Summertime in Paris
A unicorn running amock in a Parisian park? Just another contract for freelance mythic hunter, Malik Jaeger. [Urban Fantasy - 4,400 word extract from Shock and Awe: Mythocide Level One]
Nature can be so ugly. Look at that lizard over there crunching on a moth. Disgusting, it’s making me gag. I’d shoo it away if I could but it’s too late to move now, my quarry might arrive at any minute.
I try to take my mind off the miniature Godzilla-versus-Mothra action by focusing on Josephine through my sights. She’s sitting about ten metres in front of me on the jaundiced stubble grass below, back to the tree trunk, outlined in parallel beams of light from the setting sun with her pink dress spread out around her like a flower, just like we practised yesterday. She thinks I’m filming her for some hipster art house movie and she’s loving it. She’d be acting less coy if knew she was cradled in the cross-hairs of a high powered tranquiliser dart rifle and not the lens of an HD video camera like she thinks. Well, if everything goes to plan she’ll never need to know.
It's hot, what the French call a canicule, a heatwave. I can smell the tang of my own salts leaching out and I'm so fucking thirsty I could drink a Heineken. It must be hot if the lizards are growing this big and are still out at this time, sunset; the twilight veil between day and night.
Apparently, the heat brings out the things I hunt from wherever they come from which explains why I’ve been so busy this summer. And twilight was ever their time - a time of transition when it’s easy to believe that things can walk between worlds. My client calls it crossing The Veil. He says it with something approaching reverence, like it should be capitalised, like it’s a real place.
Heady sap vapours steam out from the tree branch I’m lying on and mingle with my own perspiration in a stuffy cloud in front of my face. I long to move, to stretch myself just a little bit but I know I can't, not yet. I watch a sparrow perch on the gun barrel and start cheeping, mistaking it for a branch which is understandable since I’m perched in a tree, five metres up from the ground covered in the fake foliage of a ghillie suit, looking like Swamp Thing stranded halfway up a tree. Still, I allow myself a little swell of pride for how good my camouflage must be to fool the little bird.
Not being seen is a big part of sniping but no matter how well you prepare it all comes down to waiting. It’s all about being in the right place at the right time for that shot. Days and weeks of preparations and in less than a second, Bang! Game over. Win or lose.
The planning for this hunt took me almost a week once I’d got news of the sightings: three in a week in the area but nothing concrete, there’s very little certainty in my line of work. I had to go on instinct for where to set up the hide. Once I’d identified the mostly likely location for it to appear, it took me half a day to choose this spot, enough foliage to feel natural but sparse enough to give me a line of fire in several directions. Add several hours to prepare and place the lures to draw it to my killing-zone, right in Josephine’s lap, and it all adds up to one hell of an investment for just one shot.
There’s a crow sitting further up the branch. He’s not fooled like the sparrow. He cocks his head as if to say, “Really, you think this is going to work? You don’t know what’s coming, do you?”
In the end, it’s always a gamble. There’s no guarantee that it’ll even show, here, tonight but I’ve got instinct and experience on my side and I’ve done what I can to weigh the odds in my favour. Yes crow, I nod almost imperceptibly, I think it will work.
There, out of the corner of my eye, I see it: just the hint of a shimmer, like a pane of glass silently shattering in mid-air. I stop myself from turning too brusquely to watch.
Fuck! A fanfare of thudding music announces the arrival of a gang of teenagers coming to spoil the party. The tranquillity is shattered and all my preparations are rendered useless.
I picked this spot to be well away from the joggers, the dog walkers and the cyclists that make up most of the traffic but even here in god knows how many thousand acres of woodland of the Bois de Vincennes, in midsummer when Paris is a wasteland we can’t get any privacy. Why the hell can’t they go south like the rest of their ilk or stay in town and jump in a fountain?
“Do you mind?” Josephine shouts at them as they walk past her, in her mind ruining the shot. “We’re trying to make a film here. Show some respect, you uncivil louts.” Well said Josephine, French is the perfect language for contempt.
