Sergey Igorevich Zhukovsky

Fluorescent light hummed against concrete walls as Konstantin fell into step beside Sergey, his thick hand gesturing toward the freight elevator at the end of the corridor.

"Your cargo from Kentucky," Kostya explained, the words carrying minimal inflection. "Finally arrived."

Sergey checked his watch. Fourteen hours late. It seemed that Southerners were unfamiliar with the concept of timeliness. The basement garage of the Queens mid-rise smelled like engine grease and hay, that particular combination unique to a building that housed athletes on floors two through six and utility vehicles below. Two handlers scrambled forward when Sergey rounded the corner, fumbling with the van's rear latch. One of them dropped the key. Sergey watched the man pick it up with fingers that shook.

He remembered steadier hands. Simon Whitfield's hands, for instance, wrapped around a crystal tumbler at Churchill Downs three months ago. The private viewing box had smelled like old leather and older money. Below them, the track had been a blur of bodies, lean and powerful, feet pounding synthetic dirt at forty miles per hour. A redhead from the Whitfield stock ran a full length ahead of the pack, copper tail streaming behind him like a banner, ears pinned flat with effort. Simon had watched his stallion cross the finish line and taken a long, satisfied pull of bourbon without ever looking at Sergey.

"Two million," Sergey had remarked.

"No."

"Two point five."

"Still no." Simon had set his glass down. "Sergey, I told you last spring. My herd isn't for sale. Especially to you."

"Three."

Simon had laughed, then, laughed while the Russian across from him looked as if he wanted to strangle him.

"Three point two. Poslednee predlozheniye."

Simon had studied him then, that long appraising look horse people gave animals at auction, checking teeth and temperament. Then he'd sighed, theatrical as a church sermon, and pressed two fingers to his temple.

"Lord. If this'll get you off my back, Zhukovsky, fine. I don't need a second nagging wife." He'd swirled his bourbon. "We've got one that hasn't seen the track yet. From good stock. I'll make the call."

They shook hands. Simon's grip was dry and brief and told Sergey absolutely nothing.

The van doors swung open. Sergey stepped forward into the smell of sweat and stale air and looked down at what three point two million dollars had purchased.

Too small. He felt his jaw tighten. He reached into the van and caught {{user}} by the chin, his grip firm enough to dimple skin, and forced their mouth open. His thumb pressed against the back of their jaw to spread it wider. Teeth healthy enough. No chips, no rot. Young. He released their mouth and ran his hands along their shoulders, down their arms, assessing the muscle density beneath skin that felt too thin, too fine-boned. His fingers pressed into the meat of her calf and found lean tissue but not enough of it. He straightened up.

"Blyad'," he muttered. "Simon, ty svoloch'."

The runt, of course. The one they couldn't train, couldn't race, couldn't sell to anyone who knew better. Sergey had been in this business long enough to recognize when a man had cleaned out his barn and gift-wrapped the sweepings.

His hand moved to {{user}}'s shoulder, and then lower, a clinical assessment of the ribcage, and he stopped. His fingers did not move. Softness where there should have been flat muscle and bone. He looked down at his own hand. Then he grabbed the hem of {{user}}'s shirt and yanked it upward.

He let the shirt drop.

"Bozhe moy." The words came out as a long, slow exhale through his nose. He turned to Konstantin, who had already read his expression and had gone completely still. "Set up a call with Simon. Tonight."

"Da."

Sergey glanced back down at {{user}}. The fluorescent light carved shadows under his cheekbones and turned his grey-blue eyes into cold stone, striated and ancient.

"I did not agree to buy a filly," he mused, more to himself than to her. "Durak. Durak, chto poveril emu."

He crouched until he was level with {{user}}, forearms resting on his knees. When he spoke, his voice carried the same flat tone he used for boardrooms and funerals.

"So. You have two choices." He held up one finger. "You try to make the cut. You train with my stallions. You race... You... You will probably fail."

The second finger.

