To Race the Wylde Wynd Chapter 8

To Race the Wild Wind Ch. 8

Templer watched the woman across from him work her way through her meal. Her face, which had been quite pale, became flushed. Chrysta was spooning her soup using her “idiot” left hand. The right one she cradled in her lap. With a sigh, she finished the last mouthful. Setting her spoon down the woman tilted her bowl to prove it was empty.

Chrysta crooked her right index finger at the bottle.

“Now GIVE!”

The Talon's attention focused on the line of stitches marching down her forearm. The wound was red and had started to swell.

“What the hell?”

Templer reached out, trapping her hand so he could get a closer look.

“This should not have gotten infected that fast.”

“It isn't infected.”

Chrysta gave her arm an unconcerned look. When she looked back up, the gunman saw that her eyes were slightly glazed, their pupils dilated.

“The inside spur on a destria's front leg is venomous. It is one of the things that makes them lethal hunters. Any time they inflict a wound with those spurs they inject a nerve toxin. It slows prey down and causes mental confusion. Inject enough and it can kill.”

Templer's eyebrows just about crawled up into his hairline.

“No worries though.” The woman smiled at his astonished look. “I have been poked, scratched, scraped and slashed enough I have developed a partial immunity to the stuff. This will give me a mild fever and some aches and pains, then wear off. NOW...”

The look she gave him was hard and grim.

“If you don't unhand that bottle, I WILL take it from you. If that happens, I will NOT be sharing!”

Bemused, the gunman slid the bottle over to her. The woman uncorked it and poured an equal measure of the brilliant blue liquid into each small glass.

“This is something Grant dreamed up. He calls it... Anesthetic. The cruel bastard makes a small amount each season. When it is gone...”

Chrysta shrugged and handed one glass to Templer while raising the other in a toast.

“May the heavens bless Grant and his magical touch with alcohol.”

She downed half the glass in one swallow, and then glanced at him, the look on her face one of total innocence. Templer sniffed the drink. There was a slight sting from the fumes but little odor. Chrysta watched him, one eyebrow cocked. He raised the glass to his lips and meeting her eyes over the rim... drained it. The alcohol also had little taste. It made his mouth tingle on the way down. He became worried when her lips twisted up in a wicked smile.

The Talon set his glass down and froze as what felt like a bomb ignited in his innards. He tried to suck a breath in, but couldn't. Sweet, honey flavored fire scorched up through his throat into his mouth and nose. For a moment the gunman was paralyzed as the flame flashed from fire to ice leaving everything from his lips to his stomach strangely numb. Then it warmed back to a pleasant heat that extended out through his whole body.

“WOW!” Azra was impressed.

Templer just blinked his watering eyes, not sure of his ability to speak. Chrysta snickered and finished her drink. She split what remained in the bottle between the two glasses. It was no surprise that the woman wobbled a little when she scooped up a wrap and rose to her feet.

“Well, Talon Constantine. As interesting as this has been, sunrise is almost here. I had better try to get some sleep before festival starts.”

She limped back to the bathroom. Templer sipped his drink as he tried to ignore the various bangs and thumps emanating from the small room. When his roommate came back out she was in a long, old fashioned nightgown. She glanced his way as if daring him to make a comment. Chrysta had her leathers and clothes in one hand and her drink balanced in the other, neatly bandaged one. The gunman cocked his head sideways to watch her make her way to the duvet. Along with the limp, the woman was listing. With a quiet sigh, Chrysta collapsed onto her makeshift bed, dropping the clothes, but NOT the drink. She took one last sip then set the half empty glass on the window sill. Once under the old fashioned quilt the woman rolled onto her good side wrapping up like a mummy. Before the gunman reached to turn off the light, she was asleep.

Templer envied his companion that ability. He was tired but not enough to try sleeping. Nightmares haunted his dreams. He slept only when his body forced him to.

Quietly strolling to the window, the priest slipped out and made his way to the roof. He spent the remaining part of the night enjoying the cool of the early morning breeze and watching the eerie beauty of El Diablo as the beast prowled and paced around his paddock.

Sunrise was preceded by the sound of feet coming up the stairs and a soft knock on the door. Constantine was just coming back through the window when Grant opened the door and stuck his head in. He seemed quite surprised to see the gunman awake. Chrysta had her head buried under a pillow, her right arm thrown over it. Grant nodded at Templer and came in to lay a bundle of clean clothes and leathers by the duvet. He set two steaming cups on the sill. The Talon caught the murderous look the big man threw El Diablo's way when he saw the thick bandaging. The bartender glanced at the gunman with a questioning look on his face. Templer gave a slight shake of his head and mouthed "Not serious," at him. The barman's face relaxed imperceptibly. He was reaching to shake the sleeping woman awake when a muffled voice emanated from under the pillow.

“GRANT, you better have brought some coffee up with you!”

The woman's hand made random groping motions. Grant slipped one of the cups he had brought up into it and Chrysta's flushed, blurry eyed face popped out from under the pillow. She took a gulp of the hot black liquid before she even sat up.

“Bless you Grant! Mother of Demons... I do HATE festival week.”

“Hrmph... then retire so we don't have to hear you whine.” Was the barman's unsympathetic answer.

Grant had turned away to hand Templer the other steaming cup so he did not get the full impact of the dirty look that was thrown his way. Scooping up the untidy pile the woman had left by the duvet, and retrieving the bowls from the night before, the barman headed toward the door.

“I've got breakfast on. You had better hustle if you are bringing in Don Ricardo's bunch for the parade.”

As Grant slipped out the door he gave the gunman a cryptic smile.

“Don't turn your back on her where your coffee is concerned.”

The big man got the door shut right before her pillow smacked into it.