In reply, their jeers give the universal sign for “We couldn’t give a fuck,” as they trundle past and install themselves around a picnic table about a hundred metres further off, just close enough to still be a nuisance but hopefully far enough away not to interfere with the job at hand.
Even at that distance they still demand my attention when I should be concentrating. It looks like the loudest one, a pampered, plump braggart, is trying to outdo the others in obnoxiousness even before he’s taken a swig from the bottle of cheap vodka they’re passing around. His t-shirt is that uncomfortable shade of blue so popular with the youth of Paris that makes him stand out from the trees like a fresh bruise on a baby’s face.
He’s such an easy target even at this range. I toy with the idea of taking him out with a tranquiliser dart but they’re not dosed for humans, not even a gross pain-in-the-arse like him - there would be repercussions. It wouldn’t be like a shooting in the banlieue where everyone just runs and accounts are settled later in private. Despite their street trappings, these kids are as bourgeois as left-wing politics. They'd be crying down their smart phones to their mummies and to the police expecting help before he hit the ground. Then there’d be sirens and dogs and all kinds of fuss and my meal ticket would never show up with all that going on.
The music continues as a dull background thud on the edge of earshot, interspersed with indecipherable shouts and bursts of laughter. I scan them one last time through my gun sight. One of them is hard at work rolling a joint, fat boy is hogging the vodka while another one tries to take it from him.
I count six in total, four boys for two girls. One of the girls is bathing in the awkward mix of fawning and play fighting that I guess passes for flirtation in their world.
The other girl is off on her own, dancing with herself; ears plugged with white plastic earbuds, eyes hidden behind gaudy sunglasses, enigmatic Mona Lisa smile on her freckled face which is outlined with tousled red ringlets. To my eye, she’s a lot prettier than her more popular friend and she’s dressed in a way to make any boy of her age drool and any father despair. What there is of her top is all but transparent and her scarlet shorts are so short that they are little more than a chevron pointing between her thighs. She dances confidently on square-heeled ankle-length boots that would give most girls vertigo. Despite her evident charms she seems to be off-limits to the boys and not bothered by the attention the other girl is getting. Dressed like she is, I guess she’s already getting all the attention she needs from someone.
The air temperature drops a degree or two. Not enough to cut through the heat but noticeable if you’re paying attention. I am paying attention. It’s like warmth is being drained from the air by some unseen process greedy for heat or energy.
There it is again, a spider’s web of ice freezing in the air. Thank god they didn’t scare it off. Josephine senses something too but goes quickly back to her posing. Good girl - the show must go on.
It’s happening right beneath me. Never mind the Moulin Rouge; I’ve got a front-row ticket to the greatest show in Paris tonight. I abandon the gunsight and look straight down.
It is a thing of beauty to behold, The Veil stretching like a soap bubble. It’s sensed the maiden Josephine, just like in the old tapestries and is choosing to come and court her or whatever they do. It seems somehow appropriate that this is an old royal hunting ground because things are going to get medieval.
“Keep going whatever happens,” I told Josephine. “It’s a stream-of-consciousness-flash-back scene filmed through leaves and sunlight. There might be some special effects.” I think I convinced her that it’s a central theme to my imagined film. She seemed keen. As far as she’s concerned, she’s playing the film’s protagonist in a flashback. No, there’s no dialogue, I explained. No, there wouldn’t be any other scenes for her but I’ll definitely consider her for my next film (but don’t hold your breath, darling).
I watch as a needlepoint pushes at a soapy membrane that doesn’t burst but instead folds in on itself sending turbulent colour spectra rippling across its half-seen surface. Within that bubble in a bubble, my objective starts to take form.
The mother-of-pearl spiral tip of its horn splinters arcing colour bands that fly off like lepidopterous insects and dissipate into nothingness at the touch of our world beyond The Veil. I watch the boundary of the threshold as it unravels like frayed Celtic knotwork, dissipating into dust in the air beneath me. It’s so wonderful I have to stop myself from sighing like some soppy anime heroine.
