The Unicorn's Tail (The Artifact Hunters)

by A. W. Exley

  She held her breath. Considering.

  What would she do? Hopefully not knee him in the nuts, 'cause he hurt enough down there already and she might break something off.

  She tilted her chin higher and parted her lips.

  He dropped his mouth to slide over hers. She gasped under him. Warm and firm, he took control. Exploring, he nipped at the corner of her mouth then sucked on her bottom lip. His tongue teased and played along the seam until she parted her teeth, wanting more. She tasted of sunshine and honey and was as addictive as laudanum. The more he took, the more he wanted, until it became a burning need pounding through him with every beat of his heart.

  A soft moan escaped from her throat as she leaned in to him, eager to learn all she could from the experience. She followed his lead and her hands wound around his neck, pulling him closer as she blossomed under him.

  His tongue played with her, darting and tasting and then retreating. He sucked hers into his mouth, held her captive until, emboldened by his slow dance, she explored his contours. Her soft moans were nearly his undoing; his cock ached in his pants to join in. Just as he hoped, she had a sensual side begging to be released.

  He either let her go, or claimed her now.

  He pulled back to rain soft kisses up her jaw line. "That is a real kiss," he whispered by her ear.

  "I—" she couldn't form the words for a complete sentence. Her eyes closed, her knees crumpled, and she fainted.

  He caught her and swung her into his arms. He carried her to the chaise and laid her down. Grabbing a pillow, he placed it under her head.

  "Haven't lost my touch, then." He stood back with a smirk plastered to his face.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday, 10th January

  Amy lay in bed, one hand twirling the horse hair bracelet round and round on her wrist. A stray shaft of moonlight caught the silver strands and flashes darted around the darkened room. She never believed in the mythical creature when she made her wish. All she wanted was a fraction of what Cara had; a sense of purpose in her life and someone to love her, flaws and all.

  She knew what she saw at the cottage, the entire location imbued with magic so it was no wonder a unicorn flitted amongst the trees. She'd thought Captain Hawke was all her dreams come true, delivered by the unicorn bracelet. So dashing, gallant, and his words full of lush promise. But it was quiet Jack who made her pulse pound and her body ache in a new and wanton way.

  Why couldn't the unicorn just send her one or the other? Both men paying her attention seemed rather excessive, not that she had any experience with unicorn wishes.

  She spent all day staring at one page in her book, her mind ricocheting in a thousand different directions but always returning to one particular memory. She replayed the kiss over and over. Never had she felt anything like it before. Comparing John's kiss to Jack's was like comparing a lone flickering candle to the public Guy Fawkes' display. Her former fiancé had just been blasted from her brain.

  Even just the memory started an ache between her legs, and she clenched her thighs, but it only intensified. Under Jack's touch her body screamed for things she didn't quite understand, the only dominant message more.

  What had he done to her? She ran a hand down her stomach and over the juncture of her legs. The ache blossomed under her hand, and she bit back a cry.

  Yes, more.

  Jack was far more than he appeared. The gruff working-class exterior hid a gentle manner and a mind that played a fiendish chess game. He would never be acceptable to her family or in polite society, and yet he was so much better than any of them. Sometimes exactly what you need is the last thing you were looking for.

  *

  Monday, 11th January

  The following morning, Amy donned her winter clothes for the walk to the cottage. Jackson was pulling on a heavy black jacket when the wet room door flung open. The man looked relieved on finding them.

  "There's been an accident. Piece of metal flew off one of the machines, pierced a lad. It's not looking good."

  Jackson swore under his breath and then shot a guilty glance at Amy then back to the man in front of him. "Have you sent for the doctor?"

  "One of the lads just left, but it’s going to be at least an hour's hard ride, assuming they find him at home. We don't know if he'll last."

  "Grab the emergency kit." He turned to Amy. "Stay here, the cottage will have to wait for today."

