“Sweetheart, given the traditional criteria, you’re way too late for . . . um . . .” Heart racing, sweat rolling down her back, her hindbrain took over and spun her behind the lamppost as the unicorn passed. She could feel the impact of each hoof with the ground. Smell salt and something sour that coated the roof of her mouth. Hear the damp snort that ended each breath. See that the shadows on the horn were stains, red-brown not black.

If this unicorn came out of a fairy tale, then it was the kind of fairy tale that featured severed feet dancing through the forest not singing mice creating haute couture.

She turned as it . . . No, he; definitely he. She turned as he did, keeping the lamppost between them, fighting the stupidly suicidal urge to run. Her heart pounded in time with the hoofbeats, nearly deafening her, nearly drowning out . . .

Madonna?

Someone was singing “Like a Virgin” off in the shadows between two eucalyptus trees.

The unicorn reared, screamed in rage, and charged toward the singer.

Arm draped around the post to keep her standing, Kiren thought that was a bit of an overreaction. It was a decent cover, if a tad clichéd under the circumstances.

His horn split the air between the trees—literally split the air, Kiren caught a glimpse of a sunlit wood before it closed behind him.

The silence that followed had substance, texture, and Kiren sucked tiny gulps of air past her teeth so as not to disturb it. The underbrush rustled and she stopped even that, aware she was fully visible, but convinced it would be the sound of her breathing that would give her position away.

When Charlie Gale stepped out onto the road, blue strip in her hair, jacket and jeans over red cowboy boots, Kiren drew in a deep lungful of air, choked on a bug, and went to her knees. After a moment, the coughing that had been about the bug turned into something verging on hysteria and she couldn’t stop. Then strong hands gripped her shoulders and a quiet, commanding voice told her to breathe.

“Deep breath. Slowly. Okay, now let it out.”

In. Out. Eyes streaming, Kiren straightened. “That was you,” she said to Charlie Gale. “Singing.”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“And before that, that was a unicorn.”

“Yes, it was.”

Kiren accepted a hand up onto her feet, then waved off any other help. “What the hell is going on?”

Charlie Gale glanced toward the spot where the unicorn had disappeared, then back at her. “Dr. Mehta, do you want to go for a coffee?”

Her mouth tasted like she’d been chewing coffee filters. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Tea?”

Kiren adjusted her glasses, brushed the dirt off her knees, and struggled for detachment as she noted a hoofprint gouged into the road. “I could do tea.”

CHAPTER TEN