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December 4th, 2017
These minor errands will exhaust you if you let them, the old woman in the forest had said. You could cure childhood cancer , Alistair had told her. She’d never seen someone throw a grenade so lightly. There was evidently more power in the mantle of the Unicorn than she had thought (or wanted to think).
This power wasn’t hers by rights, but she had it anyway. And as much as she hated to admit it, Erasmus had a point. She didn’t really know what she could actually do. She’d only tried to respond to the mantle’s demands.
Well. Maybe it was time to find out.
December 7th, 2017
She’d been called down to Austin again to mediate another meeting between the living residents and the less-than-living ones. It had gone about as well as she’d expected; nothing had actually been resolved, because of course none of the residents’ teenagers had been responsible for vandalizing gravestones, and of course natural wear and tear could not possibly have caused any damage whatsoever.
It’s late (by necessity, they had to start the meeting after sunset) and she’s tired, but the young man on the end of the platform catches her eye. He’s not playing with his phone or checking the arrival times; he’s just staring. Something about him tugs at her memory - oh. Sybella. It’s not rush hour this time; must be the third rail. He looks almost peaceful. For the second time, she doesn’t wait for the mantle to tell her what needs to be done. She pushes .
The energy or power or whatever the hell it is she’s dealing with spreads out from her, one part seeking the young man, one part flowing in front of him. She can’t see it, but she can sense the second wave stacking on top of itself like cinderblocks. The other crests into a cool breeze that wraps around him, bearing strength and resilience and whatever hope she can muster. A part of her power to keep him where he is, and a part to make him want to stay. He’s not going anywhere. Not while she’s here.
It’s not as subtle as she wants it to be. He turns towards her, shocked, and his mouth opens. Mercifully, though, the train pulls into the station just then, and she just nods to him as she gets on. Something tells her that it worked.
She notes the lack of delays on the green line the next morning with no small amount of satisfaction. But what if she’s not there the next time?
An idea takes root in her mind, and starts to grow.
December 8th, 2017
It’s not really like she knows what she’s doing. Maybe she should ask an actual wizard about this? Jess shakes off the notion and opens the RedEye back up. She’s essentially invisible in the crowds that mark the beginning of rush hour, just another body with a black coat and a briefcase taking up space on the platform at Washington and Wells. Anyone passing by would think she’s just reading the paper and waiting for her train. She lets her eyes unfocus, and imagines the power flowing out from her again, like it had last night.
This time, she pictures it flowing along the rough blue strip by the side of the train. Not a barrier, not exactly. Just an intangible version of the textured surface itself - a warning, or maybe a deterrent. She doesn’t want to tell anybody they can’t throw themselves onto the tracks. Can’t is too obvious; can’t tempts them to push back, to find a way around it. So she asks it instead: make them not want to. Drain the intention out of anybody who stands here. Make it follow the third rail instead, down to hell where it belongs. Let them want to live.
She sits there for a while, folding power on power like she’s forging steel. She doesn’t realize how tired she is until she stands up, and she has to rest a hand on the railing like she meant to do it, so no one notices.
The platform looks exactly the same to her. There’s no real way of knowing whether it worked. She’s fairly certain she did something , though, and maybe that’s better than nothing. Tomorrow, she thinks, Quincy. And she’ll work her way around the Loop from there.
December 12th, 2017
She’s on duty, trudging through East Garfield Park as the streetlights flicker on. Winter’s really set in now; the cold bites straight through her worn coat. It doesn’t seem to stop the kids, though. They’re chasing each other up and down the sidewalks, shrieking happily. Jess weaves around them easily.
A half dozen or so split off when they pass a block of Section 8 housing, and she smiles faintly as she glances at the building. It’s a lot darker than an apartment building should be this time of night. Right. Of course.
She doesn’t even have to think about it, really. Her feet turn down the alley of their own accord, and it’s not hard to find the meters. She runs her fingers over the metal casing. Theoretically, it’s illegal for them to turn off the heat this late in the winter, but, well, a lot of things are illegal. She thinks of the kids she just saw playing, how they deserve to come into a warm, lit apartment and eat something hot. What if the box just… didn’t open? It’d be a pain in the ass to replace.
It’s not like that’s the only building on the block, either. She leaves the alley with cold hands and a slightly warmer heart. Sure, they’d put some kind of coating on the boxes, but rust (and unicorns) can find a way.
December 20th, 2017
She’s been sleeping better this month, and she doesn’t get the weirdass visions as much either. It’s like the power of the Unicorn has to be used somehow; if she doesn’t find a way to drain it off, it’ll start breaking out of its own volition. That sounds about right for magic, she guesses.
