19. The incubus wanted to play poker. #3
Sirens meant vehicles. Vehicles meant engines and cops. Cops meant jail. Car engines were warm, and so were jails.
Score.
I followed the sounds. The flash of red and blue lights splashing onto the empty warehouses led me back to the transport.
Four cruisers surrounded the vehicle I’d crashed into.
I could smell the heat and gasoline, and with a happy purr, I rubbed against the nearest car in my effort to steal its warmth.
I was vaguely aware of cops gaping at me.
They weren’t from the NYPD, and disappointment surged through me.
Their uniforms weren’t quite right, and a quick glance confirmed the cars weren’t the right model and design, either.
The engine wasn’t warm enough. With a low, desperate moan for its elusive heat, I circled the cruiser.
The driver’s side window was down, so I shoved my head and horn inside, careful not to stab anyone or anything.
I ignored the driver’s startled protests and lipped at the climate controls.
Once I had the heat blasting, I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth.
While my ability to become a unicorn embarrassed me as often as not, I enjoyed the advantages of my big, furry ass.
When I didn’t want to move, no natural force on Earth could move me.
The cops tried and failed, and I lipped at the vents in a wordless plea for more heat.
When the woman I had trapped realized she could open the door and squeeze out, I shifted to the side enough to give her space without losing the little warmth I had managed to steal from the vehicle.
I still shivered but breathing in the heated air helped.
“There’s a unicorn in my car,” the woman blurted.
I couldn’t blame her for her incredulous tone. If I were her, I’d be pretty surprised, too.
“An injured one from the looks of it. I’m pretty sure that’s blood all over its legs. I’m getting the feeling our driver didn’t hit a deer,” a man replied. A moment later, a hand touched my shoulder. It hurt. I flattened my ears and snorted.
I was too cold to blow smoke and too sleepy to kick him. The cop would survive his familiarity without a nip—as long as he kept his hands to acceptable places. I’d stomp on him if he tried any funny business.
“Seems friendly enough. Who the hell do we call about a unicorn?”
“Do we even need to call someone?” the woman asked. “It’s not like we charge deer for running out in front of cars, so why would we prosecute a unicorn? I mean, it’s basically a deer with a fancy horn.”
“The incubus probably startled it into running across the street. The timing is about right.”
I liked these cops, providing me with such a useful—and true—alibi. “C-c-cold,” I whined. Nuzzling the vent didn’t make it blow hotter air, much to my disappointment.
“Melissa? The unicorn can talk, and it’s apparently cold.”
Silence.
“Okay.” The woman sighed. “I’ll go get the shock blanket out of the trunk.”
Within a few moments, the cruiser shook and she slammed the trunk closed. I closed my eyes and stomped a hoof, contemplating taking a nap. The cops wouldn’t mind too much, would they? They had cop things to do with the transport. A short nap wouldn’t hurt anything.
One of the cops tossed the blanket across my back, and while it didn’t cover much of me, it helped. I mumbled a thanks, lifted a hind hoof, and yawned.
“It’s trying to talk, Melissa.”
“What’s it saying?”
“Not sure. It’s mumbling.”
“I’ll go ask Fredrick. Maybe he can put that fancy degree he likes bragging about to good use for once in his life,” Officer Melissa grumbled.
A few startled curses announced the arrival of more cops.
“Jesus Christ! That’s a cindercorn. Where the hell did it come from?”
Cool. My breed had a nifty nickname. I liked it. I liked cinders, too. Yummy, delicious warm cinders.
“So, what do we do with it?”
“For starters, pray it doesn’t eat you. Call animal control, tell them we have an exotic, pyromaniac carnivore we need captured and taken out.”
I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “No, don’t take me out. Out cold. Cold, cold, cold. Want fire. Be good for fire? Fire? Please? Fire?”
“And I never would have guessed they could talk.”
“Cold,” I insisted.
“All right. The cindercorn is apparently cold and has its head stuck in your car. I’ve got nothing, Mel. Did you really put a blanket on it?”
“It was cold. What else were we supposed to do? Is this cindercorn a risk?”
“You hear about 120 Wall Street?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“That was the work of a cindercorn.”
Silence. I would have preened but posturing took too much effort.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just don’t piss it off. Maybe it’ll get bored and wander off?”
“How did the NYPD deal with their cindercorn problem?”
“Theirs wasn’t a problem, for starters—they didn’t have a wild animal. I’m not sure about the details, but I think it was one of their agents maybe? Anyway, I think they used blowtorches and a spotlight or heat lamp.”
Officer Melissa sighed. “Hell, why not? We’ve had an incubus on a high tonight already. A cindercorn needing a heat lamp is nothing compared to that.”
No kidding.