  Amy sat back on her heels, about to obey. Her arm itched and she scratched, only to twine her fingers in the unicorn tail bracelet. Words buzzed in her head from the wish she made that night Jack gave her the gift: Someone to love the real me. Not the image in the mirror.

  The girl in the shadows only needed a chance to break free.

  She blinked. "I'll come, I might be able to help." The words shot out of her mouth before she could call them back. Why did she say that? She always did what she was told. Until the day Jack held her.

  He cast her a dubious look and strode out the door. Amy trotted to keep up with the men, who moved faster in their pants and boots. They crossed the expanse of lawn to the workshop, the large converted barn at the back of the house where the men laboured to make Nate's da Vinci inventions or to create other mechanical devices used in the Lyons Empire.

  One of the double-height doors stood open, pushed back on its roller. Amy stood on the threshold. Heat and sweat assaulted her nostrils. The assorted sounds of machines — hammering, hissing, and low moans — washed over her.

  "You should stay here, it's going to be messy." Jackson held out his hand to keep her from entering.

  Amy's world split into two paths. The dominant part of her brain told her to go back. Noble girls did not wander around in sweat, dirt, and blood. If she did cross the threshold, society would expect her to swoon and need to be carried back to the house. Her entire upbringing was designed to turn her into a crystal ornament. Something fancy and expensive that needed occasional dusting. Nice to look at sitting on the mantle but completely useless, with no practical purpose.

  The girl in the shadows, long ignored and neglected, finally took a stand. She offered a different route, one Amy hid so she never suffered the pain of longing and disappointment. It reminded her that her father was a renowned surgeon, she grew up listening to medical talk at the dinner table. She had on occasion acted as his nurse while he tended to some stupid noble. With the doctor at least an hour away, for once in her life she could be useful. She could do something.

  She swallowed hard. "My father is a surgeon, I know a thing or two about wounds and stitching. I may be of some practical use."

  Jackson's eyebrows shot up his forehead and he gestured with his head for her to follow.

  She took one step and redefined her life.

  Machines hummed along two walls. At one end a furnace was fed a steady diet of coal to generate the steam to turn turbines. Numerous work benches occupied the middle space, their surfaces littered with devices in various stages of construction. To one side of the barn, a group of men stood around. They were all dirty, soot-covered faces with streaks where sweat rolled down and cleaned a path. They parted for Jackson and her, to reveal a man lying on the ground. His fingers groped at his abdomen. Another man sat next to him, holding back frantic hands. A shard of metal jutted from his middle. The man groaned and jerked.

  Jackson threw a glance to Amy. "Don't look good," he said with his face turned away from the injured man.

  She gulped. The good girl inside her, the one who always did exactly as society expected, wailed like a banshee at the dirt, blood, and overwhelming odour of sweaty, unwashed men. The deep buried side of Amy crept up on the other half, smacked her over the head and shoved her into a mental oubliette to be forgotten for good.

  With her internal struggle permanently resolved she gave a shake and knelt down. Lordy he's so young. He barely looked sixteen. Tears of pain ran down his face. She looked at the lump of metal embedded in his right side. A trickle of blood oozed fr
om under his clothes. Let us pray it missed his internal organs.

  "Does it go right through?" she murmured and slid one hand under the boy. There was no blood under his body, and she gave a sigh of relief to find no sharp edge at his back. Her mind did a quick assessment of the situation. When she removed the shard he would bleed a lot, and her time would be limited.

  "I need buckets of hot water, and soap. Plus a blanket to place under him. I want to move him to that table." She gestured to a crowded work bench. "Someone clear it off. And I assume you have needles and thread?"

  Jackson issued orders, men ran to obey and Amy smiled at her patient. "What's your name?"

  "Davie, miss." He sucked in air as though his lungs no longer worked.

