The King was seated at the high table as if he had been there all the time, though Jess could tell he had just thrown a richly furred robe of red and gold over his nightshirt. Lady Lieka, clad in a similar robe, sat on a low stool at his side, and poured a stream of dark wine into the King’s jeweled goblet, as if she were some ordinary handmaiden.

None of the King’s usual henchmen were with him, which suggested a very rapid descent from the solar. Jess could still hear laughter and talking above. The absence of courtiers and the inner guards could be a bad sign. The King liked an audience for his more ordinary deeds of foulness but preferred privacy when it came to mistreating his own family.

“Milady Queen and my … thoughtful … daughter,” boomed out the King. “What brings you to this poor seat?”

He was very angry, Jess could tell, though his voice did not betray that anger. It was in the tightness in his eyes and the way he sat, leaning forward, ready to roar and hurl abuse.

“Ed-mund … ,” said the Queen, the word half a growl and half a sigh. She staggered forward. Jess ran after her, and took off her hat, the veil coming away with it.

“What is this!” exclaimed the King, rising to his feet.

“Edmund … ,” rasped the Queen. Her face was gray and blotched, and flies clustered in the corners of her desiccated eyes, all the signs of a death three days gone returning as the unicorn’s blessing faded.

“Lieka!” screamed the King.

The Queen shambled forward, her arms outstretched, the bandages unwinding behind her. Flesh peeled off her fingers as she flexed them, white bone reflecting the fire- and candlelight.

“She was poisoned!” shouted Jess angrily. She pointed accusingly at Lieka.

“Poisoned by your leman! Yet even dead she loves you still!”

“No!” shrieked the King. He stood on his chair and looked wildly about. “Get her away. Lieka!”

“One kiss,” mumbled the Queen. She pursed her lips, and gray-green spittle fell from her wizened mouth. “Love … love …”

“Be calm, my dove,” said Lieka. She rested one almond-white hand on the King’s shoulder. Under her touch he sank back down into his high-backed chair. “You— strike off her head.”

She spoke to Piers. He had unsheathed his sword, but remained near the door.

“Don’t, Piers!” said Jess. “Kiss her, Father, and she will be gone. That’s all she wants.”

“Kill it!” shrieked the King.

Piers strode across the hall, but Jess held out one beseeching hand. He stopped by her side, and went no farther. The Queen slowly shambled on, rasping and muttering as she progressed toward the raised dais, the King and Lady Lieka.

“Traitors,” whined the King. “I am surrounded by traitors.”

“One kiss!” shouted Jess. “You owe her that.”

“Not all are traitors, Majesty,” purred Lieka. She spoke in the King’s ear, careless of the Queen’s pathetic faltering step up onto the dais. “Shall I rid you of this relict?”

“Yes!” answered the King. “Yes!”

He turned to look the other way, shielding his face in his hands. Lieka took up a six-branched silver candelabra and whispered to it, the candle flames blazing high in answer to her call.

“Father!” screamed Jess. “One kiss! That’s all she wants!”

Lieka thrust out the candelabra as the Queen finally made it onto the dais and staggered forward. The flames licked at dress and bandages, but only slowly, until Lieka made a claw with her other hand and dragged it up through the air, the flames leaping in response as if she had hauled upon their secret strings.

The Queen screeched, and ran forward with surprising speed. Lieka jumped away, but the King tripped and fell as he tried to leave his chair. Before he could get up, the Queen knelt at his side and, now completely ablaze, embraced him. The King screamed and writhed but could not break free as she bent her flamewreathed blackened head down for a final kiss.

“Aaaahhhh!” the Queen’s grateful sigh filled the hall, drowning out the final muffled choking scream of the King. She slumped over him, pushed him down into the smoldering rushes on the dais, and both were still.

Lieka gestured. The burning bodies, the smoking rushes, and the great fire in the corner pit went out. The candles and the tapers flickered, then resumed their steady light.

“A remarkable display of foolishness,” the witch said to Jess, who stood staring, her face whiter than even Lieka’s lead-painted visage. “What did you think to achieve?”

