“What a treasure trove!”
—Sarah Beth Durst, author of Queen of the Blood
Unicorns: Not just for virgins anymore. Here are sixteen lovely, powerful, intricate, and unexpected unicorn tales from fantasy icons including Garth Nix, Peter S. Beagle, Patricia A. McKillip, Bruce Coville, Carrie Vaughn, and more. In this volume you will find two would-be hunters who enlist an innkeeper to find a priest hiding the secret of the last unicorn. A time traveler tries to corral an unruly mythological beast that might never have existed at all. The lover and ex-boyfriend of a dying woman join forces to find a miraculous remedy in New York City. And a small-town writer of historical romances discovers a sliver of a mysterious horn in a slice of apple pie.
348 trykte sider
Oprindeligt udgivet
2019

Vurderinger

    Nidhi Ramanhar delt en vurderingfor 2 år siden
    👍Værd at læse
    🔮Overraskende
    💡Lærerig
    💞Superromantisk
    🚀Opslugende

    The Last Unicorn is one of the best fantasy fictions I've read in a long time, has a very LoTR feel to it.

    MR Bentzenhar delt en vurderingsidste år
    👍Værd at læse

Citater

    mszhn_har citeretsidste år
    held a unicorn’s head in
    Aleksey Amanovhar citeretfor 2 år siden
    Troy knew the bullets would continue to fly for minutes yet, even longer if the sniper were stupid enough to shoot back rather than play phantom. Meanwhile Nance was lying next to
    Aleksey Amanovhar citeretfor 2 år siden
    No sooner had the words left his mouth than he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Yet the tattooist merely blinked his almond eyes, shrugged, and said calmly, “No, sir. Nobody but us chinks here.” He spoke with no more than a slight accent, and with an air that said he was used to the ill grace of soldiers.
    “Sorry. Been drinking,” Troy mumbled. But drunk or not, it wasn’t like him to be that much of an asshole. For some reason he felt menaced. The man was such a weird-looking fucker. He appeared to be middle-aged, but in an odd, preserved sort of way. His shirt was highly starched and black, his skin dry as parchment, his fingertips so loaded with nicotine they had stained the exterior of his cigarette. He sure as hell wasn’t G.I. Bob

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