A Game of Horns: A Red Unicorn Anthology
Page 5
“I, uh, took care of the theaters. Are you ready?” Doug mumbled.
“I’m ready,” Cecilia said, getting out of the chair and putting her arm around his. “Let’s go trap some zombies.”
Doug picked up the last bottle of ethanol from his desk and made a trail from the front door of the theater to their hiding spot in a storefront across the street, along with their cart full of True Value supplies.
“I’m going to go start the noise. Stay here,” he instructed Cecilia.
Doug ran back into the office of the Duplex and switched on the audio to a movie he always had on hand. He clicked the microphone to the PA system on. He spied a picture of Cecilia on his desk. His favorite.
Might as well take this one for the road.
Doug took one last look at his office, the lobby, his beloved theater.
As Nicolas Cage’s voice boomed out of the theater’s lobby, Doug quickly scrambled across the street.
Cecilia eyed him as if he were crazy when he settled in next to her, out of breath.
“If anybody’s voice can attract a horde of zombies, I’m betting it’s Nicolas Cage’s,” Doug reasoned.
An hour or so passed, and the sun began to set. The streetlights flickered on. A mass of undead citizens had gathered inside the movie theater’s lobby, shuffling into one another, crazed by the noise, and smacking into one another as if they were blind.
“Is that all of them?” Cecilia asked.
“Looks to be a good amount. I don’t know if it’s everybody, but sure looks like everyone who works downtown. Er … worked here.” Doug paused, looking out over his old friends. Some of his adrenaline had worn off, and sadness began creeping in.
“Time to light it up, I guess,” he said, dreading what he was about to do. “Well, ol’ Duplex. It was fun while it lasted.”
“You can do it,” Cecilia said, encouraging him forward.
Doug fished the keys out of his pocket. “Shout if you see anything coming after me.”
Cecilia nodded, gripping her bloody, hot pink hammer in one hand and a white picket fence post in the other.
Doug tried not to roll his eyes at how benign the fence post looked.
He took a deep breath, then sprinted across the street.
He unceremoniously kicked the zombies loitering outside the doors into the theater, then locked the door from the outside. The undead turned to the doors, pounding against the glass.
Doug ran to the middle of the street, knees slightly bent, ready to defend himself. He stopped, stood up, and turned to Cecilia.
“That was kind of easy.”
“Surprisingly easy,” said Cecilia. She stood up and joined him in the street.
“And kind of fun. We always seem to have fun, don’t we, Ceil?”
Cecilia’s smile faded. “Then why did you let me live with Mom? Why didn’t you fight for me?”
Doug’s heart dropped. “Your mom won custody, sweetheart. I tried.”
“Why didn’t you try harder?”
Doug sighed. “Kids need their moms. I guess I thought it would be best for you.”
“Kids need their dads, too,” she said. A tear rolled down her soft, white cheek.
Glass shattered behind them.
Doug and Cecilia turned to see a zombie’s fist had broken through the theater doors.
“We better light this thing,” Doug said, scrambling for the lighter in his pocket.
“Is that … Shelby?”
Doug followed his daughter’s finger pointing behind him.
Just under the signal lights of 4th Street was a horse.
“I thought Shelby was white,” Doug said. “That horse looks … red.”
Under the streetlights, the horse stepped forward. The horse, owned by Cecilia’s childhood friend, Shanda, usually had an ivory white coat, but tonight its coat was covered in some sort of dark liquid, and what looked like teeth marks.
Cecilia gulped. “Shelby?”
The horse charged, barreling down Franklin Avenue straight for them.
At the same time, the front glass of the theater fell like a sheet of ice, crashing onto the sidewalk. The zombies pushed out of the theater, angling toward Doug and Cecilia in the middle of the street.
Doug clicked the lighter frantically while eyeing the charging horse.
“Just light it, Doug!” Cecilia yelled. She dropped her hot pink hammer and held the white picket fence post with both hands. “I got Shelby.”