But she doesn’t know . Nobody seems to know anything about being a unicorn. Her… predecessor is dead. The BFS is even more useless than usual on this topic. Even the files don’t tell her anything much, except that she should avoid getting hit by Jeeps. God help her, the most helpful source she’s found has been the Erlking, and isn’t that really a sign that she’s fucked?
She’d told Hal that she wasn’t the right person to have this, and she still believes that to the core of her being. There’s got to be someone out there who could wield this better than she can. Honestly, if there’s not, they’re all in deep shit.
On the other hand, though… if there’s no standard, if there’s no “supposed to” (and there sure doesn’t seem to be), then she can’t really do it wrong. For now, it looks like she gets to decide whatever a Unicorn is. When the time comes, she can hand it over, but until somebody tells her otherwise, she’s the goddamned Unicorn. Whatever the fuck that means.
December 24th, 2017
Jess braces herself against the wall and curses fluently as the ambulance races around a corner. The EMTs barely notice; they’re surrounding the woman who’s already pretty far into labor. Jess had answered their call about half an hour ago and had arrived on the scene ready to ream them out - for Christ’s sake, this wasn’t remotely her area - until she’d noticed the tattoos covering the woman’s skin, marking her as a member of the Fellowship of St. Giles. God damn it. At least they’d known enough to call her.
Her contact number for the Fellowship keeps going to voicemail. Sure, it’s Christmas Eve, but really, of all the times to not answer your motherfucking phone. She grips her emergency rosary tighter as the woman grunts in pain, and hopes she’s still Catholic enough for it to count. If not, well, there’s a combat knife in her boot and she knows how to use it.
They peel into the ambulance bay, and there’s a gurney and a team of folks in scrubs waiting. Jess manages to grab the nurse who seems to be in charge, and gives them the elevator pitch on the Red Court (keep the blood to a minimum; if you’ve got a cross or a Star of David or whatever, put it on; restraints are probably a good idea). She passes along her Fellowship contact’s number too, just in case they have any more luck.
And then they’re gone. Jess is still on a bit of an adrenaline high, and apparently she’s been abandoned in the maternity wing of a hospital. On Christmas Eve. She chuckles ruefully at the way life keeps treating her.
She wanders through the halls, trying to figure out which of the identical hallways lead to the outside. They’re probably short-staffed tonight, seeing as everyone’s so busy that she might as well be invisible. It’s a bit of a novel experience. She was the youngest child, and she wasn’t close enough to her half-brother to get a call when his wife had either of their kids. She’s seen her friends’ and coworkers’ kids once they’ve gotten a few months on them, but good Lord, the babies she catches glimpses in passing are tiny . She’s not sure if the deep, instinctive protectiveness that wells up inside of her is Unicorn or human. Maybe both.
The next door she passes is labeled “Neonatal ICU.” She reads it, and morbid curiosity overtakes her. She’s slipping inside before she can really think.
If she were really thinking, she’d probably realize that there has to be something supernatural shielding her, or else there’s no way she would be allowed in. Instead, it’s all she can do to just take in the rows of tiny bodies surrounded by plastic tubes and beeping. It’s not like she didn’t know these places existed, but there’s knowing, and then there’s standing there with the dry, antiseptic air close around her. A heavy mix of sorrow and rage hits her in the stomach. It’s not fair . They’re so small . If anyone deserves this, it can’t be them. Whatever that emotion is, it burns cold through her veins and spills out of her. She’s barely aware enough to channel it into the air vents so it’s not as noticeable.
She issues her wordless commands like a sovereign. To the nurses, to the medicines, to the fragile little bodies housing innocent souls: care for them. Strengthen them. Protect them . The magic (because that’s what it is, no matter how hard she’s tried to hide from the word) flows out of her and into them, until everything feels inevitable. When it finally breaks off, Jess realizes she’s lightheaded and swaying on her feet a little. She finds an out-of-the-way spot and slides down to the floor, waiting until she’s steady enough to stand.
It’s well past midnight when she gets outside. The sky is gloriously clear and star-studded, even if it is so cold she can’t feel her ass. Thankfully, there’s a bottle of supermarket eggnog at home with her name on it. She has to go pick up her car, of course; it’s still parked outside the woman’s house. As she thinks of it, she looks down at her phone and sees a text from her Fellowship contact. They must’ve gotten a hold of someone, since there’s a picture attached with an exhausted but decidedly human mother cradling a baby, who doesn’t seem to have any fangs at all. She unlocks her phone and replies, Merry Christmas.