The Horse-Man
OMG NO YIFF... FLEE!...
I suspect not many will read this story. If you do happen across it and take the time to read it, I hope it proved worthwhile.
Enjoy.
~V.
Half-breed. That's what Jessy Whitton had called him. Of course, he'd been called worse, but this particular set of words stung. They were true, after all.
He drew some satisfaction from the fact that Jesse had never amounted to anything and never would. The man had been born and raised on the Plains and would remain there until the day he dropped face-first dead into a steaming pile of cow shit. A small consolation.
But he'll die human, he thought to himself.
"Bug ya for a favor?"
Ears flicked towards the voice, followed by his eyes a moment later. He leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight as he reclaimed himself from his thoughts. Heavy hooves scuffed the wooden floor.
Samuel Hines stood behind the bar, wiping it down with a dirty, dripping rag. The cuffs of his shirt were damp, his hair not quite disheveled. Sam was a decent fellow. He'd worked hard to build his reputation over the years. He was an honest businessman, a devoted husband and a doting father. His words were always kind and he took no issue when it came to helping others.
The horse-man tipped his drink at him.
Trading the rag for a towel, Sam dried the bar, then his hands. "Grace is at home with the baby. They're both sick. Somethin' or other with the lungs. I gotta run some medicine to the house, but with Tommy gone for the rest of the day, I ain't got no one here to tend the place. Mind watchin' it for me while I'm out? Shouldn't be no more than ten minutes. Twenty tops."
The horse-man thumbed the brim of his hat. "Not at all."
"Thanks." Reaching behind the bar, Sam pulled out a dull, silver flask. He twisted the top, let it fall. It dangled from the container's neck by a thin leather cord. "My personal stock," he said as he walked to the horse-man. "For your trouble..."
"No trouble. None at all," the horse-man replied, exchanging his mostly empty snifter for the flask. "Besides, ain't no one else here." He lifted the flask to his broad, fleshy nose and inhaled. The vapors bit. He winced, eyes watering. "Goddamn." The sound was more whicker than word.
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. He liked the horse-man, but knew next to nothing about him - only that he enjoyed strong liquor and preferred to keep to himself. Sam could relate. Still, he couldn't help but wonder where the horse-man had come from and why he was here. So far as Sam knew, the animal-men were things of the Origin Systems and the Inner Colonies, not the Outer Territories and certainly not a backwater shithole like Pecos II. Truth be told, he'd never seen a hybrid horse...hell, a hybrid anything...until the horse-man's sudden appearance in town a few years earlier.
The horse-man offered the flask back to Sam, but the bartender refused to take it. "Keep it. Finish it. Believe me, I've got plenty more where that came from...." Sam paused, stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "Mind if I ask you somethin'?"
"Alright."
"For as many times as I've seen you in here, I can't say as I've ever caught your name. Your kind do have names, right?"
The horse-man cocked his head quizzically as he considered. The mannerism was exceedingly equine.
Sam interpreted the silence as insult. "I didn't mean nothing by-
"I know," the horse-man said with a shake of his head. "Name's Isaac," he lied. As he spoke, a memory long buried flashed to life before his eyes: a nephilim - a tiger, the real Isaac. His belly has been slashed open. He drops to his knees, reeling in agony. From the half-dark, a paw-hand settles around the big cat's neck. Claws extend. Rake, opening his throat. Blood spurts as Isaac paws frantically at the wound, gasping. Trying to breathe. Bleeding. Dying. And in the darkness above, a pair of yellow orbs flicker over a set of vicious silver fangs. A terrible, savage grin.
"...stuff will knock you on your ass if you're not careful."
The horse-man blinked, pulled back into the present. His eyes refocus. "Huh?" He glances at the flask in his hand, forcing a fake smile. "Yeah, tell me about it."
"Wouldn't have it any other way, friend." The human held out a hand. "Samuel Hines, but I suspect you already know that," he said with a laugh.
As the horse-man shook, Sam was amazed at just how clumsy the hybrid's hand was, or at least appeared to be. It had two thick fingers and a thumb that was too small, almost dainty. Each finger was capped with a block of hard, black nail. The palm was bare skin while the back of his hand was covered by a coat of brown and white fur that felt like velvet. The grip was incredibly strong.
"There's a storm coming," the horse-man said letting go of Sam's hand.
Sam glanced at the window. "How'd you know that?"
With a crooked grin, the horse-man tapped the side of his nose. He flared his nostrils. "Can smell it. Or at least I could before this..." He held up the flask.
Sam chuckled, wandering to the window. He peered out. The high plains baked under the late afternoon sun. The sky blazed orange, but to the west, the horizon had bruised to a brutal purple. Lightning danced there.
"Guess the nose knows, as they say."
"That it does," the horse-man replied.
"In that case, I best get goin'," Sam said turning away from the window and walking to the bar. He lifted off his apron and tossed it onto a hook. "If need be, I'd be happy to board you for the night. No charge."
The hybrid shook his head. "I wouldn't want impose. I'll bunk over at the Royal Blue, push come to shove."
