The Undead Pool

And then a soft boom turned into a building slowly crumbling down before us.

“Look out!” Trent shouted, managing to get Red slowed enough that Tulpa barely took the lead. Out of her stupid horse mind in fear, Red followed him, making a hoof-sliding turn to the left behind us. Trent looked pissed as he struggled to bring Red under control as we galloped down the ruin of Cincinnati’s streets, the way remarkably clear. Unusually clear. Not good.

“We’re being forced somewhere!” I yelled, and Trent’s jaw tightened. “We have to get across the river!” I called out, my heart pounding at the sudden silhouette standing atop a building, watching us. “Trent—”

Howling and waving a stick long as a broom handle, a surface demon rose up right in front of us. Tulpa screamed in anger, and I fought to keep him from charging. Red squealed in terror, the stupid mare spinning in useless circles. Surface demons were dropping from the surrounding buildings like spiders.

“Tulpa! Stand!” I shouted, and the old stallion screamed at me again, but finally halted, lungs heaving and sweating as I gathered a wad of energy and forced it into my hand. The surface demons circled us, all of them reaching for Red. “You will not touch her!” I exclaimed, and with a huge pull on the line, I shouted, “Detrudo!”

The curse exploded from me in a visible wave, blowing the surface demons back like leaves and sending them head over heels into the shadows. Red screamed in terror, rearing up and teetering backward. Trent gave her her head so she wouldn’t fall, and with that bare hint of control, she dropped to four feet, lowered her head, and bucked him right off.

“Trent!” I screamed, and Tulpa lurched to him as Trent sat on the ground, struggling for air as Red’s horsy ass quickly vanished into the dark and down the open path between the buildings. Hooting, the surface demons flashed into a flailing motion after her. In five seconds flat we were alone, the sound of Red’s hooves and the howling demons fading.

“Ow,” Trent said softly, his alarm hesitating as he got up and felt his backside. “She bucked me off,” he said as if in awe. “That flaky horse dropped me!”

“It happens to me all the time,” I said, fear tightening my shoulders at Red’s distant whinny. “Come on. Get up!” I extended my arm down to him as if I actually knew how to lift a person onto a horse like that, and Trent took it, somehow managing the leap as if we’d done it all the time. Thank God I’d learned how to ride English. It made stuff like this easier.

He settled in behind me, Tulpa spinning as Trent gripped me around the waist. Without warning, he shouted, “Hiiiee!,” and Tulpa bolted, Trent’s heels and seat pushing him forward.

I might be holding the reins, but I wasn’t in control, and a shiver went through me as Trent screamed the word, his anger, desperation, and fear all rolled into one decisive action. The wind whipped my hair, and breathless, I held on as Tulpa shifted direction, cued by Trent’s legs more than my reins. Behind us was a wild howl of frustration. “I thought you said Red was desensitized to magic,” I said, shouting so he could hear me.

“Magic, yes. Explosions, no!” he shouted back, his lips inches from my ear to make me shiver again. “Where did you learn how to pull a rider up like that?”

“The movies?” I said, and he made a sound of disbelief.

We rose up a small hill, easily seeing over the damaged buildings. The wind lessened as Tulpa’s paced eased, and Trent brought him up short as we came to a drop-off. It was the dry bed of the Ohio River, and I stared as Tulpa stood and breathed hard. Down below and about half a mile ahead, a horse raced down the smooth expanse, a dozen surface demons chasing her.

“My magic won’t work that far,” I said, guilt and fear making my stomach churn.

Trent’s weight shifted, and Tulpa took the slope. Trent slid into me, the jostling motion jarring until we found the bottom and he settled back. Again Trent shouted, and Tulpa stretched into a gallop. I hunched low, Trent pressed close. The scent of wine and cinnamon poured over me, and the wind was a wall. I could feel Trent’s tension, and the horse under us beginning to tire. Tulpa was not young—but he had heart.

Heart, though, would not catch Trent’s best mare, not when she ran unfettered with the hounds of hell chasing her.

We weren’t going to catch her, and I could have cried when Trent sat up, murmuring softly to Tulpa to bring the horse down into a slower pace until we stopped, watching Red again become faint with the dusky red and distance.

“Trent, I’m sorry,” I said as Tulpa hung his head and heaved for air under us.

“I’m less than useless,” he said bitterly, turning to see me. “I’ll get off. You can probably catch her if I’m not dragging you down.”