There was no time to argue. Doug gave the flint a strong flick and held the little flame down to the street. The ethanol erupted, and a line of fire sped toward the theater.
When the horse was close enough for them to smell the metallic blood covering its snow-white coat, Cecilia angled the metal spike on the end of the fence post, aiming right for the charging horse’s head.
The theater exploded in bright flames, engulfing the building and the zombies inside. Flames licked the zombies that had made it outside, and the fire quickly swallowed them.
The blast knocked Doug off his feet. His ears rang. His face stung. He wiped his eyes, searching in the smoke for his daughter.
He saw her sprawled on the ground.
“Cecilia!” Doug rushed to her. He panicked when he couldn’t see her lungs move. Her arms were around her stomach. The horse must have knocked her down.
He plugged her nose and bent down to give her mouth-to-mouth.
Her eyelids flew open. “Oh god, no!” Cecilia pushed him away. She coughed, rolled onto her side, then got to her feet.
Doug threw his arms around her, then pushed her back to look her in the face. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for you. I was afraid you didn’t want to live with me, that you’d come to hate me like your mother did. I didn’t visit because I thought you hated me.” He swallowed, feeling suddenly very vulnerable.
“I don’t hate you. I’m not Mom,” Cecilia said.
Doug nodded, dropping his arms. “I know. I know that, sweetheart.”
His eyes drifted to the dead horse on the ground a couple feet away. The bloody horse lay on its side, one white picket fence post sticking out of its forehead.
“Wow. Just an inch or two to the left and it would’ve been perfectly centered.”
Cecilia caught Doug’s eye.
Doug cleared his throat. “I, uh, I mean you did a great job. Great … unicorning, sweetheart. You made a real fine, uh, red unicorn.”
Cecilia gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’re so corny, Dad.”
There, in front of the bloody horse Shelby and a heap of burning zombies, Doug felt his heart expand with happiness.
She called me Dad.
Lesson Six: Help Your Neighbors
After filling up the truck bed with more supplies from True Value, Cecilia and Doug hopped into the cab.
“So what do you say, Ceil? Think this thing is spreading? Should we get to Kansas City and check on your mom? And Oh … Ob …”
“Oyibo.”
“Yeah, him,” Doug said.
Cecilia shrugged. “Eh, maybe. He’s actually kind of a douche bag.”
Doug swelled with pride.
“You can decide on the drive. Maybe we can help the towns along the way with their zombie problems?”
“Sure! Sounds like fun.”
“You know, I’m wondering if you were ever really a pacifist.” Doug put the key in the ignition.
Cecilia smiled. “Well, maybe I’m more like my father than we both thought.”
Doug beamed. He started the car.
Cecilia dug The Zombie Survival Guide from her coat pocket. “You know, this book made it sound a lot harder than it really is. It’s a pretty easy business, killing zombies.”
“Maybe we should write our own survival guide,” Doug suggested.
“Yeah, like start our own blog or something.”
Doug’s brow furrowed. “What’s a blog?”
Cecilia sighed. “Never mind.”
“I guess we should probably warn people about the animals.” Cecilia’s voice became serious. “The horses, for sure.”
“Zombie horses,” Doug nodded emphatically. “Definitely the zombie horses.”
About the Author
Kristin Luna has been making up stories and getting in trouble for them since elementary school. She writes book reviews for Urban Fantasy Magazine, contributes to the blog The Fictorians, her short story “The Greggs Family Zoo of Odd and Marvelous Creatures” was featured in the anthology One Horn to Rule Them All, and her horror story “Fog” was featured on Pseudopod in May 2015. Kristin lives in San Diego with her husband, Nic, and is working on a young adult novel.
The Dark Ambition of Oswald March
Tristan Brand
I arrived at Thornwood the morning after my father’s sudden disappearance. The March family manor had not changed during my five-year absence. A looming stone structure studded with ivy-wreathed gargoyles, the manor lay in a deep shadow cast by the thick canopy of the surrounding wood. Hardly a welcoming place, but then, Thornwood was not a home but a castle, and Leland March its king.
