Page 48 of Strange Familiars
The animal inside isn’t a unicorn…instead, it’s a qílín.
Qílíns are considered the Chinese equivalent of unicorns, though they don’t look like unicorns at all, not really. For one, they usually have two antlers instead of one horn, and their heads are dragon-esque with long thick beards and manes. In fact, the only thing that qílíns and unicorns have in common is that they are both four-legged and have hooves.
I don’t know why a qílín has been brought to Seamere. As far as I can recall, the zoo’s qílín is rainbow-colored, so this one must be from a private trader. There are collectors that import mythical beasts from all over the globe, bartering and negotiating and spending way too much on those that are strange and rare.
This qílín is luminescent, her coat gold-and-red ombré, the golden scales darkening to a deep red at each of her four hooved feet.And she’s clearly in labor. Her golden tail is flicking, and every few minutes her entire abdomen contracts, her jewel-like eyes rolling.
Dystocia. She’s having difficulty giving birth.
But the qílín isn’t the only reason I stay frozen at the door. The other reason is a very familiar bearded dragon that is perched upon the railings. And ifsheis here, then so is…
Ugh. Harrisford.
Just my luck. I guess that’s why he wasn’t at supper, or in the Heywood Hall common room. It’s because this must be his week on call. Did he ask them to callme, the prat? And if so, why? To make me suffer?
As soon as he catches sight of me, though, I immediately know it wasn’t him. His eyes splay open wide, and his mouth opens and shuts a few times. A violent flush steals across his face, and he flings a hand in my direction.
“Marcus!” He’s practically spitting. “What isshedoing here?”
I narrow my eyes at him, wishing that I could vaporize him with the force of my targeted wrath. After our fight in the drug cupboard, he clearly wants nothing to do with me. Well, good, in that case—because I want nothing to do with him, either. There’s no way Marcus (we’ll see how long I remember his name) really needs the both of us. This must have just been a huge bloody mistake.
Marcus dunks his hands into a bucket of water. “I called her.”
Oh. So it wasn’t a mistake.
A muscle jumps in Harrisford’s jaw. “Why? We don’t need her here. She’s not even myth.creat—”
The supervisor grabs a towel hanging over the railing and begins to dry his hands. “Isn’t it obvious, Briggs? She’s Chinese. This creature is Chinese. I think having her here will help.” He’s talking about me as though I’m not even present.
Having toweled off his hands, Marcus tosses the towel back overthe railing and clasps Harrisford’s shoulder. “Anyway, mate. It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m going to bed. I’ve already cast the sedation spell. Good luck, kids.”
And then Marcus is gone.
We both watch him leave. Me, livid; Harrisford wearing a scowl. Honestly, the supervisor’s reasoning is ridiculous. First of all, I’m not the only vet student of Chinese descent currently studying at Seamere—there’s also Alice Chu. Why he called me instead of Alice I have no idea. Either he, like Professor Bartell, thinks the two of us are actually the same person, or maybe he just called me first because Chan comes before Chu in class listings.
And second of all, I hardly know anything about qílíns. My parents may have come from China, but I was born here, and the fact that Marcus assumed I’d be an expert is actually quite offensive.
Still, there’s not much I can do about it now. Clearly, Marcus has already put us both down as the allocated students for the case. So either I stay and help, or I leave Harrisford to tackle it on his own—andwrite the report. He’d probably find some way to make me look bad—say I skived off the call, or something.
Fuming, I roll up the sleeves of my coveralls, right up to the shoulder, and begin pulling on a full-length plastic glove.
Harrisford’s already wearing a glove, but he uses his opposite arm to swipe some strands of hair away from his forehead. Then he fixes his gaze on me. “You should go.”
From a large pump container on the ground, I squirt out a generous measure of lube, smearing it all over my glove. “What, and let you take all the glory? Not going to happen, Briggs.”
I stalk past him, approaching the qílín. Remembering what Harrisford had said just before we rode the dragon—how standing close to large creatures is actually safer—I sidle in so near to the qílín’s hindquarters I’m practically inside her.
Harrisford gives me a funny look. “She’s not going to kick you, if you’re worried about that. Qílíns are placid. They won’t even walk on grass for fear of crushing the blades.” He lets out a long, protracted sigh. “Listen, Chan, I don’t expect you to know about qílíns, considering that you’re mag.fam…”
But he trails off, because I’ve already positioned myself behind the creature and swept aside her tail. And, holding my breath, my heart hammering with the fear that I might do something wrong, I start pushing in my arm.
I feel the foal immediately, passing my hand around its gangling form. It’s all lanky folded legs and a slimy-slick maned skull, and I carefully palpate, trying to determine which end is its front half and which end is its back.
“I think its head is bent backward,” I say, my face scrunched up in concentration. I can do this. I can do this. It hasn’t beenthatlong since I did my myth.creat modules…
I feel around again, and confirm, with more conviction this time, “The head’s definitely backward.”
Planting my feet against the straw-covered ground, I try to grab hold of the foal’s muzzle. But it’s too slippery, and I can’t get enough purchase. The qílín lets out a low bellow, eliciting a shower of sparks.
