Chapter 39

The old people of the village had a rule.

Never answer a horse that comes from the water.

Children laughed at it.

Teenagers dared each other to walk along the shore after dark.

Tourists rolled their eyes and called it quaint folklore.

Mairi had done all three.

She stood at the edge of Loch Doran, arms wrapped around herself against the cold wind. The argument with her mother still echoed in her ears.

You’re selfish.

You never listen.

You’re just like your father.

The lake was black glass beneath the moonlight.

Then she heard it.

A soft huff.

A horse stood several feet away.

It hadn’t been there before.

Its coat shone silver in the moonlight, long mane drifting around its neck as if underwater. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. The sort of beauty that made your heart ache.

“Oh,” Mairi whispered.

The horse lowered its head.

No saddle.

No reins.

It simply waited.

She glanced around.

No owner.

No hoofprints.

Only wet stones.

The horse took a step closer.

Its dark eyes reflected the moon.

“You’re lost,” Mairi said softly.

Its ears twitched.

Then it bowed its head toward her hand.

She laughed nervously.

“I know the stories.”

The horse remained still.

Its breath smelled faintly of river water.

Mairi reached out.

Its skin was warm.

She relaxed.

“See?” she muttered to herself. “People make monsters out of everything.”

The horse turned and began walking along the shoreline.

Every few steps, it looked back.

Waiting.

Inviting.

Mairi followed.

The village lights disappeared behind the trees.

The shore narrowed.

The horse stepped into the water.

Only ankle deep.

It looked back again.

Mairi hesitated.

Then she saw it.

Tangling around its legs were long strands of green weed.

Not wrapped around them.

Growing from them.

Its mane dripped constantly, though no water fell to the ground.

The stories returned all at once.

Water horse.

Don’t touch it.

Never climb onto its back.

She stumbled backward.

The horse stopped moving.

Its head tilted.

Slowly, impossibly, its mouth spread into something resembling a smile.

“Mairi.”

Her blood froze.

It had spoken in her mother’s voice.

“Mairi,” it called again. “Come home.”

The horse stepped farther into the loch.

Its shape shifted beneath the moonlight.

The silver coat peeled away in strips like soaked paper.

Beneath it was slick gray flesh stretched too tightly over jutting ribs.

Its legs bent wrong.

Its mane was not hair at all, but river weeds writhing with tiny white worms.

Its smile widened.

“Mairi,” it said in her father’s voice this time. “Please.”

She ran.

Branches clawed at her face.

Behind her came the sound of splashing.

Not galloping.

Swimming.

Something huge dragged itself through the shallows with wet, slapping movements.

“Mairi.”

Her grandmother’s voice.

“Mairi.”

Her best friend’s.

“Mairi.”

Her own.

She didn’t look back.

The village appeared ahead.

Warm lights.

People.

Safety.

The splashing stopped.

Mairi collapsed near the first cottage, sobbing.

Villagers rushed toward her.

“What happened?”

She pointed toward the loch.

“The horse,” she gasped.

Silence fell.

The oldest woman there shut her eyes.

“You touched it?”

Mairi remembered the warmth of its skin beneath her fingers.

The old woman began to cry.

“No,” Mairi whispered. “No, I didn’t—”

Her feet refused to move.

She looked down.

Her boots were stuck to the earth.

No.

Not the earth.

A thin layer of black, tar-like slime coated their soles.

Panic seized her.

She pulled harder.

Nothing.

The villagers stepped back.

One man made the sign of the cross.

Another wouldn’t meet her eyes.

The old woman spoke through trembling lips.

“The Each-uisge lets go of everyone else.”

Mairi’s throat tightened.

“What?”

“It only keeps what belongs to it.”

From somewhere beyond the village came the sound of slow, wet hoofbeats.

Closer.

Closer.

The old woman turned away.

No one tried to help.

The hoofbeats stopped just outside the ring of lantern light.

A familiar voice drifted through the darkness.

Soft.

Patient.

In Mairi’s own voice.

“Come home.”