Turbinio

Yew Oil

You had the concern to avoid going after Gyro and Johnny, and to follow any path contrary to Diego's route. You picked your way along the riverbank littered with coils of rope and jumbled piles of sailcloth, to a quiet spot where the bow of a small fishing boat was. From there, the view of the checkpoint was complete and unobstructed.

You took a deep breath, enjoying the Mississippi River breeze and the smells of fish and wood. It was still cold, but your thin cloak was wrapped tightly around you. The wagon rocked slowly, being lifted by the small ripples in the ground. In the river, you could see the ribbons of seaweed at the bottom of the water rise and sinuously dance, obscuring the waters, which were slowly staining a soft red. Was that blood? Were there piranhas in that place? Or simply an injured animal crossing the river? There was nothing in your field of vision to tell you where that blood would come from, but it was more and more abundant.

You saw some small fish and remembered when you fished with Gyro and Johnny. The fish that Gyro prepared was better than any other meal you had during the race; this included, of course, the saloon food. Now, you felt hungry again. The absurd contrasts of anxiety during this journey seemed to keep you ever conscious of your digestion; if weren't vomiting or lacking appetite, you were ravenously hungry. The idea of food made you think of menus, which reminded of the huge buffets made available to runners at the end of each stage. Which Gyro and Johnny ditched to take you to the saloon

It seemed like an odd way to keep your company, but in fact you had really enjoyed it. If whiskey can make a man forget about his wife, then it would also make you forget about all the mess that was going on.

Then you thought of Diego. If you had him sitting across from you at a table in the saloon, could keep an eye on him, you thought. You two would eat and talk, and if he showed any signs that he was going to kill you or otherwise endanger Lucy, you might slip something into his food. You smiled to yourself at that thought.

Maybe it wasn't that funny after all. You couldn't hate Diego. You couldn't avoid his presence. Then, your smile disappeared. Deep down, it was obvious he wasn't going to kill you. It was obvious that he needed to convince himself that he would be able to kill you without hesitation, but he wasn't.

You shivered, but not from the cold. You couldn't think about Diego Brando without that chill running down your spine. Not so much for what he had done, but for who he is. A talented jockey; someone who is looking for the corpse and is willing to do anything to get it; a very powerful stand user, too. Enemy of Johnny and Gyro. Someone who made your mind more than slightly tinged with madness.And worse, he was what you saw - a charming gentleman who, even with his hands firmly around your neck, failed to frighten you.

Your attention was drawn from these thoughts by a growing noise in the woods to the side. Hot Pants, in a hurry, emerged through the trees behind you.

''Hot Pants? I thought I was already a few miles from here.''

''There is a trail of blood. A lot of blood. It's both on the riverbank and in the water, and I just saw the footprints of Johnny and Gyro's horses.''

''Johnny and Gyro?'' You swallowed hard. ''Are they... are they in danger?''

''Whoever is attacking them, is looking for the left arm and the spine. We can't let that happen!''

You looked ahead, following the trail of blood that stretched a long way. The place was silent, the air still and heavy. Even the birds were silent.

At some point, Hot Pants got off her horse and motioned for you to follow her. You made your way through the woods around the riverbank, silently. So suddenly that a flock of crows took to the air with their shrill caws, leaving the bloodied field like demons fleeing hell.