Sam arched a brow, tugged at his mustache. "Wouldn't be no bother. None at all. Besides, the Blue's a bit...," he paused, searching, "...questionable, if you catch my meanin'."
The horse-man did. He'd visited the Blue once before. Sure, he could hole up there for the night, but the Blue was better known for other sorts of accommodation. He'd sought them out, after all. At first, the madam had said she wasn't willing to service his "kind." But he persisted and one of the younger ladies had volunteered to take him as her john. The charge was twice the going rate, but he didn't mind. He wanted the hour and was willing to give anything for it. Or so the horse-man thought.
The sex wasn't bad. The hooker had proven more than capable of servicing him. She'd sucked his horsecock and swallowed when he came. Nevertheless, as he lay next to her, the bliss of his orgasm fading, he found himself teary eyed. He'd come to the Blue longing, hoping even, to find what he had lost only to leave fearful it was something that he would never know again - love. He dressed, tossed his credits on the bed and left without a word.
"I s'pose, so long as it ain't no trouble," the horse-man said.
"It ain't. Look, gimme ten minutes. I'll even tell the wife not to expect me 'till late. She'll worry all woman-like and come lookin' for me if I don't. When I get back, we can drink n' chat the storm out. I'll fix a room up for you b'fore I head home for the night. In the mornin', I'll cook you up a breakfast. One you won't ever forget. Sound like a plan?"
The hybrid nodded. "Sounds like a plan if there ever was one."
Sam stopped at the door, plucked his hat from the rack and shoved it onto his head. "I gotta admit, before now, I ain't never talked with no..." He trailed off, looking slightly embarrassed. "God, I don't quite remember what your kind are called. Then again, I ain't never made no claims of bein' sophisticated."
"Nephilim," the horse-man said. "I'm nephilim."
"Yeah, that's it. That's the word." Sam's hand settled on the doorknob. "Ten minutes." He then disappeared through the door to the storeroom, closing it behind him.
"I'll be here." The nephilim followed his words with a hit from the flask. The alcohol burned going down. "I'll be here.
As the horse-man drank, thunder rolled across the plains.
(***)
The horse-man blinked. The world swam. He'd anesthetized himself well with Sam's whiskey. His large horse teeth had grown numb. His hooves were heavy. He suspected he couldn't move even if he wanted to.
Outside, lightning streaked across the sky followed by the slow, implacable rumble of thunder. Glasses knocked together. Bottles rattled. The wind kicked up, peppering the side of the old, wooden building with fine plains grit.
The horse-man buried his knuckles into his eyes, rubbing. "Shit..." he gruffed. He opened them and his vision blurred and swooned before it steadied. His drunken gaze settled upon a pair of orange lamps burning in the storeroom. He didn't remember Sam leaving any lights on back there.
And Sam. Where the hell is he? Clumsily, he clunked the flask on the table. Another flash of lightning, followed by the crashing peel of thunder. A glass shook free of the shelf, shattering on the ground behind the bar. The horse-man suddenly regretted having taken to Sam's flask as he had. It had slowed his thoughts, dulled his senses. Had he blacked out? What time was it? He didn't know.
It was then that it tickled across his broad, sensitive nose - a scent - strong and coppery. It triggered something deep inside, something primal, that instantly screamed for him to flee. His back started to burn as adrenaline flooded into his system. With effort, he gripped the sides of his chair, forcing himself up. All the while, he stared at those orange, dead lights flickering in the darkness beyond the open door. His heart hammered in his chest. Sam had closed that door, he was sure of it.
Isaac - the slaughtered Isaac, the real Isaac - again flashed to the forefront of his mind's eye. The orbs, those sick yellow orbs hanging in the darkness. At that instant, the horse-man understood. His hand drifted beneath the table as unease transformed into sudden, controlled fear.
In the darkness, those orange lamps began to sway, accompanied by the pad of footfalls and the soft click of toe claws against the wooden floor. A silhouette inked into existence. It was large and it was not human.
"Our most merciful God has been kind to you this day, my friend, for His wrath is often as swift as it is absolute." The voice was resonant, strange and lilting. Almost musical.
The horse-man said nothing.
"That He has seen fit to bless you with a few extra moments of His gift most precious is truly a testament to both His mercy and grace, do you not agree?"
"Can't say I know what the fuck you're talking about," the horse-man finally replied.
"Is that so?" The silhouette stepped out of the darkness and into the dim, flitting light of the tavern. The creature, though a hybrid, was nothing like the horse-man. Not like any nephilim, for that matter. It was far more animal than human. Beneath its black, leather hat, its features were savage and canine. As it grinned, it bared a muzzle full of wicked, silver fangs. Its eyes burned like small, orange suns.
The creature was Bayloc, a Seraphim - one of the three remaining seneschals, assassins for the Metatron. The horse-man had killed the fourth, Azernael.
