He had sixteen years of practice, after all.
And there, in the river, there stood Everil. Hooved and fanged and velvet black, with the river lively around him, licking the banks and sending stones tumbling. Dangerous, even with the playful splash of a single hoof coming down, sending up a spray of silver.
Come play, the stallion that was Everil seemed to say.Come ride. Look how the water shines.
Bo’s eyes stung, blurred hot. He pressed his fingers over his mouth to keep from laughing or screaming or who the fuck knew what else. Only idiots got choked up over a kelpie offering sport, inviting them to watery death and play.
It’d been fake for so long. Everything he’d believed, a twisted lie, a scheme to milk money from a too-credulous kid. And still, Bo’d ached for something to betrue.
“You’re fucking real,” Bo said thickly. Everil was fucking real. Wasdeath, yeah, meant his warnings. But he wasreal. “Fuck.Fuck.Everil, you’re fucking real.”
And yeah, Bo laughed, broken and a little wild, clutching Everil’s clothing to his chest. If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry, and Bo was too happy to cry just yet.
Everil splashed in response. This time, it seemed aimed purposefully at Bo. Fucker.
“I’m not getting near your pretty river. I can listen sometimes, you cheeky fuck.” Another choked laugh and, “You’rereal. Fuck.Everil.”
There was a soft nicker, something flittering through the bond like curiosity. Muted, presumably becauseEveril was a fucking stallion, but there still. Then the kelpie stepped onto the riverbank, lowering his head as he approached Bo.
“Of course you look like a fucking Clydesdale,” Bo said, still with a note of wet laughter in his traitorous voice. The stallion snorted, hot breath clouding the late-autumn air. “Big ass fucking Scottish bastard. You’rereal, holy flying fuck.”
Fucking huge was what he was. That playful, splashing hoof alone could smash Bo’s fragile little skull. Thick muscled and towering, near to ink in the night. And Everil, he’donly warned Bo about going to the water. Bo’d assumed, stupidly, he’d turn back when out of it, like some mermaid legend.
Idiot. Idiot who didn’t fucking move when the kelpie moved closer, inquisitive rather than trying to lure Bo onto his back. Hopefully.
“Don’t got a rope, funny guy.” Bo scrubbed awkwardly at his face, trying to keep Everil’s clothes dry even as his voice wavered on hiccupping tears. They’d be wrinkled anyway, other hand holding fast.
The stallion’s nostrils flared at the word ‘rope,’ but he didn’t shy or stop. Instead, he nickered again, a sound that came close to laughter. It gave Bo enough (fuckingidiotic)incentive to lift his hand slowly, palm down and fingers relaxed.
“Nothing to tie or ride with.” Except maybe a very loose sweater with long sleeves. Bo kept that thought to his fucking self. “Don’t bite me, okay? I can’t drive with one hand.”
Another sound, part nicker, part chuckle, or something like it, and Everil snapped at the air. Fangs closing a good distance from Bo’s extended hand, it felt worth noting.
“You’re hilarious,” Bo said. He couldn’t fucking help it, the wonder in his voice, like a little kid all over again. Fucking struck, was what he was, since Everil wasfucking realand Bo felt like his chest might burst from it. “Secretly hilarious.”
The murderous, flesh-eating stallion ignored Bo’s hand, leaning down to lip at his hair instead. Bo let out a shaking breath, surrounded by dangerous streams and the shelter of old homes. Lost places.
Fuck it. He turned his hand, resting it on the stallion’s neck, fingers splayed over muscles and heat. Everil’s breath huffed in his hair, then the stallion lowered his head further, catching the fabric of Bo’s jacket in his serrated teeth and tugging hard.
Bo laughed, stumbling but held up by stallion and balance alike. Found his feet, even, leaning more into the cold river that was Everil’s magic, fucking everywhere.
“You’re also a punk,” Bo rasped, curling in towards the asshole horse best he could. Small, compared to the giant fucking four-legged Everil. There was another sound very like laughter, echoed by the river, running faster than it had only moments before. “Yeah, yeah, fuck.Fuck. I hope you know this fulfills any obligation you have from taking my energy.” And yeah. Bo fucking sniffled. “I’ll say whatever words need saying. Tell you when you’re human too. Pulling me back from the brink wouldn’t match this; that’s just a life.”
Snowmelt flooded Bo’s senses almost before he finished speaking. The run of power, moon-kissed, snowmelt running on drought-dry streambeds. Taking and giving in turns,playful as the tugs at his jacket and huffs at collar and hood, fangs going through fabric without touching skin.
Bo felt himself washing away. Swept under. Bo curled his fingers tighter in the stallion’s thick mane, shaking, holding on. The fuckingrushof it, ofthick grass freshly short, lush underfoot by the river, cold running down a hungry throat, parch until sated, lips wet with chill, back and forth between them until Bo swore he could taste citrus.
Chapter nine
Everil
River wild. Flush withpower and joyous, unchecked freedom. When Everil wore his stallion shape, there were no questions. No shoulds. No regrets.
There was the river and the moon. The light press of a hand to his neck. Laughter. There was magic, set loose between himself and the man before him. Barriers he’d carefully erected as a man broken by the stallion’s recklessness.
Condensation on glass, cold lemonade and warm, heavy air. The drone of bees by the riverbank. Wildflower honey, dripping from the comb. Vanilla ice cream, melting over fingers and licked away by laughing mouths.
Everil came back to himself with his forehead pressed to Bo’s shoulder and the man’s fingers tangled in his hair. Changing shape was simple. The rest, less so. It was always a fight, grasping the reins of his own behavior. Bringing himself to heel. Those hidden pieces of himself, the deepest parts of his nature, resisted. The river knew nothing about Protocol. It only knew about rocks worn to sand and flesh eaten away to bone.