My thoughts drifted back to that day, five years ago, when I’d been kicked out of the academy thanks to bad luck and a conspiracy of professors jealous of my potential. My father had met me on the driveway. “You’re a disgrace, Oswald,” he’d told me. “You’re not worthy of my name.”
“I’ll show you,” I’d said, even as angry tears streamed down my face. “One day, Thornwood will be mine.”
He’d laughed.
Now I walked up the drive and stopped at the edge of the topiary which encircled the manor. The garden was my father’s pride, a maze of poisonous hedges and grotesque fountains. Faces carved in foliage stared at me. I recognized some of them: a pair of thieves too stupid to find an easier mark, a rival tricked into arriving uninvited, a newspaper boy whom my father had simply forgotten to welcome. All victims of my father’s curse protecting Thornwood from trespassers. They garnered little sympathy from me. If I’d learned anything from my father, it was that fate rewards the clever. What happened to the foolish was none of my concern.
I reached into my pocket, fingers finding the crumpled note which had been delivered to my room that morning. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and raindrops ran cold rivers down my cheeks as I read the note for the thousandth time.
It’s done. Meet me at the manor at dusk.—A
I’d confirmed, of course. My father had been expected at a meeting with the Cabal the previous night and not shown up. Unthinkable. Leland March was never late. In fact, no one could recall seeing him for days. I’d asked around.
Still, I paused, my feet inches from the garden’s edge. What if the whole thing was one of my father’s schemes and even now he watched me, behind one of those dark windows, waiting to see me fail?
No. I wouldn’t turn back now. My destiny lay within the walls of Thornwood, where I would finally take possession of the red unicorn’s horn.
I closed my eyes and stepped forward.
A tingle ran up my spine. My stomach twisted, horror creeping through my thoughts, and I opened my eyes, looking down at my hands, expecting to see them growing leaves. But my skin stayed pink and when, after a moment, I remained ambulatory, I realized it had been simple adrenaline.
I smiled. Then I began to laugh. I laughed so hard I must have looked like a madman, but I did not care. I’d done it. My plan had worked.
Leland March was dead.
O O O
It had started a year ago. The endless tide of ill luck had washed me well past my last dime. The closest thing I had to a friend was a doddering necromancer who made his living resurrecting dead pets, relying on a customer base of senile old ladies dull enough in the head to mistake a putrid pile of bones for their beloved Fluffy.
I spent most evenings in a dive frequented by syndicate thugs and low-end demonologists, the type who’d be lucky to summon up even an imp. Every night I spent there I felt farther and farther away from the life I knew I deserved, the life my father had taken from me.
But then I met Ambrose.
I saw him one night sitting by himself in the corner, dark blue eyes staring defiantly out from under the rim of an out-of-fashion top hat, as if he knew he were better than his surroundings, a feeling I understood well. I walked to my usual spot in the corner, debating whether to introduce myself. He beat me to it, beckoning me over and offering a drink.
Right away, I knew I’d found a kindred spirit. His story bore parallels to mine. Once wealthy and powerful, Ambrose had it all taken away from him by the actions of a cowardly thief. To make ends meet, he’d been forced into syndicate dirty work while he searched for the thief, determined to have his vengeance.
I cared little for Ambrose’s life story, but he proved to be a sympathetic listener when it came to discussing my troubles. More importantly, he proved easy to trick into paying more than his fair share of drinks and dinner.
“It’s not fair,” I told Ambrose one night, deep into a bottle of bad wine.
Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Few things are.”
“I shouldn’t be here. I’m a March. I should be a Cabal warlock by now, working my way up the ranks.”
“Like your father.”
“Like my father.” Every night, it all came back to my father. “He was nothing special, you know. My age, he was a nobody. He just got lucky.”
“How?”