“Mother loved him, despite everything,” whispered Jess. “And I hoped to bring the murder home to you.”

“But instead you have made me Queen,” said Lieka. She sat down in the King’s chair. “Edmund and I were married yesterday. A full day after your mother’s death.”

“Then he knew … ,” said Jess stoically. It was not a surprise, not after all this time and the King’s other actions, but she had retained some small hope, now extinguished. “He knew you had poisoned her.”

“He ordered it!” Lieka laughed. “But I must confess I did not dare hope that it would lead to his death in turn. I must thank you for that, girl. I am also curious how you brought the old slattern back. Or rather, who you got to do it for you. I had not thought there was another practitioner of the art who would dare to cross me.”

“An old friend of the kingdom helped me,” said Jess. “Someone I hope will help me again, to bring you to justice.”

“Justice!” spat Lieka. “Edmund ordered me to poison your mother. I merely did as the King commanded. His own death was at the Queen’s hands, or perhaps more charitably by misadventure. Besides, who can judge me now that I am the highest in the land?”

Jess looked to the darkest corner of the hall, behind the dais.

“Please,” she said quietly. “Surely this is a matter for the Highest Justice of all?”

“Who are you talking to?” said Lieka. She turned in her seat and looked around, her beautiful eyes narrowed in concentration. Seeing nothing, she smiled and turned back. “You are more a fool than your mother. Guard, take her away.”

Piers did not answer. He was staring at the dais. Jess watched too, as the unicorn stepped lightly to Lieka’s side, and gently dipped her horn into the King’s goblet.

“Take her away!” ordered Lieka again. “Lock her up somewhere dark. And summon the others from the solar. There is much to celebrate.”

She raised the goblet, and took a drink. The wine stained her lips dark, and she licked them before she took another draft.

“The royal wine is swee—”

The word never quite quit Lieka’s mouth. The skin on her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, her perfectly painted face crazing over with tiny cracks. She began to turn her head toward the unicorn, and pitched forward onto the table, knocking the goblet over. The spilled wine pooled to the edge, and began to slowly drip upon the blackened feet of the Queen, who lay beneath, conjoined with her King.

“Thank you,” said Jess. She slumped to the floor, raising her knees so she could make herself small and rest her head. She had never felt so tired, so totally spent, as if everything had poured out of her, all energy, emotion, and thought.

Then she felt the unicorn’s horn, the side of it, not the point. Jess raised her head, and was forced to stand up as Elibet continued to chide her, almost levering her up.

“What?” asked Jess miserably. “I said ‘thank you.’ It’s done, now, isn’t it? Justice has been served, foul murderers served their due portion. My mother even … even … got her kiss …”

The unicorn looked at her. Jess wiped the tears out of her eyes and listened.

“But there’s my brother. He’ll be old enough in a few years—well, six years—”

“I know father was a bad king, but that doesn’t mean—”

“It’s not fair! It’s too hard! I was going to go to Aunt Maria’s convent school—”

Elibet stamped her foot down, through the rushes, hard enough to make the stone flagstones beneath ring like a beaten gong. Jess swallowed her latest protest and bent her head.

“Is that a unicorn?” whispered Piers.

“You can see her?” exclaimed Jess.

Piers blushed. Jess stared at him. Evidently her father’s outer guards did not take their lead from the King in all respects, or Piers was simply too new to have been forced to take part in the King’s frequent bacchanalia.

“I … I … There is someone in particular … ,” muttered Piers. He met her gaze as he spoke, not looking down as a good servant should. She noticed that his eyes were a very warm brown, and there was something about his face that made her want to look at him more closely… .

Then she was distracted by the unicorn, who stepped back up onto the dais and delicately plucked the simple traveling crown from the King’s head with her horn.

Balancing it there, she headed back to Jess.

“What’s she doing?” whispered Piers.

“Dispensing justice,” said Elibet. She dropped the crown onto Jess’s head and tapped it in place with her horn. “I trust you will be a better judge than your father. In all respects.”