Chrysta hissed as she rose from the duvet. Her movements were stiff and slow when she straightened up. Templer winced as she poured the half glass of Anesthetic left from the night before into her coffee. He could feel his outrider's internal shudder at the thought of the potent combination. The woman limped to the bathroom taking her clothes and cup with her.

Templer spent a good part of the morning exploring and watching the town prepare for the parade which would signal the start of festival. People appeared out of nowhere until the whole of Main Street was lined with chairs, stands, and large crowds. All the businesses pitched together to set up a four-foot-tall barrier between the street and the crowds. When it got so crowded that Azra became irritable and he became uncomfortable, the priest headed up to the Ironwood's roof to wait for the parade. Grant joined him there, about half an hour before the parade was supposed to start. He brought with him a tray of snacks and a pitcher of the dark brew that Talon Constantine had enjoyed on his first day in town. It was packed in ice. Settling himself on the roof beside the gunman Grant poured them a glass of beer.

“You picked the perfect vantage point to watch... Padre.” He gestured with the beer, “We've got a clear view and we don't have to fight the crowds.” The big man took a sip and sighed in contentment.

“Just... Perfect.”

There was a cheer from the crowds below as the first parade participants came in to view. This consisted of couple of drafters pulling a gaudily decorated wagon filled with the town officials and their various spouses. As the next wagons rumbled through, Grant pointed out different important personages and commented on who decorated the floats and wagons. He leaned forward to applaud and whistle with enthusiasm as one float full of giggling young ladies rolled by. They turned and waved. Templer recognized the big drafter team that Chrysta had been driving the morning before. Grant informed him that most of the draft destria in the parade would participate in a load pulling contest later in the week. Don Ricardo's pair was a favored team.

The priest sat quietly and let Grant's comments wash over him. The barman spoke in such a way that Templer did not feel pressured into carrying a conversation. This was something he was thankful for. The few friends he had would be the first to tell that Talon Constantine was not known for being a social butterfly. He was a dangerous and solitary man... living a dangerous and solitary life. He did not have the time to waste on frivolity. It wasn't that he had not been trained in social etiquette. If it was required of him... Constantine could hold his own in any crowd of elites. Most of the time though, he just did not have the patience for the back stabbing and constant jockeying for social status. (Well, to be honest... the back stabbing he did not mind. The problem being that when he indulged there was usually more than a little blood involved!)

As he watched and listened for the next couple of hours, the priest got an in depth education on how the destria had evolved from re-gen killing machines used as battle mounts, to the very versatile animal it was now. He had the differences between the heavy rump-ed sprinters and the long lean milers pointed out to him. And he learned what it took to be an endurance racer. A group of scarred, thick muscled stallions paraded past, each long lined between two heavily padded leather clothed escorts. Grant explained that some animals were used for pit fighting. The man made it clear that although this was a popular part of the festival, he had nothing to do with it as he felt it was barbaric. Templer heard El Diablo issue a challenge from his paddock. One scarred veteran of the pits veered sideways, rearing and bugling in answer.

These animals caught his outrider's interest.

“I'll bet that would be something to see!”

Templer did not answer. He did not share Azra's taste for bloodletting as a sport. The gunman sipped his beer and watched a large group of destria being herded down the parade route. The men driving them whooped and yelled, showing off in front of the crowd. He recognized them as the ones who had caused problems for Grant.

Grant leaned forward to study the animals intently.

“Ah... I see that Don Diego's son still hasn't learned that quantity doesn't necessarily equal quality.”

There was a smug smile on the man's face, which disappeared as the mass of animals parted. Striding amongst the others was an elegant golden beast that was nothing but quality. The stallion carried his horned, ridged, head proudly with his white mane flowing around his high crested neck. Grant whistled under his breath.

“Now... isn't HE something! Where the HELL did Rafe steal him from? There is no way that came out of the Don's breeding program!”

The next group was pushing through. Grant pointed out last year's winner of the Gauntlet. This turned out to be a smallish animal with crooked front legs. He was a nondescript dusty gray. Templer glanced sideways at the older man to see if he was joking. Grant shook his head earnestly.

“I'm not yanking your chain... the little beggar surprised everyone, he had odds at one hundred to one. I wish I had bet a few silvers on him.”

Chrysta led the next herd of animals in. This was Don Ricardo's herd. All of them were slick and shining with good health. Compared to the number of animals that the others had brought in, Ricardo's group was small. Templer counted twenty. Grant pointed out that seven of these were ones that Chrysta bred and owned. She rode Zephyr and one of the stable hands was on Nuva. The old mare pranced and snorted, showing off as if she enjoyed the attention. Grant nudged Templer and pointed out the long legged stallion being led by Chrysta. This animal was a solid unbroken red. He was almost the color of fresh blood. The fierce eyes that flashed under his brow ridges were the hot yellow of an open flame. His stride was as smooth as oil flowing over water.

“That's Inferno! He will be the one to put your silver on in the Gauntlet this year!” Grant grinned, “If that gorgeous bastard runs anything like his sire, nothing here can touch him.”

Templer watched in silence as the hot tempered animal twisted around and tried to take a bite out of Chrysta's leg. The woman doubled up her fist, knocking the fanged mouth away from her.

“She had better NOT pop those stitches!”

Constantine silently agreed as he watched the woman brace herself. The excited stud hit the end of the lead and danced in a tight circle around an increasingly irate Zephyr. The Talon searched for any telltale sign of blood on her right sleeve. There was none yet that he could see.

“Who is Inferno's sire?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

Grant frowned,

“I can almost understand why Chrysta keeps that monster around when that is what you get when you breed to him.”

The barman sighed,

“His sire is El Diablo.”

As his dark eyes followed the group's progress down the parade route, Templer couldn't help but wince at the bartender's choice of words. Monster was a term he was intimate with.