by RJ Blain
“When Yale said you liked fire, I didn’t think you’d be sticking your head up my chimney. How in the hell did you even fit in there?” From somewhere behind me, Quinn laughed. “That’s incredible. When he warned me unicorns were high maintenance, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Could I fit my entire body up the flue? Making an escape through the chimney was beginning to seem like a viable option. In an effort to restore some of my dignity, I replied, “Your fire is nice. I like it.”
I never needed to come out of the fireplace, right? At least not until I reversed back to human.
Naked, in Chief Samuel Quinn’s house, on a rug, sprawled in front of his fireplace. Naked. The naked part was really important. Unless the magic gave me some warning, which it usually didn’t, I’d end up giving him quite the show. With my abysmal luck, not only would he get an eyeful, it would happen in the most embarrassing place possible, like on a busy street in downtown Manhattan. No matter what, I was screwed.
Or not.
Damn.
“So, there’s a small problem. The station just called, and they need me to come in. There’s a situation. While I’d love to leave you to your enjoyment of my fireplace, you need to come with me.”
But I had just gotten comfortable. The fire was perfect, roaring around my head and keeping me so nice and warm. I had found a slice of heaven, and I had to move already? “No,” I wailed. “My fire. Mine!”
“I’m really sorry. I’ll have to douse it.”
Quinn wanted to douse my fire? Fury at the thought of so much wasted wood and flame burst through me, but I squished it back so I wouldn’t do something stupid like yell at him. How dare he want to douse my fire? I’d show him the error of his ways. I snorted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and reined in my temper. “Why sor-ree? Not your fault.”
Those words cost me, especially since he wanted to take my fire away from me. Still, he was a cop, and he had to go in when called. It really wasn’t his fault. “Must work.”
I understood work. I had to do too much of it to barely get by.
Quinn sighed. “And then there’s the other small problem. I have no idea how I’m getting you to the station. They’re supposed to send a truck for scheduled shifts, but I can’t wait that long.”
“Wait. Mo-ment.” I rolled my body so I could get my hooves under me, restrained the instinct to hook my claws into his floor for better balance, and wiggled my head and horn free of the comforting confines of the fireplace. To keep from setting his home on fire extracting myself from the flames, I devoured every last scrap of wood in the hearth, crushing the charred bits between my teeth and ripping the fire-hardened chunks apart with the help of a hoof. I choked and coughed several times in my hurry to swallow. Within minutes, I reduced the fire to nothing more than a few piles of ash and embers.
Bleh, ash. I licked it up anyway to be safe.
“And that would be another thing Yale neglected to mention. I guess I won’t have to douse it after all. That just leaves the issue of getting you to the station.”
Did Quinn not realize I was a unicorn, thus my own form of transportation? “I can run. Have hooves.”
“I was hoping for something a bit faster.”
I flattened my ears, tossed my head, and whinnied at the insult. “Out-run you, Chee-fuh Queen.”
He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Out-run you, pesky human Chee-fuh Queeny!”
“That was even worse. You really think you can outrun me in my cruiser.”
Shaking out my mane, I snorted, blowing just enough flame to warn him I meant business. “Yes. Take you. Fass-tur.”
During the certification process and evaluation of my species after transformation, I’d carried a few riders. I’d taken another student from Manhattan to the Hamptons and back. In a less-than-legal favor to one of the instructors, I had run her across the bridge to New Jersey so she could speak at a convention after her car broke down.
We had wisely never told Professor Yale about that stunt, as we both valued our lives—and she’d given me extra credit for the favor.
Quinn was heavier than all my past riders, and I blamed his extra inches and his beautiful, beautiful muscles for the extra weight. Still, I could handle him—I hoped.
“You’re crazy, you know that, right?”
“You know how to ride, yes?”
“Well, of course. I do mounted patrols sometimes in a pinch, and I teach riding lessons to new recruits when the regular instructors are unavailable.”
“You ride. I run. Fass-tur.”