  "Well, Davie, I'm going to take this bit of metal out, check everything is okay, and sew you back up." She gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Her knowledge of anatomy was confined to textbooks and what she spied in her father's rooms when she assisted in his illegal surgery. Although she was a dab hand at needlepoint and had stitched up wounded cats and dogs, she had never worked on an actual person before. Anxiety and doubt assailed her. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps.

  Oh God, I'm going to kill him.

  A hand dropped on her shoulder and gave a squeeze.

  "He's relying on you," Jackson said. "You can do it, princess."

  She gave Jackson's hand a quick squeeze back and drew a deep breath into her lungs. Jack believed in her, and with the doctor lord only knew how far away, Davie needed her.

  The men laid out a blanket and with great care they moved Davie and worked the makeshift stretcher under his body. With three men each side they lifted while Amy kept one hand on his stomach and the other at the base of the metal shard. The boy moaned as the movement jostled his body. They carried their burden three strides to the table and laid him out.

  Now Amy could see things at a better height. She grasped his torn shirt and ripped it open, revealing a dirt-smeared torso. Jackson grabbed the fabric, eased it under his back, and tossed the ruined shirt away.

  A bucket of hot water appeared at her feet. "Excellent," she said. She pushed up her sleeves to over her elbows and dipped her hands in the water. With the proffered soap, she lathered herself up and rinsed clean.

  Taking up a new cloth she worked on Davie, wiping away blood and grime to reveal the pink skin beneath. She worked in circles, moving closer to the wound, until she was satisfied she had removed as much filth as possible.

  "Now what?" Jackson asked.

  "I'm going to remove the shard, check inside for any damage to his internal organs, and stitch him up." She paused. "It will be extremely painful for him. Do you have any chloroform?"

  His gaze darted from the lad to her. "No, but I have a plan B that will work just as well," he muttered. "Davie, this is gonna get bad. You don't want to be awake for it, lad."

  A tiny frown creased the boy's forehead, not understanding, and then Jackson drew back his fist and struck him hard. His eyes rolled back and his head slumped to one side.

  Amy tried to argue the brutality of hitting the boy into unconsciousness, but the new part of her that seemed strangely calm and in charge told her to set to work before he came around.

  Using a piece of cloth to protect her hand from the sharp edge, she grabbed the metal. The other hand probed the wound, checking the shape of the object to ensure it would pull out cleanly. She didn't want to find it had a barb that would disembowel the poor youth on the way out.

  She tugged and met resistance. Flesh is quite strong, she observed, and pulled harder. The piece came free, and she thrust it at Jackson. Then she slipped her hand into the wound, before her courage failed her.

  "Can you feel anything?" Jackson asked. He never left her shoulder, his physical presence fuelled her mental fortitude.

  She didn't want to admit she didn't know what she was doing. She assumed a damaged organ would feel like ripped fabric, that her fingers would find any tear. She glided over smooth tissue and organ. "I can't feel any damage, but I just don't know." She blinked back a tear of frustration. She had her hand in a man's stomach, tickling his intestines, what on earth was she doing?

  "Just do the best you can," he said. His steady gaze grounded her.

  She closed her eyes and let her fingers explore, trying to ignore the sucking sounds coming from the boy's open gut. Something out of place butted against a tip. She scissored it between two fingers and drew her hand out. She held a tiny offcut from the shard.

  "Lucky bugger that you checked." Admiration filled his gaze and colour flooded her cheeks.

  With cloth in hand she cleaned the blood away and then set to work with needle and thread. No one ever told her what stitch was appropriate for flesh. She always thought her father took an over big suture, nobles wanting a scar to impress their drunken mates. She compared the sides to a heavy velvet and did her best.

  Soon a neat row of tiny stitches marched across the lad's stomach. She gave a nod and admired her work. Better than any sampler and infinitely more satisfying.

  They wrapped a bandage around Davie's middle and she suffered a moment of disappointment that her work was obscured from view.

  "You can move him to a bed now. We'll need to watch him, to make sure the wound doesn't become infected." With the danger over, she allowed herself a moment to look around the barn. Gleaming monstrosities were arrayed around it in various stages of construction. Other machines were used to cut and shape metal to make parts. "What happened?"