The size and solidness of the white-haired horse’s head that slowly manifests beneath the spiral horn break my reverie. It’s a shocking contrast to the insubstantiality of its first brush with our world. A thick, regal neck flows through and shakes itself into our existence. Muscles flow like leaping salmon beneath the silver river of its coat and the golden spume of the mane as the heavy rounded shoulders push through in a magnificent parturition.
The glamour returns to me like a comfortable long-fingered embrace around my shoulders and my jaw hangs open as the gun barrel dips ever so slightly. Come on, I’m going to miss the shot if I don’t pay attention.
It’s hard to fit two such different worlds in my mind at once: ephemera and substantiveness, beauty and banality, dreams made flesh. I feel the need to get it over with before my brain bursts.
Thankfully, now that I have a clear target it’s much easier to concentrate on the matter at hand. My trigger finger is itchy as hell but I know I still have a few more moments to wait. I don’t know what will happen if I shoot it before it has fully crossed over and I sure as hell don’t want to find out. There’s a lot of money riding on this. It’s a standard contract, dead or alive, but I can imagine the added value of a live unicorn to my client. There might even be a bonus in it. No mistakes. I let myself relax and admire the swelling scene once more.
Still, there’s something wrong about this. I’ve never felt this way before with any of my other contracts: hunting a yale or a bagwyn never made me react this way. It just feels wrong to want to shoot this regal beast, even if it’s just with a tranquiliser - I get the feeling that it’s against some unwritten law strong enough to grip both our worlds. Am I having second thoughts about going through with it?
Fuck that! Think about the money. If I don’t mess this up I’ll have enough to put a down payment on my own private island. It’s just another contract, this time for a big horse with a spike on its head, that’s all.
The unicorn raises its snout to sniff the air. It seems to pick up a scent and it takes a tentative step towards one of the mead and spice lures. It’s my own recipe made from nine parts folklore and one part desperation, you never know what’s going to work until you try it. It’s not as if there are enough of us in this business to get together and compare notes. As far as I know, I could be the only one and I’ve only ever had one client.
Lucky me, my recipe seems to be working and it’s walking towards Josephine. Does it smell like home big fella?
Crow decides that this is the perfect time to fuck up my plans and hops off the branch into flight with a caw that stops the manifestation in its tracks. It looks in my direction so I freeze and hope my camouflage is up to the job.
It’s looking right at me but I don’t think it can see me. Staring back into its albino eye the size of a goose egg I sense beneath the armour of dignity and nobility that there’s a hint of sadness - a stallion lost in another world and too proud to ask for directions.
I breathe again as its gaze returns to the front and it takes another step forward towards the lure. The motion pulls its flanks through until only its tail remains beyond The Veil but it drags a wake of insubstantiality behind it.
Almost there big fella. Come on Josephine, time for you to do your stuff.
I put the sight back to my eye and prepare the shot. I can tell by the look of wonder on her face that Josephine can see it too. I can’t tell if she can see exactly the same thing as me. From what I’ve learnt in the business, how these manifestations appear depends a lot on what the viewer expects to see. Most of the time people don’t expect to see a kobold walking down the high street so they don’t see it even if it’s there. Those that do notice something are just as likely to see a sad, old beggar as a mischievous beast-man from another world. As far as I know, she could be seeing a Shetland pony or even a dog if her imagination isn’t big enough to let a real, live unicorn in.
The beast looks right at her then dismisses her with a shake of that thick sinewed neck and it starts sampling the air again.
Come on now horsey, are you telling me that a plate of honey and cloves is more attractive to a unicorn than a maiden’s lap? That’s like saying…
…Wait a minute. Oh Josephine, you lying little minx. I guess it was too much to expect my Virgin Actress Wanted ad on craigslist Paris to be taken seriously. Then again, over eighteen, size ten (for the dress, it was the largest size Disney princess dress I could find on short notice) and still pucelle wasn’t too much to ask for was it? Apparently it was, as far as Josephine is concerned. Maybe there was a misunderstanding, something lost in translation, but I was sure that she had understood that I wanted an actress who was a virgin, not an actress to play one.
