Page 86 of Playing with Fire

The higher-ranked cop sighed, lifted his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. There’s only one talking, fire-breathing unicorn I know of, and she was kidnapped from New York last week. Eight days ago.”

“Last week?” I squealed, lurching to my hooves and whinnying my alarm. “So long? Eight days? Where? Where?”

How could it have been so long? My mind blanked as I struggled to account for so many days.

“We’re in Vermont.”

I paced in a circle, whinnied again, and bucked so the world could witness my fury. “Vermont!”

Snorting smoke, I pawed at the sand and trembled with rage. I expected to lose a day or two due to the sedative, but the realization I’d been gone for eight days horrified me. What had happened to Quinn?

Was Quinn all right?

Officer Andrews gaped at me while the other cop pulled his cell from his pocket, dialed a number, and held it to his ear. “Request a copy of the Quinn file from the NYPD. We might have a hit. Can you confirm the key points about the woman taken from Chief Quinn’s suite? In particular, I want to know if there was any evidence of A+ transformative substances—”

“D,” I corrected. “D grade pills, may-be ten? May-be more? No re-mem-ber count, new stash. A+++ vial pixie dust, may-be broke. I cer-tee-fied with CDC.”

There. I covered my furry ass. Maybe I wouldn’t go to jail after all.

“It seems I’m being corrected. D grade trans, a possible vial of pixie dust, A+++. That does explain a lot. Yes, the unicorn is talking to us and appears to be coherent. When she was brought to the stable, she was rather lethargic. She bordered on non-responsive when she stuck her head in one of my cruisers.”

I pricked my ears forward and stood still. “You chee-fuh of po-leese?”

“One moment, the unicorn is asking me a question. Yes, I’m the chief.”

With a squeal, I tossed my head and stomped my hoof. “You bring me my chief, yes? Bring!”

“And now she’s whinnying at me and demanding her chief. I’m assuming she means Chief Quinn, as she was in his hotel room.”

Did they not know Quinn belonged to me? “Bring me Quinn. Mine. Mine. Bring. Bring my husband. Bring!”

Again, the men gawked at me. The chief recovered first and cleared his throat. “When you’re getting information from the Quinn file, could you please inquire on Chief Quinn’s marital status? In particular, could you ask if he is married to a unicorn?”

“You idiot. I human. Change back later. Call CDC. Profess-ur Yale teach you proper care of u-nee-corn. You bring me my chief. Mine. No share. Mine.”

The chief chuckled. “I’m being scolded by a unicorn, and she just called me an idiot.”

“If you bring me my chief, I no call you idiot.” I thought it was a reasonable offer, but if he was going to start cooperating, I’d give him some helpful advice on the proper care of a unicorn. “You bring me meat, I no call you idiot. You bring me nay-palm snack, I like you a lot. Cee-four? I like gas-oh-leen. Yes, bring me food. Hun-gree.”

“I can’t even make this shit up, but the unicorn is asking for meat, napalm, C4, and gasoline.”

Satisfied the police chief understood my demands, I curled up in my hole, showed them my sharp, pointy teeth, and waited for them to cooperate.

Due to its stable nature, the cops opted to feed me treats of C4 rolled into little balls, as anyone could handle the clay-like substance without risking accidental detonation. I doubted it would blow even if they dropped a piece directly onto the heat lamps. A CDC rep oversaw the explosives; I guessed he had brought about five delicious pounds.

They used it as bribes to ensure my cooperation. One pound doled out in marble-sized pieces bought three vets enough time to do a head-to-hoof examination.

It took another pound to convince me to allow them to shave off my fur so they could give me fifty-seven stitches. I ended up losing more than half my fur to remove bloodied mats. I resembled a poodle, and I wailed my dismay. A third pound of C4 bought four dog groomers enough time to finish the job so I looked like a nice poodle rather than a scraggly one.

I voiced my anguish as low, quiet moans between offerings of C4.

Without my precious fur to protect me, I froze whenever I strayed from the heat lamps.

“Cruel,” I accused, huddling as close as I could to the lamps without knocking them over.

The police chief, a middle-aged man who went by the name of Hollands, sighed. “You were covered in blood and needed stitches. You’re lucky you didn’t break your legs along with your ribs.

Chief Hollands sounded a lot like my Quinn when he was irritated. “My chief. Where is he?”