Free The Scorpio Races by Maggie Stiefvater

nearby that what’s being said is not pleasant.
    It’s like birds worrying a crow. I’ve seen them in the fields, when the crow has gotten too close to their nest or otherwise insulted them. The other birds dive-bomb and scream and the crow merely stands there, looking dark and still and unimpressed.
    So it’s just this: Sean and Mutt, heir to the island’s fortune, and Mutt’s spit glistening on Sean’s boots.
    “Nice boots,” Mutt says. He’s looking down at them, but Sean Kendrick isn’t. He watches Mutt’s face with the same looking-but-not-looking expression he had in the butcher’s. I’m kind of horrified and fascinated by what I see on Mutt’s face. It’s not anger, but something like it.
    After a long moment, Sean turns as if to go.
    “Hey,” Mutt says. He has a smile on his face, but it means the opposite of a smile. “Are you in such a hurry to get back to the stables? It’s only been a few hours since you’ve gotten your fix.” He pumps his hips enthusiastically.
    I would have felt bad for Mutt’s goading if I hadn’t seen Sean’s smile then. It’s barely a wisp of a smile, only there for a second — not even really making his mouth move, just flattening his eyes a bit — and it’s canny and condescending and then it’s gone. And I realize that what’s on both their faces, in two entirely different shapes, is hatred.
    “Say something, horse-stroker,” Mutt says. “Did you like my present to you?”
    But his fists are clenched, and I don’t think it’s speaking he wants out of Sean Kendrick.
    And still Sean says nothing. He looks weary, if anything, and as Mutt shifts his feet to circle him, Sean simply begins to walk away.
    “Don’t walk away from me,” Mutt snarls. He catches up to Sean in three uneven strides, and when he catches Sean’s upper arm with his big hand, he spins Sean around as easily as a child. “You work for me. You don’t walk away from me.”
    Sean puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Indeed, Mr. Malvern,” he says, and his tone is so deadly calm that Dr. Halsal, who’d been watching, frowns and ducks back inside the butcher shop. “And what can I do for you this evening?”
    This momentarily stumps Mutt Malvern, and I think that he might just hit Sean Kendrick now and rustle up a good reply later. But then, it comes to him, and he says, “I’m having my father let you go. For theft. Don’t say it’s not so. I had that horse, Kendrick, and you let him go. I’ll have your job for that.”
    Money’s not something many people have on this island. Talk of axing someone’s job is not a thing to toss around lightly. It’s not even my employment, and I already feel the pinch in my stomach, the same one I get when I open up the pantry door and see the shrinking contents.
    “Will you now?” Sean says softly. There’s a long pause, full of the sound of muffled voices in the butcher’s. “I saw you signed up for the races. But there’s no horse there beside your name. Why is that, Mutt?”
    Mutt’s face purples.
    “I think,” Sean says, and as before, his voice is so quiet that all of us are holding our breath to hear him, “it’s because, like every year, your father is waiting for me to pick a horse for you.”
    “That’s a lie,” Mutt says. “You’re no better than I am. My father lets you put me on the wasters. He lets you put me on the nags and the leftovers and you take the best for yourself. I have no say in the matter or I’d be on that red stallion. I’m not going to have you put me on a loser this year.”
    The door opens and now Dr. Halsal has returned with Thomas Gratton. They stand in the doorway and Thomas Gratton wipes his hands on his butcher’s apron as he surveys the situation. Sean Kendrick’s low voice has somehow made the argument both quieter and more impressive — a silent night ocean full of restrained power. The space between Sean Kendrick and Mutt Malvern seems charged.
    “Boys,” Thomas Gratton