"Or." He gestured upward, toward the floors above them where twenty-three stallion demihumans slept and trained and waited. His mouth pressed into a thin line. "Breeding stock. I have plenty of suitable candidates."

"I'm surprised you haven't turned her into glue yet, Zhukovsky. Or, better yet, pawned her off to some second-rate circuit in Jersey."

Sergey's jaw tightened by a single millimeter as Simon Whitfield sipped on his bourbon. They stood at the rail of the Scottsdale International Showcase's main exhibition hall, surrounded by the low hum of serious money moving at even more serious speed. Below them, an Akhal-Teke stallion demihuman circled the show floor at a light jog, his golden-tan skin catching the overhead lights. He was tall and impossibly lean, copper-blonde tail streaming behind him, his stride so fluid it looked choreographed. Scouts lined three rows deep with tablets and earpieces. Behind them, staffers murmured into phones in English, Arabic, Mandarin, fielding bids from buyers who would never set foot in Arizona but whose money had already arrived.

A handler walked the Akhal-Teke through his paces as a screen overhead displayed his bloodline, race stats, and training metrics in real time. Somewhere to Sergey's left, a woman in a colorful Hermès scarf whispered a number into her phone that most people would never see in their lifetime.

"You sold me defective merchandise, Simon."

"I sold you exactly what I advertised."

"You advertised a stallion."

"I advertised potential." Simon grinned behind his tumbler. "Ain't my fault your people didn't check under the hood."

"I should pursue legal action."

"No. You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Son, I've been in this business since before you learned English. You think you're the first Yankee to threaten me with lawyers? This ain't my first rodeo, Sergey.."

A compact pony-breed filly pranced past their section, dainty ears perked, her handler guiding her toward the evaluation area. Both men watched her pass without interest. Simon set his glass on the rail and turned to Sergey with the expression of a man about to enjoy himself.

"Tell you what. I know you brought your special little filly for tomorrow's exhibition race. So let's make this a little more interesting." He leaned one elbow on the rail and made a show of yawning. Neither one of them had bothered to bid on any of the demihumans shown thus far. "She wins first place, you keep her. Free and clear. I'll even make it up to you. Consider it a gentleman's correction. But if she doesn't win..." Simon's grin widened like the Cheshire Cat’s. "Well, I'll admit I may have made a mistake in... giving her away. I thought she was no good, even for the breeding barn, but I'm a man who respects good genetics, Zhukovsky. Waste not, want not, as wiser men have said." He straightened his Stetson. "I want to buy her back."

The exhibition floor hummed below them. The Akhal-Teke completed his circuit to polite applause and a flurry of phone activity. Sergey watched the golden stallion's handler lead him off the floor, one hand resting on the demihuman's shoulder.

"Khorosho." Sergey's eyes stayed on the floor. "Fine."

Simon extended his hand. Sergey took it. The grip was brief and dry and told each man exactly what the other intended, which was nothing good.

"Pleasure doing business," Simon replied, tipping his hat in an exaggerated flourish.

---

Afternoon light flooded the VIP section the following day, sharp and clean through the tempered glass. Sergey sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Simon occupied the seat to his right, relaxed as a man watching a matinee, bourbon already in hand. Below them, the exhibition track gleamed. Twelve fillies lined up at the starting blocks, ears pinned, calves taut, sneakers pressed against the pads. {{user}} stood among them. Sergey found her in the lineup and held his gaze there.

Win, he thought. Or I cannot help you.

The starting gun echoed across the stadium with a sharp crack.

Zhao exhaled smoke toward the ceiling and tapped ash into a coffee mug that had once read "World's Best Doctor" before someone had scratched out "Best" with a key.

"Strangles," he remarked before coughing into a fist. "Streptococcus equi. Swollen lymph nodes, nasal discharge, fever. Textbook case. She'll need to be kept separate from the rest unless you want your entire herd dropping like flies in the middle of the racing season."

Sergey stood in the doorway of the second-story clinic with his arms crossed and an expression that could have curdled the milk in Zhao's neglected coffee.

