” I whispered. The distance between us was closing rapidly. No time left to strategize. The sea of beating hooves drummed thunderously in my ears. It gave me an idea.
At the last second, I jerked Bluebell to the side, leaned far down out of the saddle, and aimed the sharp edge of my blade at the centaurs’ legs. The ground flew by only a couple feet from my face. I refused to close my eyes against the rush of smoke-tinted wind. For a terrifying moment, I was convinced my genius strike had completely missed, until one of the marked beasts toppled forward. An instant later, the brands encircling its tumbling body pulsed outward, and the creature erupted in a whirl of flame.
I popped my head up so fast that the world spun. “Watch out!” I yelled to Deacon and Trent. The herd parted like a river current around the fallen centaur, heedless of the fire licking at their flanks. I ducked under a polearm that came flying at my head. Bluebell couldn’t and didn’t stop, her eyes rimmed with white. “Sorry I suck at this,” I said. I pulled the reins to guide her around for another pass. My balance shifted crazily, but I found myself grinning with the sheer exhilaration. Nobody had ever told me horses moved so damn fast!
Deacon came back into view as we made our turn. He was both ridiculous and badass with his gun out, both hands on the grip and none on the reins. I watched him land a few choice shots before diving down for another chop. This time, I aimed better and sent my target tumbling end over end into his brothers. Once down, they were a mess of legs and long, unwieldy weapons, easy to handle. It took me a few passes, but I soon learned the basics of a good, swooping, sword-swinging drive-by. The burning piles were stained with centaur blood.
My luck, however, didn’t last. The centaurs were smarter than I gave them credit for, and they wised up to my scheme pretty quickly. The next time I looked forward, I was met by the sight of a group rushing toward me with poles braced.
“Shit!” If they knocked me off, I’d be dead. Without thinking, I pulled my feet from the stirrups and pushed down on the saddle with my hands, springing awkwardly upward. Startled, some of the charging group veered just enough to let me clear their weapons, and on my way over, I swung the sword downward. Compared to the Gladius Solis, the polearms were nothing. They shattered, sending wood shrapnel flying.
“Get ‘em!” Deacon shouted. His encouragement made me grin, but it was hard to stick the landing on Bluebell as she bolted for her life. A fistful of her mane barely kept me from crashing over her neck.
“Sorry, girl! I’m sorry!” I fumbled for the flapping reins and curled my fingers around them. The centaurs were wounded but resilient, even to the bullets from Deacon’s handgun. They rallied with streaks of dark blood painting their equine torsos, making the brands sizzle and steam. A sheen of sweat coated both Bluebell’s neck and my face. I wiped it out of my eyes.
“Don’t stop now!” Trent hollered. He galloped full speed and decked one of the creatures in the face with his bare fist, sending it stumbling. “Get them to fall back so we can haul ass out of here!”
“That guy just fucking punched a centaur.” I wheeled Bluebell around, shaking my head. No time to think about it. Trent was right. The important thing was moving on. Fights would only bog us down. I lifted my sword and kicked, and as we swept across the clearing, I drew my own war cry up from the pit of my stomach. It was a harsh, primal sound, the likes of which I had never made before. Man, it felt awesome.
And it worked, at least in some fashion. The dwindling clusters of horse-men began to scatter into the surrounding foliage, crushing plants and breaking twigs and branches as they went. They left behind a field splashed with blood, dotted with the smoldering remains of their fallen.
“You’re not half bad at that,” Deacon remarked. He dragged his arm across his forehead as he pulled up next to me to catch his breath. “Not exactly a mounted ballerina, but hey, at least you didn’t fall off.”
“I didn’t know they mixed guns and horses so well down in Florida,” I responded.
“Why not? It’s still the South.” He nodded toward where Trent was already disappearing through the woods. “We better catch up before he leaves us for dead.”
“You said he wouldn’t do that.”
Deacon shook his head. “I said he’d show up.”