“I will try,” said Jess. She reached up and touched the thin gold circlet. It didn’t feel real, but then nothing did. Perhaps it might in daylight, after a very long sleep.

“Do so,” said Elibet. She paced around them and walked toward the door.

“Wait!” cried Jess. “Will I see you again?”

The unicorn looked back at the princess and the young guardsman at her side.

“Perhaps,” said Elibet, and was gone.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart”

Justine: Hallelujah! After wading through Garth Nix’s ye oldey unicorn muck you now get to read a proper zombie story. Since Holly bored you all by setting out the various different kinds of unicorns (even though we all know there are only two kinds: sickly pale or rainbow-colored) I thought I should fill you in (even though I’m sure most of you know) on the different kinds of zombies.

First, you have your voudin-inspired zombies raised from the dead (or neardead) by magic and controlled by their masters. Then there’s George Romero’s reinvention of zombies that came with Night of the Living Dead in 1968. Romero’s zombies are death itself—slow, shuffling, and inescapable. More lately there have been souped-up, running zombies, with whom I personally do not hold.

Alaya Dawn Johnson is one of my favorite writers, and this story will amply demonstrate why. Her zombies are neither voudin possessed, nor George Romero slow-shuffling brain eaters, nor are they the faster, more lethal zombies of more recent (and inferior) films. They are zombies of her own making. Zombies that can even fall in love.

That’s right. You are about to read what may be the most beautiful and intense zombie romance of all time—and it is definitely one of the funniest.

Mac ’n’ cheese, anyone?

Holly: What I love about this story is that it is barely a zombie story at all! No stink, no shuffling, no decay, just a tiny bit of brain eating. And, hey, I am all about culinary adventure. So I can pretend that it’s about a revenant or ghoul or some kind of undead creature that I actually like.

Justine: See? Even Holly secretly loves zombies.

Love Will Tear Us Apart

By Alaya Dawn Johnson

1. I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor

Think of it like the best macaroni and cheese you’ve ever had. No neon yellow Velveeta and bread crumbs. I’m talking gourmet cheddar, the expensive stuff from Vermont that crackles as it melts into that crust on top. Imagine if right before you were about to tear into it, the mac and cheese starts talking to you? And it’s really cool. It likes Joy Division more than New Order, and owns every Sonic Youth album, and saw you in the audience at the latest Arctic Monkeys concert, though you were too stoned to notice anything but the clearly sub-par cheesy mac you’d brought with you.

And what if he—I mean “it”—were really hot? Tall and lanky and weirdly well muscled, with bright blue eyes and ginger hair? So, he smells like the best meal you’ve ever eaten, but you kind of want to bone him too. Can’t have it both ways.

You aren’t a necro. But a boy’s got to eat—maybe you could just nibble a bit at the edges? A part he won’t miss, and then fuck the rest of him. Eat an arm or something. He can still fuck with one arm. Not that well, though. Probably wouldn’t like it. Okay, a hand. Who ever needed a left hand? Then you remember that Jack —that’s his name, the mac and cheese—plays lacrosse. That’s probably where he got all those yummy muscles. You need two hands for lacrosse.

A pinky? Damn, you might as well starve yourself.

And you had it all planned out. You and Jack have shared an art class for the last three weeks. You were going to admire the mobile he’s been making (a twisted metal tower dangling with shattered CDs and beer tabs), look deep into his eyes, invite him back home with you to play Halo or smoke hash or whatever, and then devour him in the woods off of Route 25. Those woods are the local hunting range.

You’ve done it at least a dozen times before, though not to your actual classmates at Edward R. Murrow High, your newest school.

Liking your meal too much to kill him? That’s a first.

“Pizzicato Five?” you say, catching on to the tail end of Jack’s sentence.

“Who’re they?”

His eyes light up. Not literally, but they get really large and you can see the blue of his irises all spangly and flecked around his dilated pupils. Bug eyes, you usually call that look.