The Grave Shadows

16. Centaur

Apollo III's muscles trembled. He craned like a giraffe, gushes of winds rushing out of his lungs. Cyan rubbed his neck and slowly pressed herself against him, using her heartbeat to guide his. Gradually, he paid no heed to the noises outside, but the rhythm of her bravery.

"He's never been in a real race," Luke said next to President Midnight. "Everett reviles the Watts boy stereotype." He walked to Apollo III and hunkered to check the animal's legs. "What a waste!" He placed a hand on Apollo III's ergot and gave it a firm stroke.

"He's a good horse." Cyan took a rein from her trainer.

"That's not enough." Luke massaged Apollo III's other front leg. "A gift is useless, Cyan, if you don't use it. Everett chose to be in a beauty pageant than admit that he rides like the Watts boys." Eyeing Cyan, he rose and tapped Apollo III's shoulder.

Cyan agreed with Luke. He was the most relatable Watts boy, and also the most practical. People should be grateful for what they had and what they were. Even Cyan made use of Evil.

"You don't look nervous." Luke shuffled around Apollo III until he towered beside Cyan.

Twelve prestigious teams competed in Pearl Orchard Steeplechase each year. Whoever won took the trophy, and the winner club got the pot. To old money and plutocrats, Colt's steeplechase, a race of two full circuits of a total four-and-a-half-mile course with seven-figure bets and exorbitant prize, was their annual splurges. Colt Equestrian Team had secured all victories in history. Cyan should be nervous, but on the track was where she could be herself without people noticing.

Anxiety only grazed Cyan's mind when Everett stared at her. "I'm excited." She slid a foot in a stirrup, and Luke lifted her waists. His hands shook on her curves even when she was secure in the saddle. Cyan nudged Apollo III with her thighs to slip away. She blushed, and Luke huffed. Girls warned her about Luke, too, though not as bad as about Everett.

Luke pressed his lips tight and drifted to President Midnight. In one sweep, he mounted the Arabian. The black stallion shuffled to Apollo III until Luke's and Cyan's legs touched. Luke tilted his shoulder to say, "Alea iacta est." His breath caressed Cyan's cheek, the baby scent from his hair snuggling her chest.

Cyan squinted. The Watts boys and their brains sometimes questioned her place in the Board of Colt Scholarship.

Luke caught Cyan's hand. "The die is cast," he said. "Black Stallion always says before the race." He scoffed, President Midnight moving a little away from Apollo III. "But we shouldn't probably say die, hmm? Let's set a new tradition." He smirked. "Absit iniuria." He winked at her. "Let injury be absent."

Cyan grinned. "Gotaku wai hajimeyo," she said with satisfying mischief. No need to talk. Let's do this. She learned these words from sneaking through Streetfighter V, which she wasn't supposed to be interested in.

Luke seemed amused than impressed. He said something back fluidly which embarrassed Cyan than amazed her. She should always remember that the Watts boys did not only speak a dozen languages but exclusively played prestigious real-life games.

***

Under the bright sky, the Call to the Post rang. Lake Rosalind shimmered in the distance. Twenty-four jockeys and their equines swaggered to the starting line, and the packed grandstand fired up. People from the lawn seats sprang to the railings. The race calls pumped agitation through the air, horse sweat and hay dispersed in the odors of roses, mud, freshly cut grass, cigars, and cash.

Apollo III pawed on the soft turf, the living engine in him roaring against the suppressed urge to soar. Cyan combed his gray mane through the spread of her fingers, feeling his heart and her own synchronizing.