At first, the three of us stayed quiet on our way out of Central Park, in case there were more lurkers setting an ambush. But once the quiet settled in again, Trent started talking. I kept my mouth purposely shut tight, wondering if the man ever truly shut up. What he said, however, piqued my interest yet again.
“I bet you think that caught me by surprise.” Trent adjusted his weight in the saddle, holding the reins in his right hand. He peered sideways at us, a trace of a smile on his lips.
“Didn’t it?” Deacon spoke carefully, not looking at me. “It bears repeating, my man: if there’s anything you know that we might not, this is a real good time to share.”
“You know what I think?” Now Trent leaned back, squinting into the nonexistent sunlight. He pulled the rim of his black ballcap down over his eyes and ran his hand across his mouth. “I think the government knows exactly what’s going on here. They’ve probably known for a long time. Since the beginning, I bet.”
“You think this is a coverup?” Deacon asked.
It was strange to let Deacon do most of the talking, but I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Trent, and I didn’t want to tangle with any potential theories just yet. Best to let the feds talk amongst themselves and see what I could infer about Trent from their conversation. At this stage, it didn’t matter if he was totally wrong; I just wanted to know how much he thought he understood.
Trent shrugged as if the conclusion was an obvious one. “How could it not be? You’ve been in the Bureau; you know how this shit works. We dug into everything, no matter how stupid it sounded on the surface. The way I see it, there’s not a chance in hell they didn’t already know about some kind of pending extraterrestrial invasion over there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve been in contact with the leaders already.”
“And who do you suppose those leaders are?” Deacon masked his fishing for intel with a thick veneer of sardonic disdain. “Paul Bunyan? Xanadu?” He chuckled. “Now who’s the one getting on the UFO train?”
“Hey, man, UFOs are completely distinct from hostile alien takeovers. I’d appreciate it if you got your damn facts straight for once. Paul Bunyan’s not even real.” Trent lapsed into a stone-faced silence for all of about three seconds before his composure dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Oh man, your face just now! Priceless, dude.”
Deacon sighed. “Can you stop jerking my chain for two seconds while we try to work this out? That wasn’t a fake fight we had, Trent. We’re in the shit, and we’re in it for real. I wouldn’t have bother
ed you otherwise.” His words were undercut by a distinct frustration, one that likely characterized their working relationship at the Bureau all those years ago.
“Harsh.” Trent kept his voice light, but his expression grew more somber. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. This is all just so fucking crazy. I feel like I need to find something to laugh about every few minutes, or else I’ll lose my shit.” He brushed some dust from the top of his leg. “And no, I don’t know much about the situation beyond what I’ve seen since everything went tits-up. That being said, I’ve seen a lot.”
Deacon nodded absently. “Us too. How far to the safe house? I’d feel better talking if there’s a chance we’re not being monitored.” The mention of the house made my heartrate pick up all by itself. The prospect of finally seeing Jules, Maya, and Marcus strengthened my resolve even further.
“We swept the place as best we could, but I can’t say for sure it was enough. Still, it’s better than nothing.” Trent pointed as the city seemed to erupt from the edge of the park like a dingy mirage. “See that back alley? Right through there.” A few groups of stragglers picked their way down the street, but compared to everything else rampaging through New York just blocks away, our trio looked pretty normal. I squeezed the leathers in my hands, avoiding eye contact with the passers-by.
At the gate to the alley, Trent hopped down from the saddle. He fished a key out of a pocket on his jacket and unlocked the padlock around the iron bars. The hinges squealed as the gate swung open. “I’d get down now if I were you,” he told us. “The horses tend to get a little spooked in close spaces.”
I patted Bluebell’s neck on my way down. “I owe you,” I said to her. I was still grateful to be standing on my own two feet, though. The sword went back into my bag, though my guard stayed up. We barely fit between the dumpsters and cans lining the walls. The smell of city garbage was almost comforting in a weird way. It was nice to know that some things never changed.