I hesitated. Drink had loosened my tongue. This was my father’s greatest secret. But what did I care about his secrets? I glanced about, making sure no one was paying attention, and then leaned forward, lowering my voice. “He found the horn.”
Ambrose frowned, adjusting his hat. A nervous habit of his. “What horn?”
“The horn of the red unicorn.”
“I had no idea they came in the red variety.”
“No doubt they’re just as insipid as their white cousins.”
“No doubt,” Ambrose agreed, a little tersely. “What’s so special about their horns?”
“It can turn any man into a slave, their will bound to the horn’s owner.”
Ambrose nodded. “Ah. Now that does sound impressive.”
I scowled. “And yet, my father hardly uses it.”
“Oh?”
“Claims it’d give away his secret. That it was better if his enemies didn’t know how he did what he did. He’s only taken a few slaves, and he’s used them to build a network of spies and informants, gathering information in order to blackmail his enemies.”
“Clever,” Ambrose said.
“Pah,” I said. “Shortsighted. Why bother blackmailing people when you could enslave them? If I had the horn, I’d command my own army.”
“With that kind of power you could conquer the syndicates,” Ambrose said.
“With that kind of power I could lead the Cabal,” I said, pausing to choke down a gulp of sour wine. “But there is no point in dreaming. My father’s disowned me. I will never have the horn.”
Ambrose looked thoughtful. “Unicorns are of the fae. Their horns obey the laws of fae, not the laws of men. And the fae are all about inheritance.”
I set down my cup. “So if he were to die, the horn would be mine, disowned or not?”
“Exactly.”
I snorted. “Little chance of that. He’s so full of rejuvenating potions and poultices, he’ll be rattling about as a lich long after I’m in the grave.”
Something strange glimmered in Ambrose’s eyes. “Not if someone were to help him along.”
I laughed. “Who would dare? Leland March is untouchable.”
“No one’s untouchable,” Ambrose said.
I laughed when I saw his meaning. “You think you could kill him?” He gave a single nod. I searched his blue eyes for signs of a joke and saw only grave
seriousness. “You’re mad.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. A little bit of madness.” He gestured toward the rest of the bar. The necromancer sat in the corner, looking sadly toward me, the stool next to him empty. “What have either of us got to lose?”
“How?”
Ambrose smiled. “That’s my secret. But I’ll make it like he never existed. No blood. No body.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye. “Only with your permission, that is.”
I nodded, his smile widened, and together, we started to scheme.
O O O
It was simple enough to gain entrance to the manor proper. My father never bothered locking the door, believing the garden a sufficient deterrent. The front doors led to a foyer, dimly lit and smelling of dust. When I’d lived here my father’s servant, Branton, had done a passable job keeping it clean, but now cobwebs dangled from the walls. I wondered how Ambrose had dealt with him. The man had been unfailingly loyal.
Passing a pair of shadowed halls that led to long-unused wings, I instead made my way up the spiral staircase that led to the second-floor balcony. The stairs groaned as I ascended, echoing throughout the empty room like dull laughter.
I had two tasks. The first, and most pressing, was to find the horn. I had a few guesses as to where my father kept it, but the manor was vast, and I knew the search might take hours.
The second was how best to dispose of Ambrose. His choice to meet at dusk had been an unexpected boon, giving me the chance to find the horn first. However, if the search went overlong, I’d simply have to kill him when he arrived. No doubt my father had more than a few weapons tucked away. Unpleasant business, but necessary, I reminded myself. Ambrose was less a friend and more a lackey whose usefulness had ended.
At the top of the stairs I turned down a hall covered in soft red carpet that led to the main sitting room. Here was where my father greeted guests not important enough to warrant his private office. The walls were covered with hunting trophies from his youth: a harpy claw, the tip of a kraken tentacle, the gaping, sharp-toothed maw of a sand dragon.
Interspersed between ancient leather chairs stood glass domes on pedestals, each holding dark magic artifacts, the kind of defiled things that even the syndicates would execute a member for owning. Displaying them like this was my father’s way of gloating.