Jonathan Strahan - The Best Science Fiction & Fantasy of the Year Volume 5 An anthology of stories

After all, haven’t I sinned enough for one day?

In Sunday school the next morning, we talk about the Book of Daniel. When we get to the part about the one-horned goat, everyone goes quiet. It’s bad timing on the teacher’s part.

“Ms. Guzman?” A boy raises his hand. “Do you think that’s a unicorn? That one they put on the news the other day—it kind of looked like a goat.”

“It’s possible,” Ms. Guzman says. “In fact, there are older translations of the Bible that call it a unicorn. When this translation was made, however, we didn’t know there were unicorns, so they called it a goat instead. If Daniel did see a unicorn in his prophetic vision, what do you think it meant?”

“That whatever was coming would be much more vicious and dangerous than if it was a goat,” says one of the girls. “If it really was a unicorn in his vision, that makes it a much scarier one.”

“And it makes more sense if it is a unicorn,” says another girl, “because it goes on to say that neither the ram nor anyone else was strong enough to withstand the goat’s power. And that’s what they say about unicorns, that no one can cure the poison, that no one can catch or kill them.”

“Someone can catch them,” I find myself saying. “And maybe the goat kind of unicorn—Well, maybe they aren’t vicious. So maybe the vision meant that Daniel should—”

“What?” asks the boy. “Hang out with the man-eating monster?”

“He hung out with man-eating lions,” I snap.

“I think we’re getting a little off topic,” says Ms. Guzman. “The point is, no matter how powerful this unicorn might be—and the angel Gabriel explains to Daniel that the unicorn in the vision represents the pagan king Alexander the Great—all these kingdoms, the ram, the unicorn, all of it, are destined to fall because they are man’s kingdoms, human kingdoms, and not the kingdom of God.”

Ms. Guzman talks about God a little more, but I can’t pay attention. I’ve been praying to God about Flower for weeks, hoping He’ll forgive me for lying to my parents, hoping He’ll forgive me for betraying Rebecca’s and John’s memories by taking care of a unicorn. I’ve been waiting for a single sign of violence from Flower, a clear sign that he is as dangerous as all the others so I can kill him with a clear conscience—but I’ve not seen anything. Is it because Flower isn’t a killer? Or is it because I’m like Daniel in the lion’s den? Is God protecting me?

And if so, why didn’t He protect Rebecca and John?

Weeks pass, and Flower remains my secret. The unicorn is eating real food now—chicken thighs and kidneys and pork shoulders and anything else I can find on sale at the supermarket. I’m burning through my savings at an alarming rate, but I know my mom would notice if I started stealing meat from our fridge. Flower must be deadly bored, hanging out in the makeshift shelter all day, but he’s out of sight of my parents and out of reach of any danger, so that’s all that matters. With the woods off-limits to everyone in the neighborhood, the only thing that could hurt him is one of his elders, and I haven’t sensed any during our nightly runs through the forest. The unicorn likes when I run alongside him, I’ve learned, and I admit, I love how fast we can go together. Branches and roots are never in my way when I’m flying through the forest with the unicorn at my side. If only he weren’t illegal, I’d keep Flower around and stay on the track team.

But if I tried that, the unicorn might try to eat the spectators. Plus, Aidan would totally call me out on being a jock. Not that it matters. Even if Aidan did decide he liked me, I could never go out with him. Every time I see his cast, I’m reminded that it’s only through God’s grace that I avoided being the cause of his death. I could have killed them all, and yet I persist in this defiant path through my own weakness.

School is torture now. Since finding out about my cousins, Summer writes my odd behavior off as post-traumatic stress when it comes to unicorns. Yves doesn’t correct her, and I don’t enlighten any of them. They know unicorns are deadly, my parents tell me that they are evil, and I know everyone is right.

But I still love mine.

Flower is already half as tall as his mother, and his silver-white coat turns long and wavy. I draw the line at brushing it, but I’m pretty sure that if I bothered to, Flower would look as pretty as any unicorn in a fairy story. Even his dangerous horn is pretty—a smooth, creamy gray that twists like a corkscrew and seems to grow longer by the day. You can hardly see the remnants of the flower-shaped marking that gave my Flower his name.

One night, as I sneak into the woods for our usual evening romp, I catch a strange scent in the air. The reek of unicorn is as strong as ever, but there’s something else carried aloft on the summer breeze. Something horrible. Flower rustles in the shelter as I approach, and the unicorn’s elation stings like a cramp. What kind of life have I consigned this animal to? Alone all day, chained to a tree, never allowed to run except for a short half-hour each night when I should be in bed?

From my pocket I retrieve the bits of ham I secreted away from dinner and hurry toward the clearing. The smell grows stronger, and as I round the last tree, I put my foot down in something slick and sprawl onto the forest floor.

At eye level is a rabbit. Or what used to be a rabbit. The remains—mostly skin—are almost unrecognizable, except for a pair of floppy ears.

A few feet farther on is the half-digested skin of a chipmunk. Then a squirrel, and a scattering of sparrows.

I raise myself on my elbows and try not to gag.

In the center of the carnage sits Flower, with what looks like leftover raccoon all over his snout, and his chain lying in crumpled chewed-up chunks at his hooves. Flower looks at me, proud as punch, and thumps his tail against the earth.

Flower? Try Flayer .

My killer unicorn is finally living up to the name.

I fix the restraints, but the unicorn gnaws through them again. I spend the last of my savings on the heaviest chain the local hardware store supplies. Flayer, as I’ve taken to calling him, takes four days to chew up this one and then, in retaliation, procures a feast. I find the unicorn on his back in the shelter, four hooves in the air, drunk with the blood of small woodland creatures.

Oddly enough, this new evidence of the unicorn’s deadly abilities only confuses me further. I wonder if killer unicorns are really the work of the Devil. I’ve seen Flayer in his natural element, covered in gore, tearing apart flesh and bone, and loving every minute—and though he’s not exactly a candidate for a petting farm, neither does he seem like an evil demon. Dogs and cats and great white sharks do that too. Biscuit likes leaving mice and frogs and crickets as gifts on old Mrs. Schaffer’s porch. I eat cows and chickens and pigs and fish. Flayer is a predator. That’s not against God’s plan.

But then I remember what that other unicorn did to my cousins, and I’m not so sure. Perhaps my ability to accept these acts of violence in my unicorn is nothing more than a sign of my own corrupted soul. I defied my parents, indulged the magic, raised a killer unicorn by hand. Maybe I’m past all redemption.

As if to prove the point, on our run this evening Flayer decides to snatch bats out of thin air for an evening snack. I hear him crunch their little bones, listen to them squeak their last, and shut my eyes to the sight of him tearing through their leathery wings. An animal that eats bats must be a creature of darkness, right?

We return to the shelter and I get Flayer settled down for the night, encouraging him to lie quietly and remain here, and above all, not to destroy the final length of chain. Thankfully, even when he has escaped his bonds, the unicorn hasn’t wandered too far on his own yet. With the woods being off-limits, I can only hope that whatever slim precautions I can take will be enough to protect him from people, and enough to protect people from him . I’ve read stuff online about how baby fawns will wait in the brush for their mother to forage, but Flayer’s obviously not going to be a baby much longer. He’ll graduate from bats to people. Then what will I do?