The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,113

it on my fingers.

“Is that helping?”

She nodded.

“Here,” she said, and reached into the packet. When she had some of the painkiller on her fingertip, she wiped the liquid along the claw-marks she’d cut into me. I was so drugged up and cold that I couldn’t really feel it, but I appreciated the gesture.

“You ready to try moving? It’s still gonna sting a bit.”

“Sure.”

I helped her up onto her one good foot, put an arm around her back, and we stumbled over to the bleachers like a couple of injured players after a game. She lay down on her stomach and sucked on the twig for everything it would give while I ran alcohol and fire over my knife. When I’d given it my best shot at disinfecting, I sat on the bench below her and went about carefully removing the bolt. Luckily, I hadn’t hit bone and the wound was clean.

“Warren, what was she selling you anyway?”

The Gnome was sitting away from us, sulking, but he was willing to open up the case. Inside, there was something that looked like a crystal flower. Not pretty, though. Jagged and twisted, with edges too sharp to touch. It was sitting in the metal box on a velvet cushion and I had no idea what it was.

“Some kind of jewel?” I asked.

“Not even,” said Warren. “Just glass. Well made, but nothing special.”

“Then why did you want it?”

“I did not want it! I wanted the real thing.”

I watched blood run out of her leg, pool on the bleachers, mix with the water and fall down into the darkness.

“The real what?” I asked.

Warren slammed the box shut in frustration.

“Unicorn horn.”

I stopped working. The Gnome and the Cat sent their eyes to the floor, rightfully embarrassed.

The story goes that there was once a tree whose roots reached so deep into the planet that they touched the great river itself. One spring, the branches bore a crop of rare apples infused with sacred power. When a herd of wild horses passed beneath the tree, they fed upon that fruit.

We don’t know whether the change was instantaneous or if it happened over time, but the animals became connected to the river. Soon, people from all across the continent told stories of a herd of horses with spirals of blue mist spinning from their foreheads. Apparently, each of these misty horns was an actual piece of the river connected to their minds.

That theory was proved to be correct because when the great river froze up, the tragedy was mirrored in the faces of the animals. The horns, once translucent, solidified into sharp stone. Over time, the infection grew back into their brains like pieces of coral. The shards dug deeper into their heads, twisting their faces, their senses and their sanity. Each day, the beasts become more unpredictable and more dangerous. Now a Unicorn in the wild is not only a terrible omen but also a deadly predator.

Even though they’d gone from divine to dangerous, Unicorns were still protected. The idea that someone would hunt one down to take the horn from its head was barbaric. I looked down at the Cat-lady, who had closed her eyes.

“You’ve come to Sunder to sell shit like this?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, so I poked my finger into her leg.

“Ecchh!” She pushed herself up on her hands and hissed at me. Her claws reappeared back out the ends of her gloves, but it was only a threat. For now.

“Where are you getting Unicorn horn?” I asked. “And lie back down, or I won’t be able to get this bolt out.”

She dropped back down and rested her head on her hands.

“I’m not getting it from anywhere,” she said. “It’s just like the Gnome told you. I made it with glass. It’s a fake.”

At least she hadn’t actually been out in the wilderness slaughtering legendary beasts for a bit of bronze. But that was only part of the problem.

“Warren. What do you want with Unicorn horn?”

The little fellow was hunched over, rubbing his hands together, grumbling away in his native tongue.

“Warren?”

He didn’t look up, but he spat out an answer.

“I am dying,” he said. The wind went quiet.

“We’re all dying, Warren.”

“But I am dying soon, and it is not going to feel so good.” He lifted up his hands in front of his face, opening and closing them like he was squeezing two invisible stress balls. “I can feel my bones. My joints. They are… rusting. Cracking into pieces. Doctor says there