The smoke horse kept trotting. Its red eyes hadn't left Liam's face.
"I've only ever heard stories," Elizabeth said. "Townspeople talk about them like they're weather patterns. Spring used to…"
Elizabeth stopped. He heard her breath hitch, a small wet sound. "God, I miss that foot-fetish weirdo. Why did I just say that? Liam, focus. They're rare. Like, stupid rare. And they regenerate if you damage them; they just reform. Immediately. Nothing sticks. And they're secretive. They don't approach people; they don't, ugh, they don't do this."
Liam's arm was still out. The horse cheese puff was close enough now that he could feel the air around it change, cooler, heavier, the way the air feels before rain when the pressure drops and everything goes quiet. It smelled like nothing. Like the absence of smell. Like breathing through cloth.