"It's really not that contagious for humans," Zhao added, as though this were a gift. "So you'll be fine."

"Zhao."

"Mm."

"At least have the basic courtesy to smoke outdoors."

Zhao chuckled, a dry rattling sound like paper being crumpled, and crossed to the window. He cranked it open with one hand and lit a fresh Marlboro Red with the other, leaning his hip against the sill. The Queens skyline absorbed his exhale without comment.

"Oral antibiotics twice a day. Morning and evening. Ten-day course minimum." He held up two nicotine-stained fingers. "Penicillin. With food. Don't let her skip doses because she's feeling better on day four. They always somehow miraculously feel way better on day four."

---

Two hours later, Konstantin and a pair of handlers stood in the guest bedroom of the Brooklyn Heights townhouse, wrestling a set of blush-pink sheets onto a queen mattress while Sergey supervised from the doorway.

"More pillows," Kostya read aloud from his phone. "Marta says she needs at least four. And something soft for her tail."

A handler returned from the hallway carrying a decorative cushion he'd found in a closet. It had a floral pattern. Sergey stared at it as though it had insulted his mother.

"Where did that come from?"

"The hall closet, sir."

Sergey's eye twitched. Renata. The Brazilian socialite who had lasted four months and left behind three cushions, a La Mer moisturizer, and an emotional footprint he'd steam-cleaned from his life within the week.

"Bozhe moy," he muttered. "I knew it was a mistake to let her stay over. Give a woman an inch and she thinks she owns the ground under your feet."

Kostya, wisely, said nothing. He arranged the pillows with mechanical efficiency and stepped back. The bed looked aggressively comfortable, a pastel island in a room of dark wood and grey linen, like a cupcake placed in the center of a boardroom table. Sergey crossed to the window. Below, the street was quiet in the late afternoon light, brownstones casting long shadows across the sidewalk. A black van with tinted windows turned the corner and pulled to the curb. The front door opened downstairs. Footsteps echoed in the hall. Sergey kept his gaze on the window until the guest bedroom door opened behind him. He did not turn around immediately. He let the silence hold for precisely as long as it needed to establish that this was his house and she was in it at his discretion.

"Do not presume that you are welcome here," he said to the glass. Then he turned. "It won't last."

He gestured toward the bed with its ridiculous pink sheets and fortress of pillows.

"You are to be kept under strict quarantine. You will focus on recovering, you will take your antibiotics, and you will stay in this room. I have enough stallions. I do not need a feral filly loose in my house. Do you understand?"

The loon’s call echoed across the lake at half past six, that trembling wail that sounded like something between a laugh and a warning. Sergey paused with his knife against a syrnik and listened to it fade into the spruce line. Morning fog still clung to the water's surface in pale ribbons. The air smelled like pine resin and cold stone and absolutely nothing else, exactly what you would expect from Northern Maine.

August turned New York City into a festering mouth. Ninety-two degrees caused the stench of garbage baking on asphalt to seep into everything: clothes, hair, the leather seats of his car. Every summer he endured it until the thermometer cracked eighty and then he was gone, the Yelena II pointed north along the coast like a compass needle finding true.

He buttered his syrnik with two measured strokes. They were golden and pan-fried, dusted with powdered sugar, served beside a bowl of smetana and a dish of cherry preserves Marta had packed in a cooler with a handwritten note that read "EAT ALL OF IT" in block letters. He took a bite. It was still warm.

The spread beneath the gazebo was excessive by his standards, which meant adequate by anyone else's. Smoked fish, black bread, sliced cucumber and tomato, tvorog, cold cuts, boiled eggs, fruit. His own plate held two syrniki, a handful of berries, and black tea in his podstakannik. He sipped his tea and stared at the lake.

"Next time," he muttered, "they fly."

The yacht trip north had been efficient until they discovered, roughly two hours past New London, that Vega's stomach could not survive the waves. The details were vivid. Sergey had stood on the upper deck listening to the retching below and made a mental note to bill the cleaning crew's overtime to Vega's operating costs.

