Chapter 1

“I always thought unicorns were magical and special. They were like horse angels. When I was a little girl, I wanted them to be real.”
–Naomi Taylor

Naomi smiled down at the long glass case a little misty-eyed. She stroked the top and wished her grandfather had gotten the chance to give it to her as he’d intended, instead of her finding it while helping to clean out his place. Where he could’ve gotten a ‘unicorn horn’ was beyond her, but then again, he was always eager to go into junk shops and flea markets, picking up this and that as it struck his fancy. She lifted the horn out of the box and set it aside. She put the case in the soapy water to clean off the dust and grime. She glanced over at the horn on her kitchen counter and had to contain her chuckle. It certainly looked authentic. She wondered what it was made of. She rinsed off the case and placed it in the drying rack. She shook out her hands and picked up the horn to wash it next.

The horn was about eighteen inches long and was milky white. It had a spire that ended at a point, which looked rather sharp. She put her fingertip to it to test, and it pricked her. She jerked her hand back and put the wounded digit to her mouth. A drop of blood hung from the tip. Before she could move to wipe it off, the horn absorbed it.

There was a bright flash, and she dropped the horn. It broke in two on her kitchen’s linoleum floor.

But Naomi wasn’t there to pick it up.

It felt like an invisible trap door opened up beneath her, but the ground stayed firmly under her feet. She blinked and swayed as the vertigo faded. It was a nasty shock when she saw her kitchen was gone. In its place was a room with rough white walls and a packed earth floor. There were two broken benches and an overturned table. She didn’t have a chance to look around more because the strange building’s thatch roof was on fire.

She covered her mouth, but she was already coughing as she dashed from the single room building. She ran a couple of yards out and stopped. She bent over to gulp down some clean air. She tried to remember when she’d left her apartment and where she was, but no memories rose in her mind. She had no idea where she was or why she was there. Her confusion was cut short and replaced by panic when she was grabbed by her hair and wrenched upright.

A man with a smoke stained face and greasy hair pulled her nose-to-nose with him. “Well, aren’t you pretty,” he said through piss yellow teeth.

She reacted on instinct. She twisted in the man’s grasp and clawed at his hand. Her nails dug in deep.

"Let go, asshole!"

He hissed and shoved her away. She landed on her side. There was going to be a big bruise on her hip. She scrambled to get up, but the man moved in and shoved a bloody sword into her face. Sword? Her brain blinked at the choice of weapon, but pragmatism made her glad it wasn’t a gun. She could outrun a sword. He had his hand tucked against his stomach. She could see the edges of the angry scratches she’d given him.

“Gonna make you pay for that.”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“The name’s Hammond. And you’re in a lot of trouble, lass. You’re gonna wish you’d been sweet to me when I’m done with you.”

Naomi didn’t agree. She thought she’d regret not going for his eyes. She began to inch back and gathered herself to spring up and run.

Hammond noticed her movements and moved in closer with the sword. “No need to go anywhere. We can have fun right here.” She went cross-eyed focusing on the bobbing sword point inches from her nose. Her stomach twisted at the way he said ‘fun’. She highly doubted his definition of fun synched with hers. She was proven right when he began loosening his belt.

Naomi had never been a violent person. Sure, she’d been in her share of schoolyard scraps, but those were far behind her. She didn’t even carry pepper spray. But she’d made a vow to herself long ago. It was something every woman considered at one point or another and that was what she would do if a man attacked her and tried to rape her. And Naomi had sworn to herself that she would fight. She would not be a victim.

Her hand closed over a fistful of dirt. She wasn’t going to let this gap-toothed, Renfest reject touch her. She waited until his belt was undone, and his trousers fell to his ankles. She couldn’t help noting the tiny tootsie roll bobbing so proudly between his legs. He leered down at her as he grabbed his minuscule member with his free hand and waggled it at her. She smirked back at him and threw the handful of grit in his face.

She hit him square across the eyes. He dropped his penis to wipe his face, but unfortunately, he didn’t drop the sword. He blindly swung out. She barely ducked it.

“You goddamn stinking whore, I’ll skewer you!”

She took off while Hammond struggled to pull his pants back up. She quickly made it to a street and raced down it. She scanned for help or someplace to hide, but every building she passed had all of their doors and windows boarded up. She also came across more men fighting with swords. She skirted around them and kept her eyes averted. She could see red in her peripheral vision, but she would not let herself turn to confirm. The screams were bad enough. She was positive that she was no longer in Atlanta. She doubted she was any even in Georgia.

She was peering around a corner to gauge the safety of going down a new thoroughfare when someone grabbed her hair again from behind. Hammond jerked her back against him. She clawed again at his hand, but instead of letting her go this time, he raised his sword. She froze when the blade touched her throat.

When making that oath to herself, she’d shied away from really thinking about bodily harm. It was one thing to swear to fight, but it was another thing to consider dying, but she had to consider that now. The sword was very sharp against her throat. She was scared to struggle in case it cut her.

“Now, are you going to be a good girl or a dead girl?” he asked.

Her eyes swiveled as far as they could to look back into his bloodshot eyes. She couldn’t help it--her teeth began to chatter. She couldn’t bring herself to consider either option.

“How about a good woman? The world could always use more of them,” said a female voice from behind them. Hammond lowered his sword as he tried to twist around to see the newcomer, but before he could fully turn, a loud crack sounded, and he went limp. The sword fell, and he released her hair.

She whirled around to find him crumbled to the ground before a pair of granny boots. Her eyes traveled up over a long brown skirt and white peasant blouse to arrive at a wrinkled face with a pair of steady blue eyes peering at her.

The old woman hefted up the frying pan to consider it. “And I don’t even like to cook.”


Continue to Chapter 1, part 2