that, once that besotment ends, you don't get a penny in spousal support. Nada. Not a cent. Capish?"
"Need me to sign something to that effect, Drummond? Got a contract so I can stipulate it?" I shift forward and lean toward the man. "You've been straight with me, I'll be straight with you. I'm marrying Melody, not her dad's money. I'd marry her if she was penniless. I'd even marry her if her father was a control freak jerk who almost got her killed. Oh, wait, I am doing that, aren't I?"
Drummond pulls back, a nasty smile on his face. "Maybe, McQue. First, you have to complete the ritual."
"And you're gonna tell me what that is when?"
"Now," his smile gets nastier. He opens a drawer in his desk and removes an old-looking sheet of parchment. "Here's the quote from the ritual document," he reads: "The Drummond wedding ritual differs for each supplicant. The eldest Drummond makes a request; the supplicant to be tries to satisfy it. If he or she do so, he or she weds. If not, they must abandon all hope for nuptials."
I wait. Wait some more. Finally . . .
"That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," he says.
"No request written on the ritual document?"
"Nope."
"So that means . . ."
"It means I get to name the request," his nasty smile again. "And I have a lu-lu."
"A lu-lu?"
"A lu-lu, McQue. Hah! Rhymes. Love it. Your task: bring me the horn of a Unicorn."
I shake my head. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"The Unicorn," I say, "is a mythical beast."
"So says James Thurber, yes, I read it too. And that Unicorn was in a Garden. You live in a fantasy land, McQue. Look around those Seven Counties you're so fond of. Cast bones. Gut a chicken and look at the entrails. Consult a crystal ball. Hire a seer. Must be a garden with a Unicorn in it somewhere." He stifles a snicker.
I hold up a hand. "Ignoring the utter impossibility of finding something that doesn't exist," I say. "Why on earth . . . "