As Bayloc approached, he reached beneath his billowing greatcoat and drew a long knife. "The Lord sayeth unto thee that none shall bare false witness before Him, so to you, friend, I ask do you not recognize this blade?" the Seraphim asked holding the knife in his paw-hand. He then flipped it onto the horse-man's table where it spun, clinking to a stop against the flask. In the faltering light, its blade glistened black and wet. "Do you not, Isaac?"
Isaac. It hit him harder than any blow. He'd never used that name before this afternoon.
"I asked you a question, Tobin Rivers." Bayloc lashed out, sweeping a paw across the face of the table. The flask crashed somewhere on the far side of the room. "Do you not recognize it."
"Yes."
"And do you appreciate the irony?"
"I don't understand what you're getting at..." Tobin's right hoof settled against the base of the table. He leaned forward slightly, shifting his weight.
"That you should see this blade one last time before you die is the only reason I did not kill you in your sin-laden stupor, you godless abomination."
Tobin laughed. "Oh fuck, that was one hell of a mistake..."
"And why is that?"
"Because I didn't hesitate to kill your fucking friend..."
Bayloc's hand shot out with unearthly speed, snatching the knife. At the very same instant, Tobin kicked. The table flipped up and over, catching the Seraphim off-guard. As he fell backwards, Tobin drew his repeater and was firing before he even hit the ground.
Bayloc spun away, greatcoat billowing out around him. Fire roared past his head. Showers of sparks and splinters exploded overhead, raining down.
Tobin rolled left, driving into the wall. Grabbing the windowsill with his free hand, he hoisted himself up and fired again. The shot missed wide, blowing a hole through the bar. Bayloc rushed him, whipping the knife at the horse-man's head. Tobin dodged, but wasn't quick enough to escape the blade entirely. The knife buried itself into the wall, his right ear dangling from it. Blood poured from the wound down the side of his face. Tobin did not notice. He squeezed off another round as he vaulted a table, slammed against the wall and raced for the back room.
Inside, the floor was slick. The horse-man lost his footing, skidded and crashed over something heavy in the darkness. He toppled, smashing through the door leading into the rear alley. A chain of lightning arced across the dark, heavy sky. He glanced back. On the floor of the storage room, Samuel Hines lay crumpled in a pool of black, staring blankly at nothing at all. His throat had been opened from ear to ear.
"No...Oh, God, no... Not again..." Tobin despaired as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled into a run.
"Where's Sam?" a woman's voice called out from behind.
Grace. Sam had warned she'd come looking for him if he didn't make it home. Tobin stopped, spun around. "Go! Get the hell-
Bayloc was already on her. Viciously, he jerked her to him, pressing her against his body. The baby in her arms fell to the ground. Both mother and child began screaming in unison. The Seraphim drew his plasma pistol. The woman writhed desperately, fighting to break free of his grasp to get to her baby. Bayloc wrapped an arm around her neck and yanked. She gasped as he fired.
Tobin ditched behind a metal grain box as plasma fire erupted to his left.
"Dump the fucking gun!" Bayloc roared.
Instead, Tobin drew him down as the heavens opened up in a torrent of rain.
"Lose the gun and I'll let the bitch and kid live!"
Tobin shivered. His head pounded. Waves of nausea washed over him. He wanted to vomit.
Slowly, Bayloc pointed the pistol at the wailing baby.
Grace cried out.
The fur around Tobin's eyes dampened, but not from the rain. "Please. Please don't do this..."
He wanted to put the gun down, but if he did, he knew it was over. None of them would live.
"The fucking gun! NOW!"
"Shoot!" Grace yelled. "Just shoot! Please! My baby, save my ba-
Bayloc squeezed, cutting off her air. She began to flail. In a final act of desperation Grace Hines locked eyes with Tobin, pleading, begging him to fire.
Tobin could hear the whine of the Seraphim's pistol as the charge built in its pulse coil.
The sky exploded. Tears streamed down Tobin's face. He pulled the trigger. Grace's head rock back, the left side puffing away in a cloud of fine, dark mist. The shot clipped Bayloc in the neck. Reflexively, he fired his own weapon. The ground next to the baby vaporized. Stunned, Bayloc staggered left, letting Grace's body drop.
Tobin fired again. And again. And again. Uranium slugs tore through the Seraphim. Collapsing to a knee, Bayloc lifted his pistol only to have it blown away an instant later. He had a moment to study the remains of his arm, his face a twisted mask of absolute disbelief, before Tobin pulled the trigger a final time. The last shot put a slug through Bayloc's brain, sending him sprawling backwards, dead.
The repeater fell from Tobin's hand. Sobbing, he staggered to Grace and collapsed to his knees beside her. He touched her ruined face. Took her hand. Kissed it. Slipping out of his duster, he laid it over her. "God, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry..." He looked at the darkened space where Sam's body lay and would have given the world to change places with him. With her.
Anything at all.
The baby screamed frantically, choking between wails. Tobin crawled to it, took it into his arms and cradled. The streets were deserted. They would be until morning, the thunder and lightning having masked the firefight. Forcing himself to his feet, he shielded the baby from the rain as he slowly stumbled westward, away from town and into the night.