  "They were tightening runners on a track." He waved his hand where a gigantic version of the little sled sat. "Tension was too much and a piece sheared off. Impaled him like shrapnel."

  The methodical part of her brain still commanded her body, and she used the leftover water to wash down her arms and the table top. The bloody cloths and torn shirt were tossed straight into the open mouth of the furnace.

  "You did good, princess," he said, pride evident in his words and face. He took her hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles.

  Pleasure flooded through her body and pooled in her toes. The smile came unbidden to her face. She had done rather well. More than that, she did something useful for the first time in her life and the joy of it filled her.

  Late that night a knock sounded on the door.

  "Come," she called from bed, where she read a medical journal.

  The maid entered the room. "Just wanted to let you know Davie is resting well. And the doctor came, eventually."

  She sat up, but a part of her cringed. What would a proper physician think of her work? "And?" she tried to keep her tone light, but failed.

  The maid grinned. "He looked under the bandage, muttered something about us wasting his valuable time and charged us for the trip out."

  "Oh." She made the noise nonchalant, while inside she ran around in circles waving her hands and squealing in excitement. That doctor thought they wasted his time calling him out meant he thought her work adequate.

  "Mr Jackson told him to sod off and sent him packing. Said your stitches were ever so much neater than his drunken weaving."

  "Thank you for letting me know," she said, the grin back on her face.

  "You could be a doctor, you know. You're good enough," the maid said before she left.

  A doctor? She blew out a sigh. Could she dare to aim so high?

  A change had stirred in her since she came to Lowestoft. She glanced at her wrist. Since Jack gave her a piece of unicorn tail.

  Moonlight pierced the room and lit the bracelet. In the flash of light she saw the two girls in the mirror, but their positions were now reversed. The girl society groomed to be the perfect useless ornament now banished to the shadows. The other girl, the one with a purpose and an enquiring mind, stood in the full light.

  *

  Jackson sloshed cold water over his face as he washed before going to bed.

  When word came of the accident, he expected her to stay at the house and rearrange
cushions or wait for him to come back and kiss her again. He didn't know what to say when she trotted behind, like a damn wet kitten trying to follow him home. He wanted to clap his hands and scare her back to the house. Then he saw the glint in her eye and the set of her shoulders. Ever since he held her at the cottage, her tower walls were crumbling and falling away. Any hint of resolve or purpose needed to be encouraged. He wouldn't squash that in her, not like the toffs in London did. The kitten finally realised she had claws, and he ached to have her dig them into him.

  When they hit the workshop he expected her to bolt. The noise and smell even gave him pause. She stood on that threshold and faltered. He watched an internal debate going on, part of her wanted to turn and run, but something new in her broke free as she made a decision. The delicate chin tilted with the first clear sign of defiance, and she crossed over. She stepped out of the shadow and into the light. Into the world.

  His world.

  He doubted she had it in her, but he cheered her on all the same. No one expected the gently bred girl to roll up her sleeves and go fishing inside Davie's guts for loose metal. Once she dropped the china-ornament persona she was a force to be reckoned with, quiet but authoritative. The lads leapt to do as she asked. He got hard watching her take control of the situation.

  She faltered once, while examining the wound. He saw her chest rise and fall as she struggled for breath, overwhelmed by the situation. He had to touch her, to reassure her. One squeeze of her shoulder and she was back on track.

  That drunken sot they called a doctor in the village would never have thought to feel for internal damage. Nor would he have been sensitive enough to find the broken piece of metal. The kid would have died a slow and painful death with that left to slice his innards. They all stood in awe as she stitched Davie back together with the tiniest, neatest stitches he ever saw. The lad was already bitching he wouldn't have a scar.

  Damn he was proud of his princess. He just had to figure out how the hell to make her realise she was his and he wasn't letting her go.