Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(21)

The old man sighed. “It’s getting too chilly for you, isn’t it?”

“I’ll man-age. Little cold.” Since he seemed in the mood to talk while driving, I trotted alongside his car and shot glares—and fire—at anyone who dared to complain we took up an entire lane. I even kept right on the line.

If a cop pulled me over, I’d eat him. On second thought, I decided eating one of Chief Quinn’s officers wouldn’t go over well, so I’d settle with a nibble instead.

“You really are a one-track mind when you’re a unicorn. Yes, Bailey. There’s a fireplace where we’re going, and I was very clear in my instructions there needs to be a fire waiting for you when we arrive. As if I’d forget something that basic.”

I snorted, and trails of smoke rose from my nostrils. “Far?”

“Not too far, no. Thirty minutes if traffic doesn’t get too bad.”

“Where?”

“Just to College Point. Might even make it in twenty if we’re lucky.”

I flattened my ears. “Queens?” I struggled with the word, my thick equine tongue unwilling to cooperate. “Coll-eeg Point in Queens?”

“Yes, in Queens. You’ve lived there for how long? You should know where we’re going. Pay attention to where you’re trotting.”

The nice thing about being stuck as a unicorn was the wide assortment of natural weapons at my disposal. The instant we stopped at a light, I shoved my nose into his car and gave him a good look at my teeth. “You try dodging cars.”

“I know, I know. I can’t help that the cabbies are idiots on even the best of the days and don’t like sharing the road with others.”

I stomped my hooves to keep warm while waiting for the light to change. In my impatience, I unsheathed my claws and dug them into the asphalt. “Burn them!”

“No, Bailey. You can’t burn the cabbies.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t eat them, either.”

“Ab-so-loot-lee no fun, Profess-ur Yale.”

“Don’t kill the cabbies, Gardener. Don’t vandalize their cars, either. And for the love of God, please do not attack any police horses should we meet one on the way. The last thing I need is to have to explain to Chief Quinn why you went after one of his mounted officers again.”

I pulled my head out of Professor Yale’s car and snorted, grateful the light had changed to green so I wouldn’t have to continue the discussion. It wasn’t my fault the NYPD had decided to have a stallion on the force, and it certainly wasn’t my fault I had refused to lose my virginity to some damned horse. One day I would decide to overcome my social ineptitude long enough to find a man—a human man—willing to sleep with me.

Stupid whore horses.

Whatever happened, I couldn’t let Chief Samuel Quinn figure out I was a virgin who only knew the finer points of sexuality thanks to the internet, too much time spent in a bar, and having a faery for a boss.

“He start it. I fin-ish it. Bad whore. Horse. Bad horse.”

Professor Yale laughed. “Whore, horse. Pretty much the same thing when it comes to a stallion. I’ll give you some credit. You didn’t kill the horse and eat him.”

“Should have.”

“Next time, just gallop away. You’re faster.”

No mundane horse had a hope in hell of catching me, that was true. I could even outrun a cheetah, and on a good day, I could maintain better than highway speed for ten minutes, after which I collapsed into a useless, quivering heap. Traffic lights gave me a chance to catch my breath, and even when we hit fifty, I didn’t have trouble keeping pace with Professor Yale’s car. “Horse need taught less-on.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“Yes, did.”

Another red light halted traffic, and thanks to a bunch of clueless tourists, we ended up waiting two cycles. I sighed at the delay. “We go to an a-part-ment?”

“No, I’m taking you to a proper house. I picked it with your special needs in mind. The owner has a fireplace, a sizable fenced backyard, and everything you need on hand. I even found time to hunt down a fur rug for you.”

I pricked my ears forward. The first mistake the CDC had made when I had transformed for the first time involved where I’d sleep. Straw made for terrible bedding for a tired, cranky unicorn capable of lighting things on fire. While flax was better, it still made me sneeze like straw did, and when I sneezed, things had a tendency to burn.

I really hadn’t liked the sprinkler system, and I’d spent the rest of my first transformation shivering in a miserable, wet, furry ball until the CDC figured out I needed to be kept somewhere toasty warm to minimize the risk to me and everything around me.

Manners mattered, and determined not to alienate one of the few people who seemed to care enough to go out of his way to help me, I said, “Thank you.”

“This polite version of you is really starting to creep me out. Stop it. You’re welcome.”

I decided to shut my mouth before it got me into trouble. Once we reached the outskirts of Queens, traffic lightened enough that I needed to put in real effort to keep pace with Professor Yale. By the time he pulled into a driveway behind an NYPD cruiser, lather dampened my coat, and I blew air in order to catch my breath.

In the garage, I spotted a sickeningly familiar red sports car.