Quinn ran his hands through his hair before giving his scalp a good scratching. “You’re seriously telling me you think you can beat my cruiser to the station.”
“Yes. Stop com-plain-ing. Bri-dle?”
“Yale left me one yesterday.”
“Sad-dle?”
“I am not putting a saddle on you. I refuse.”
Stubborn human. Why were all humans so stubborn and annoying, especially the pretty ones? “Yes, you will.”
“I will not.”
“Get sad-dle! Take you. Ten min-nut. Be fass-tur if not argue. Wear un-ee-form, get sad-dle. We go.”
“It takes longer than ten minutes to go fifteen miles, Gardener.”
“Want to bet?” I’d show him. I’d make it in nine, too, just to spite him.
“No, I don’t want to make a bet with you. It can’t be done.”
“You will. Bet,” I demanded. “Bet!” Prancing in place, I bobbed my head and swished the air with my horn.
“Christ, fine. Fine! What bet? I really can’t afford to waste time, Gardener.”
“When you here in house, no shirt. Feed me best meat by hand. Grapes, too.” After all, what girl didn’t want a shirtless man feeding her grapes? Unicorn or not, I was going to live the dream. “Keep fire nice, bright, warm. Serve me.”
For a chance to have a half-naked Chief Quinn at my mercy, I’d do a lot more than gallop to Manhattan. “You win, you boss me. I give rides. Make fire. Not make fire in house.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Quinn stared at me. “If I don’t agree, you’re going to play with fire in my house to spite me, aren’t you?”
Oh, that was a great idea. “Yes!”
“I’ll go get the saddle.”
Quinn would be mine to enjoy, and all I had to do was gallop from Queens to Manhattan to have him. As though resigned to his inevitable defeat, he gave me a bowl filled with fresh meat cut into bite-sized cubes while he dealt with my tack. The CDC had custom made my saddle since my body wasn’t quite shaped like a horse’s. The bridle lacked a bit, which was a good thing, as I would’ve melted it down and swallowed it to get rid of it.
Metal did terrible things to my digestion.
After he had me saddled up, he went into his house to change, returning within five minutes. The rumpled state of his uniform warned me whatever the situation was, it was bad.
His cheek twitched as he looked me over. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Swallowing down the last chunk of meat, I gave the bowl a parting lick before straightening and tossing my head. “You ask Pro-fess-ur Yale about ride. You get ride. Com-plain, com-plain, com-plain. You keep time. Me run. You ride. No whine-ing.”
Quinn groaned, jammed his toe into the stirrup, and mounted. I grunted as he settled his weight on my back. Yep, the man was made of pure, wonderful, rock-hard muscle. In nine minutes, he’d be all mine.
“Hold tight. I run fast. Ver-ree fast. Fass-tur than car. Red-ee?”
“Fine. Don’t you dare break your neck doing this, you hear me? So help me, I’ll kill you myself. I’m timing you, Gardener.”
Since losing my rider—my prize—would cost me precious seconds, I eased my way to a canter, unsheathing my claws whenever my hooves couldn’t get enough traction on the asphalt. I would give him a block to adapt to my rolling stride before I hit top speed.
While I didn’t often drive despite having a license, I knew the routes from Queens to Manhattan well enough. After a moment of thought, I decided Quinn lived close enough to Whitestone to warrant crossing the bridge there before hopping onto the Cross-Bronx long enough to reach Bruckner. Then I’d make my run past Central Park to the police station.
The only issue was getting there without ditching my rider or smacking into a car. Either would ruin my day, although I’d rather break a leg than hurt Quinn. People needed him.
No one needed me.
The thought both depressed and annoyed me, and determined to prove I could be useful to someone, I charged towards the Whitestone bridge. Intersections proved my first obstacle, and I dealt with them by bolting through green lights, treating yellow lights like green ones, and jumping over vehicles when the lights didn’t cooperate and stayed red before my arrival.
The first time I disregarded a red light and leaped over oncoming cars, my passenger yelped and clutched at my neck. I loved it so much I did it again at the next light, thundering my way to the bridge in a minute flat, blowing through the tollgate and cutting off several drivers in the process.
