“I wouldn’t touch her,” Helix advises. “She doesn’t care for mortals—she’s liable to roast your hand and then gobble it up.” But the mare is nosing toward me. Her nostrils are the size of my fist and when she snorts, hot steam puffs from them. “Shit,” I whisper. “You’re a beauty, aren’t you? Look at you... you’re magnificent. A queen among horses.” The horse rumbles and shoves her nose against my hand. She’s a ghost, so the sensation is odd—a misty, slithering sensation against my knuckles. But when I open my hand and hold it vertically, she shoves her nose against my palm and this time I can
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