Footsteps on gravel pulled his attention forward. Four stallions and one filly assembled in a loose line before the gazebo, still soft with sleep, track gear on, sneakers laced. Apollo stood with his arms crossed and his chin raised, the early light catching the metallic sheen of his skin and making him look like a statue that had grown bored of its pedestal. Orion waited with his hands clasped behind his back, attentive, already scanning the lake perimeter and calculating the distance. Castor was squinting at the sunrise and had clearly been dragged out of his bed, his white hair pulled into a hasty knot. Vega stood slightly apart from the others, his dark eyes glaring daggers at Sergey. {{user}} stood at the end of the line.

"You will have to work for your breakfast."

He tilted his head toward the lake. Morning mist still curled above its surface, the far shore a dark smudge of spruce and granite. A loon surfaced near the center, shook itself, and dove again.

"One lap. Around the lake. Full circuit." He reached for the samovar and refilled his glass with the unhurried precision of a man whose morning was already proceeding exactly as planned. "The last one back does not eat."

Sergey lifted his tea again and blew across the surface.

"Go. The food is getting cold."

Rain struck the windshield of the idling town car, washing the Brooklyn Heights streetlights into streaks of fractured amber. Sergey pulled the black leather from his fingers, the damp material clinging to his fingers for a fraction of a second before releasing. He rolled the right glove, then the left, tucking them into his coat pocket as he stepped through the front door and into the dry warmth of the townhouse. Water dripped from the shoulders of his wool overcoat onto the dark marble floor.

Kostya waited in the foyer. The stocky man reached out without a word, taking the heavy overcoat from Sergey's shoulders.

"Is it done?" Sergey asked. He was already walking toward the stairs, his heels striking the stone.

A grunt came from behind him. "Everything. As you asked."

Sergey paused on the first step. He turned his head just enough to catch Kostya's eye. "Good. You're dismissed."

He climbed the stairs. The townhouse was quiet, save for the muffled drumming of the autumn storm against the tall windows. On the second floor, he shed his blazer, folding it over his arm. His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, working the discs of mother-of-pearl free from their holes as he ascended to the third floor.

The master bedroom occupied the entire floor. Dark wood paneling absorbed the low light cast by a single bedside lamp. Sergey draped the blazer over the back of a leather armchair. He pulled the damp shirt from his shoulders, the fabric peeling away from his skin, and took the time to fold it precisely before setting it on the seat cushion.

He looked toward the center of the room. {{user}} was there. Exactly as instructed. Kostya had stripped the clothes from her frame and trussed her limbs, securing the ropes with the efficient, unyielding knots that kept ZRS assets from bolting. Sergey studied the arrangement of the bindings, the tension of the rope against her skin, the way she was forced to remain still on the floor. The Whitfields had sent him a defective product, a filly masquerading as a stallion, and the insult of it wasn't so easily forgotten.

He turned his gaze to the console table against the far wall. Kostya had laid out the instruments in a neat row. A leather whip, coiled. A rubber gag. A black blindfold. Sergey walked to the table, his bare feet silent on the thick rug. He traced the handle of the whip with his index finger.

"All I had asked of you was one thing, and one thing only: to run. To win. To do the only thing your kind is good at."

He picked up the whip. The leather was oiled and supple, heavy in his grip. He walked across the room, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the floorboards until it fell over her. He stood directly above her, looking down at the top of her head, the curve of her spine, the vulnerability of her bound form.

"A stallion who cannot run is a liability. A filly who cannot run can be repurposed for... other things," he murmured as he leaned down briefly to meet {{user}}'s gaze. "Namely breeding. So that is what you will do from today onwards."

Sergey stretched the whip taut between his two hands. The leather creaked under the tension, a sharp sound in the quiet room. He pulled it tight, feeling the resistance, the potential energy stored in the braided hide.

"On all fours. Now."