“Fucking hell!” Quinn choked out.
Oh, yeah. I loved it. The instant I made it across the span, I dove across traffic, hit the Cross-Bronx, and took the quickest route to the Bruckner. The midday drivers didn’t appreciate me weaving through traffic, and the sweet, sweet sound of blaring horns chased us down the expressway. To minimize the risk of clipping a vehicle or losing Quinn, I galloped alongside the median, which gave me all the room I needed to hit my top speed and stay there.
I blew the doors off the slower vehicles, including several patrol cruisers. The wail of a siren warned me at least one had decided to give chase. If he caught me, I’d lose my bet, and Quinn would end up with a legitimate ride to his station. Come hell or high water, I’d deliver him to Manhattan within my ten minute window, and no pesky cop in an annoyingly fast car was going to stop me.
Stretching out my neck, I raced the wind—and the police—towards Randall’s Island, where I’d need to blow through more tolls to reach Manhattan. More sirens shrieked behind me, and traffic parted for the pursuing vehicles.
Why wouldn’t they part for me? I was giving a police chief a lift. More importantly, I could breathe fire. While tempted to educate the people clogging my road about the superiority of unicorns, I kept my eyes on the prize and charged for the nearest exit.
If I stayed on the expressway, the cops would catch up, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
Ignoring Quinn’s cursed complaints and whining, I thundered down the ramp, waited until I was within safe distance of the ground, and leapt to the street below.
Turns out men could squeal with the best of them. Who knew Quinn’s voice could go up an entire octave? Lather flew off my coat, and I suspected by the time I reached his station, the man would need a fresh uniform. Cutting down side streets and alleys, I worked my way to the river. To my disgust, the access road and the bridge were deadlocked, and unless I wanted to start leaving hoof prints on car roofs, I needed to pick a different route.
Over the river and through the woods it was, and I dove down the bank, lifting my head to get a better look at the opposite shore. I’d never attempted to take someone with me when I hitched a ride on a sunbeam, but for the chance to have Quinn as mine, I’d take the risk. I slowed to a walk, so if he did get left behind, he wouldn’t get hurt landing. Bracing myself for the lurch, I concentrated.
Hopefully, Quinn would forgive me later. I angled towards the water.
Quinn tensed on my back. “No, Gardener. No! Not the—”
I jumped, soaring over the river, picked my mark and willed myself—and my rider—to the far bank. Landing hurt. My hooves slipped on the loose gravel before I recovered enough to scramble away from the shore to the park. Who needed a stinking road anyway? Not me.
Quinn would be mine.
Since I hadn’t left my cursing passenger behind, I plowed through the brush into the forested park, dodged trees, and wished I could whinny my laughter at his yelps and general displeasure over my method of crossing the city. Why did people always get so cranky when I gave them exactly what they wanted? Since I couldn’t gallop, avoid smacking into something, and talk at the same time, I decided I’d deal with the irritated human later.
I caught a lift on a second ray of sunshine to Manhattan Island and crossed a few backyards and alleys to reach FDR Drive, sticking to it until I reached the first main street intersecting with Central Park.
From there, it was a cake walk of startled pedestrians and pissy cabbies to head south beyond the park and reach the station full of stunned cops. I staggered to a halt in front of the concrete steps leading to the front doors, shuddering in my effort to catch my breath. “T-time? Time!”
“Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds. Never. Do. That. Ever. Again.” Quinn slid off my back, grabbed hold of my bridle, and pulled my head to him. “Are you insane? That’s the only explanation.” Drawing in a deep breath, the police chief launched into a tirade listing every single traffic law I had broken on my way from Queens to the station. I waited it out, my heartbeat throbbing through my entire body.
Behind Quinn, I witnessed several cops playing an energetic game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, and the loser took several cautious steps forward. “Uh, not to interrupt, Chief Quinn…”
Quinn twisted around. “What is it?”