She’s stopped acting now and sits in awe as the beast struts past her in search of another scent, off to the left. It can’t be any of my lures. I haven’t prepared anything over there. There’s only that group of annoying kids with their ugly music - the antithesis of what a unicorn is supposed to be attracted to.
Shit, it’s moving out of my kill zone. I’ve got to take the shot now.
I pull the trigger and there’s a sudden whoosh and a pop as the dart shoots out and embeds itself in the unicorn’s flank. Its tail flicks up like it’s trying to swish a fly but other than that the unicorn doesn’t seem to notice that it has just been shot with a heroic dose of ketamine as it trots off straight towards the red-haired girl.
So it looks like she isn’t what she seems either - dressed like a slut and dancing like a pole dancer but still chaste: yang to Josephine’s yin. In neither case is the unicorn fooled by the costume.
She’s oblivious to its approach, dancing with her back to us and her friends aren’t paying much more attention. It’s up to a trot, a canter.
In that time I’ve reloaded and I fire again as soon as the shot presents itself through the trees. The second dart is right on target just a few centimetres away from the first. Man, I’m good. It slows to a stop in a few paces. It should be going down anytime … now?
Instead of collapsing as it should with that much anaesthetic in its backside, it simply stops and turns to look at Josephine who is sobbing like a spurned lover, as if to say, How dare you! Then it turns to glare at me through one pink eye. It bares its teeth in a grotesque, threatening grin when it recognises the source of its annoyance. It looks a lot less regal and a lot more savage now with traces of foam in the corners of its mouth. It would look more at home in a Dürer woodcut than a courtly tapestry.
I’ve just realised that the birds have stopped singing.
Perhaps it still can’t see me or maybe it’s just decided to ignore me but it turns its attention back to the girl. I don’t know what it’s got in mind for her but something in that gaze told me that it isn't thinking of showering her with butterflies and rainbows. I think she might be in danger. And never mind her, that’s several hundred thousand euros of mythic horse flesh running out of range on me.
I don’t bother to reload the tranquiliser gun since it’s only making it mad and I rip off the ghillie suit and scramble down the tree trunk. Once my hands are free I pull out my M-10 machine pistol and hit the ground running. Real bullets now, the stakes have changed. Just wing it, I remind myself, I need it alive.
Sprinting to catch up I see that the girl’s friends have seen it too - a couple of them are running towards it, bloody fools.
I fire a shot in its flank, sixty metres away and at full pelt but I’m on target. Blood spits where the bullet hits but it does nothing to slow the galloping beast down.
Ahead, I see that blue boy is in motion. He has more bravado than I would have given him credit for; he’s waving his arms, laughing arrogantly as he senses the chance to torment something new. I guess he sees something quite different to what I’m chasing. Unlucky for him - this manifestation is not dependent on his perception.
It turns in its tracks and charges at him. I can see the disbelief clutch at his features as the horn enters him just below the sternum and out the other side at the base of his skull.
The beast’s shoulders bulge as its brakes to a halt. It lifts its head to display the gruesome trophy before bowing to let the corpse slide slowly off the horn to the ground. It’s licking its lips.
Two of the gang flee but one of them is still coming forward, Mr joint roller. Hasn’t he seen what just happened?
The unicorn takes a bite from the dead boy’s liver - and joint-boy sees it for what it really is. He crumples to his knees sobbing, hands grasped together as if in prayer. The beast barely gives him a second glance as it devours another mouthful of human foie gras. Then it lunges, piercing him cleanly through the throat. I thought unicorns were peaceful herbivores. Today is turning out to be a real learning experience for me in so many ways.
I’m almost on it and I let rip sending a quick burst of nine millimetre down the length of its body that finally gets its attention. It’s time for me to teach it something.
Unbelievably, little red riding shorts is still carelessly dancing through it all, deaf and blind to the massacre playing out behind her.
It turns on me now. I instantly regret playing the hero as I'm now head to head with something only slightly less deadly than a charging, rabid rhinoceros.
Don’t kill it! Who am I kidding? I don’t think I could if I wanted to. Shit, it’s whipping my bullets out of the air with its horn, like we’re in The Matrix or something while all I can do is try and keep upright as I stagger backwards.
