“Damn it, lady. I’m trying to help you.”
“Aren’t you the one that shot me?”
“That was two whole minutes ago. Don’t hold a grudge.”
I crept closer again and, this time, she managed not to swat me. She looked Human, other than the claws and a glowing set of cat’s eyes. No fur or other obvious animal traits. Her hair was long, dark and tied back in thick dreadlocks.
“Hold still for a moment,” I said, pulling out my knife. She did as I asked, allowing me to slice the cuff of her trousers up to the point where the bolt had gone through them. The wind and thick material had slowed down my shot so that it only went a couple of inches into her flesh. I pulled out a clean handkerchief and my pack of Clayfields. “Anyone got any alcohol?”
Warren reached into his jacket and fished out a silver flask. I took a sip that warmed my insides.
“What is it?”
“Brandy. My wife makes it.”
I splashed it onto the bleeding leg and wiped it dry with the handkerchief. The Werecat gritted her teeth but thankfully didn’t attack.
I pulled one Clayfield out the pack and put it between her lips.
“Bite down on the end and suck. Your tongue will go numb but that means it’s working.”
Her eyes were yellow-green and full of loathing.
“I wouldn’t mind getting my ass out of this snow,” she said.
“Let me do one thing first.”
I crushed the whole pack of Clayfields in my fist. There were still a dozen twigs inside, so when I pushed the cardboard together and rubbed it, I turned them into a paste. The goo slid out of the packet, onto the wound, and I smooshed it around the bolt, trying not to get it on my fingers.
“Is that helping?”
She nodded.
I helped her up onto her one good foot, put an arm around her back, and we stumbled over to the bleachers. She laid down on her stomach while I sat on the bench below and went about removing the bolt.
“Warren, what was she selling you anyway?”
The Gnome was sitting away from us, sulking, but he opened up the case. Inside, there was something that looked like a crystal flower with multitudes of thin petals that spiraled into a sharp point. 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.”
“Then why did you want it?”
“I did not want it! I wanted the real thing.”
“The real what?”
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 and the magic caused spirals of purple mist to spin out from their foreheads.
They were rarely seen and universally 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.
“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 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 rested her head on her hands.
“I’m not getting it from anywhere. 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 it?”
The little fellow was hunched over, 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 is nothing to be done. We little folk had magic in our bodies. Without it, something inside does not know how to work.” He put a hand on the case that held the false horn. “I found a new doctor who told me that there is power in certain things. He said that a horn is a piece of pure magic and if I bring him one, perhaps he can put some of that power back into me.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying the obvious – that he was a gullible fool who was only making things worse for himself. If he was sick, then the last thing he needed was to be out in the cold on a night like tonight, looking for a piece of the impossible.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for long.
“Warren, you know that’s ridiculous, right?”
He didn’t say anything. Neither did the woman. I took out the bolt and tied up the wound so the woman could put some weight on it when we walked back to town. The Werecat and the Gnome didn’t say anything else, and I finally learned to do the same.
We were back in the guts of Sunder City around midnight. Warren paid me what I was owed and sulked home. Then it was just me and the Cat.
“How’s the leg holding up?” I asked.
“Lucky for you, it feels terrible.”
“Why lucky?”
“Because I have a swelling desire to kick you in the teeth.”
When we hit Main Street, she told me she’d be all right on her own. I guessed that she just didn’t want me knowing where she lived. I was fine with that. I was freezing and fresh out of painkillers, so I wanted to be fast asleep before the medicine wore off.
“Make sure you get a real doctor to look at that,” I said.
“No shit. I can probably catch an infection just by looking at you.”
She meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t too wrong. My building hadn’t had hot water since the fires went out. In winter, it takes a stronger man than me to wash every day.
“But thanks,” she added. “If I had to be shot by someone tonight, at least it was a guy who was willing to patch me up afterwards. What’s your name?”
“Fetch Phillips. Man for Hire.”
She shook my hand and I felt the tips of those claws rest against my skin.
“Linda Rosemary.”
The night had worked out about as well as it could have. She’d tried to put one over on us, we’d caught her out, she’d gotten an injury in exchange for our wasted time and we all got to go home to bed. It was fair, somehow. Fairer than we’d come to expect.
She walked up Main Street, one hand resting against the wall, and I thought she’d given me just the right amount of trouble as long as I never had to deal with her again.
But Sunder City makes a few things without fail: hunger in winter, drunks at night and trouble all year round.