I liked when the man snapped at someone other than me for a change. The poor sacrificial cop retreated several steps, holding his hands up in surrender. “You’re needed inside, sir.”
Giving another jerk of my bridle, Quinn glared at me. “This isn’t over, Gardener.”
I snorted. “I know. I won. Best meats. Yum-ee grapes. All mine.”
“Gardener!” Quinn released my bridle, spun, and stomped into the station. I followed in his wake, wobbling my way up the steps.
One of the cops held the door open for me, and I gasped out something he fortunately interpreted as gratitude. “Quinn. Quinn. Sad-dle? Sad-dle heavy, Quinn. Take off? Meat? Wat-ter? Quinn!”
My words made the man twitch. I pursued him all the way to the elevator, chanting my demands. At the parting doors, he turned to face me and palmed my nose. “You are too fat for this elevator, so take the stairs and like it!”
I hated stairs but loved winning, so I called it even and trumpeted my pleasure at my triumph over Chief Samuel Quinn.
Mine.
According to the amused cops loitering in the station’s lobby, Quinn was on the eighth floor. Did he really expect me to climb eight flights of steps? He would pay dearly for his misguided assumption I would do what he wanted. He was mine. I had won the bet, and he wasn’t going to be bossing me around anytime soon. In a brief but fierce battle against my quivering muscles, I lifted my hoof, unsheathed a single claw, and tapped the up button. It felt like an eternity until the elevator door swished open so I could stretch my neck and check the max occupancy sign.
Two thousand pounds.
When I got hold of him, I’d take a nibble or two out of him. Death would be too good for him, and I’d enjoy making him squirm. I was not fat! I maybe weighed seven hundred pounds. I could use the elevator. Maybe I’d torch his pants so he had to walk around in the nude. A light nip would remind him he couldn’t say mean things to me. With an indignant snort, I stepped inside. Perky and several other cops joined me.
“Purr-key!”
He chuckled. “Gardener. Have yourself a nice run? Which floor you headed to, girl?”
“The one with Chief Queeny.” I whinnied a laugh. In a perfect world, the name would stick, and I had four candidates to spread my new nickname for the man.
“Eight, then.” Perky pressed the button. “I’m headed that way, too. I’m surprised you’re here. What brought you this way all dressed up like that?”
“Pro-fess-ur Yale dumped me with Queeny. No time for trail
-ur.”
“Wait. Chief Quinn was at home? That’s—”
“Eight min-nuts and four-tee sev-un sec-unds away.” I really needed to practice talking more in my equine form. “By u-nee-corn.”
“Okay, that explains why you’re absolutely drenched and look like you were run through a wringer. You’d have to clock in at almost two miles a minute to get here that fast. Damn. I heard you were fast, but that’s nuts. You could outrun an interceptor on an empty road at those speeds. Do you have rockets strapped to your ass or something?”
I preened and tossed my head at the compliment. “Sad-dle hev-ee, Purr-key. You take off? Wat-ter?” I hesitated. “Meat?”
After a run like mine, I thought I had earned a little bit of whining and some indulgence—and a drink.
Perky gave my shoulder a slap. “How about some crap coffee and some stale chips?”
Score. “Deal.”
The elevator dinged and opened, and I wobbled my way after Perky, who guided me through a maze of desks and chairs. It took a bit of work to ease my way through without knocking anything over. As I passed cops, they offered handfuls of candy and chips. I accepted their offerings and lipped their outstretched hands without taking a single bite of one of Quinn’s officers.
At one of the workstations near the end of the line, Perky cleared away enough space for me. “Park your furry butt here for a few minutes, Gardener. I’ll get you something to drink and find someone who might be able to free you from that contraption without breaking it.”
“Sad-dle, Purr-key. It’s called a sad-dle. The one on my face is a bri-dle.”
“Contraptions. Wait here.”
“Wait-ing,” I mumbled, standing where he ordered. While he was gone, I helpfully rearranged his desk and stole his chips, which were stale just like he promised. When I got bored, I dozed, a hind hoof lifted while I used his desk as a pillow.