When the trigger clicks impotently I guess I’m out of bullets so I drop the gun and pull out my hunting knife ready to make a last stand. The creature tears up the ground between us at an alarming speed. I find myself centre stage in a lethal mash-up of a bullfight and a joust and I haven’t got a lance or even a cape to play with, only a knife and my wits.
Here it comes. I brace for impact.
I somehow cheat the bloody horn and barely avoid being trampled by its hooves as I roll out of its path at the last second, flailing blindly with the knife.
The unicorn screeches to a halt, its hooves ploughing foot wide troughs in the sunbaked soil then it rears in the air spitting out a storm cloud of pink saliva and hatred before hammering back to earth in front of me. Blood and gore mat the hair on its face like grisly warpaint.
I can see there’s no point hiding so I come out to face it. It’s bleeding from a gash on its shoulder so I managed to cut it when it came at me. At least I know that I can wound it although I don’t think that knowledge is going to do me much good.
“Come on you psychotic Shadowfax; let’s see what you’ve got.”
I run and lunge, I might as well play out the endgame on my terms. The unicorn parries my strike with the languid skill of a duelling master, slicing my thigh and knocking the knife out of my grasp in one smooth move before it spears my torso with its horn, pinning me to a tree.
There is deliberate malice in its eyes as it regards me beneath its bloody brow in the shadow of that horn and then looks over to the fat boy's carcass as if sizing up its next course.
I see the red-haired girl walking towards it. What is the problem with these kids? Have they no sense of self-preservation? I haven’t the strength to ward her off with a shout or even a gesture.
She stoops, picks up my gun, takes aim and pulls the trigger. I wince as I imaging hearing the quiet click of the firing pin hitting nothing but by some miracle, a bullet explodes out of the chamber. I guess it jammed before I fired the last cartridge then somehow unjammed itself when it hit the ground.
The bullet slams the unicorn squarely on the side of its head and exposes a ragged slab of skull just behind the eye socket. You didn’t see that coming, did you? I almost smile.
It steps backwards, pulling its horn out of me slowly and painfully then it goes to finish her off. Don't worry my girl; it'll all be over soon enough for both of us.
Without the horn to hold me up, I fall headfirst to the ground, all of the fight gone. Between the dead weight of my own body and the scrape of the earth, I can feel my knife underneath me. It takes me all of my strength to arch my body ever so slightly to let my hand move and touch the pommel but I don’t have the strength to grip it.
I turn my face from the dirt to watch the coup de grace. The red-head points the gun but this time it clicks empty. She lets her arms fall to her sides in mute acceptance. With all of her swagger and her allure gone she’s just a tired little girl who’s given up trying to outrun her fate.
Josephine is standing behind her like a ghost, drunk on the beast’s glamour but still cognisant. Her hands clutch at her mouth, imprisoning her scream and her eyes are clawed open with disbelief.
Not her too. She’s only here because of me. It’s my fault she’s going to die. It’s my fault we’re all going to die. I muster whatever reserves of strength and volition are keeping me going and bind them with thoughts of responsibility and sheer bloody-mindedness into one last surge, springing upwards towards the beast’s throat.
Struck with a butcher's precision, the blade sinks hilt deep into flesh severing whatever meat, veins and arteries it finds in its path.
The beast staggers, stumbling drunkenly, then showering me in hot, dark blood, its legs buckle gracelessly and it collapses like a broken chair. Spent, I fall to the ground next to it.
I claw my way to a seated position with my back to the tree. I reach for my phone with my fingertips and slowly scrape it out of my pocket. There’s a sickly susurration from flies already feasting on the unicorn carcass.
The girl stands over me and watches on as I dial awkwardly with one hand while keeping the pressure on my wound with the other hand. Josephine has fainted to the ground in her shadow.
My client answers the phone.
“Did you get it?”
“It’s done,” I say.
Gun in hand, she turns and walks away without speaking a word.
Shock and Awe: Mythocide Level One available from Amazon
If only he’d had a silver bullet, much of the gore could have been avoided.
Malik my wounds. Great stuff.