Skandar and the Unicorn Thief: Prologue–Chapter 3

The cameraman smelled the unicorns before he saw them.
Rancid breath, rotting flesh, the stench of immortal death.

Somewhere deep in his bones their putrid hooves thundered, and the panic began to rise—until every nerve, every cell, told him to run.

Malevolent ghouls galloping across the grassland, skeletal wings unfurling, taking flight.

Malevolent ghouls galloping across the grassland, skeletal wings unfurling, taking flight.

The cameraman was standing in the village square when the first unicorn landed.
It snorted sparks and pawed the ground, havoc and mayhem in every rattling breath.

She turned and faced the wall, her brown hair poking out from underneath the duvet.

The smell of bacon and burnt toast wafted under the door.

And for months now Skandar’s dad had been telling him the same. That it was possible, probable, even inevitable, that he’d become a rider. And despite knowing how unusual it was—despite seeing Kenna so disappointed last year—Skandar wanted more than anything for it to be true.

The reporter’s face was flushed with excitement.

Skandar sat up as Dad turned the volume higher, the commentary reaching fever pitch as the armored competitors jostled for positions behind the starting bar.

And in a few moments these unicorns will fly out of this famous arena and begin the aerial racecourse—a grueling sixteen-kilometer test of stamina and sky-battle ability.

And in a few moments these unicorns will fly out of this famous arena and begin the aerial racecourse—a grueling sixteen-kilometer test of stamina and sky-battle ability.

Guttural bellows from deep within the unicorns’ chests—more terrifying than a lion’s roar, more ancient and primal than anything he’d heard on the Mainland.

Guttural bellows from deep within the unicorns’ chests—more terrifying than a lion’s roar, more ancient and primal than anything he’d heard on the Mainland.

The unicorns kicked out at each other, tore flesh from each other’s flanks with their teeth, and blasted their competitors at close range.

Three minutes in, the camera caught a unicorn and rider—hair on fire, one arm hanging uselessly—spiraling toward the ground and crash-landing, smoke billowing from the unicorn’s wing and the rider’s blond head.

Aspen pushed him forward, fierce determination in her eyes as she passed under the finishing arch.

A wide white-painted stripe obscured the rider’s face from the base of the throat to the very top of the head, leading into short dark hair.

In the moment before the picture disappeared completely in black smoke, the rider turned and—slowly and deliberately—raised one long bony finger to point directly into the camera.

“Fifteen years ago, the Island asked for our help with their rider shortage. I understand that you’re all upset about what happened—so am I. But I’m not having any students of mine shirking their responsibilities. And now, with this—this Weaver—on the loose, it’s more important than ever that if you have a destined unicorn, you hatch it. You only get one chance. And this is your year.”

“Well, I think the whole thing’s a big hoax,” Owen drawled from the back of the class. “If you ask me, that wasn’t a wild unicorn at all—just someone pretending. That’s what I read online, and—”

“Grab ’em, Roy,” Owen barked.
Roy was one of Owen’s usual cronies.

Owen scoffed and grabbed the Hatchery notes from Skandar’s clutches, passing them to Roy.

Dad would have received the money all Mainlander families got as compensation for their child going to live on the Island, and they’d have made Dad proud.

“The prime minister and his advisers thought it was a joke because the Mainland had this idea that unicorns were mythical, harmless, fluffy—”
"And?" Kenna prompted.

Dad said they’d all been terrified by the idea that the wild beasts might fly in a shadowy swarm to the Mainland and kill anything in their path—with teeth or hooves or horn. In their fear, people had purged their homes of unicorns—picture books, soft toys, key rings, party decorations—and piled them onto towering bonfires that raged in public parks.

He’d been keen to emphasize that if the Mainland agreed to help, it was a win-win situation for everyone.

“I know we’ll have the Rider Liaison Office knocking at midnight.”

Smiling back at her, Skandar joined the queue forming outside the gym, where the Hatchery exam would take place.

“Good luck, Skandar!” George, the red-haired boy, called as he scuttled into his classroom.

He felt an odd sensation in his chest, like something inside him was snatching the ends of each breath. Skandar lurched toward the gym; the rider sent to supervise the exam must be in there.

Skandar sprinted into the empty gym, the desks set out in rows, a big clock balancing precariously on top of a basketball hoop.

Skandar could practically feel Kenna’s disbelief vibrating in the small space between them.

Wisps of hair flew across the stranger’s cheeks as she looked over her shoulder.

“I can’t explain out here—it’s highly confidential.”

This seemed to convince Dad that the woman should at least be allowed over the threshold.

“Absolute shambles,” he mumbled, leading her into the kitchen. “First you phone to tell me Skandar can’t take the exam, and now he can go to the Island after all? That office of yours needs to sort itself out.”

The woman spoke quickly, not sitting down but gripping the back of one of the kitchen chairs, her gnarled knuckles white against the brown wood.

The woman chortled as they reached the entrance to the communal garden. It was the first time Skandar had seen her crack a grin; she seemed more relaxed now that they were outside.

And there, between the rickety old swings and a graffitied park bench, was a unicorn.