Culling of the Blood

Chapter 1-Death's Breath

As the PA system blasted Sinatra's New York, New York through the autumn air of Central Park, Quadir Janszoon stood in the bed of his broken down Chevy truck and grinned like a love-struck fool.   

    Still wearing his tattered, blue gambeson and black, leather breeches, he stared across the brightly lit expanse of Wollman Rink. The renown ice-skating venue had temporarily been converted to stone-dust footing for a week of equestrian competition. Against the monolithic silhouettes of skyscrapers stabbing at the night sky, his name flashed across the Jumbotron's vivid screen in five-inch letters: Quadir Janszoon—2018 Winner of the $100,000 Budweiser Joust in the Park.

    Three days ago, with only $13 in his pocket, he came to Manhattan to face off against the best professional jousters on the east coast. Tonight, he left the city a rich man, crowned grand champion by the King of Beers, just six days shy of his 25th birthday. Quadir wanted to pinch himself.

    "Mr. Janszoon?"

    Quadir turned to the NYPD officer standing beside his truck. She was mounted on a black draft-cross with a splash of white on its forehead. Beneath a polished riding helmet, she wore the blue-almost-black uniform, a Kevlar vest, and duty belt. All the masculine accessories of her job made it difficult to tell if she was truly pretty.

    Glancing back to the Jumbotron one final time, Quadir hopped down from the truck. "Officer—"

    "Wojciechowski." She chuckled at his perplexed reaction to her name. Her full, brown cheeks framed a pleasant smile. "Doesn't quite fit the complexion, I know."

    "Sorry." He felt a warm blush beneath his own dark skin, even as he ran a hand through closely cropped black curls and averted his brown eyes.

    "Everybody calls me Cece."

    "Officer Cece it is then." Quadir hurried to the back of his rundown, two-horse trailer and whistled. A blood bay stallion peered from behind the rig and nickered to him. He removed the rope and halter from the horse's head and threw both over the pommel of his saddle.

    "Is that a McClellan saddle?"

    Quadir was truly impressed. "You know your tack. I can't afford the fancy custom jobs like my competition." Climbing into his saddle, he tightened his girth. "This is what I can afford to train in, so this is what I ride in."

    "After tonight you can afford whatever you want. I saw that last round. Nearly took that guy's head off. I should be arresting you for assault." She laughed, bending down to stroke the bay's mane. "He's one helluva horse. What's his name?"

    "Merlin." Quadir used his legs to encourage the Thoroughbred to follow her onto the bridle path.

    "That's fitting. Seems fearless enough. How's he in traffic? We have to merge onto surface streets to get to my unit HQ in the Mercedes House."

    "He spent 30 days with an Amish farmer in Pennsylvania after his track career ended. Even New York City traffic can't spook him. I'm grateful to the NYPD for putting us up for the night."

    "Dispatch has a tow truck on the way, and a city vehicle will haul your trailer to the same lot, but not until tomorrow morning. If you got anything of value, make sure you lock it up."

    "What you see is everything I truly value in this world." Quadir leaned forward and gave Merlin an affectionate slap on the neck.

    "Traveling alone?"

    Quadir pursed his lips into a thin line. It hurt when anyone idly brought up the topic of family. He was haunted by his past with no true roots to claim as his own. "Dad died when I was four months old. With no relatives to take me in, I learned to walk and talk and fight in foster care. But don't hold that against me. I've had plenty of therapy."