Rampant by Diana Peterfreund

think of sounded too bizarre to contemplate. I’d caught Bonegrinder because I had special unicorn hunting powers. But was it any crazier than what I’d already seen? Bones that moved on their own, a unicorn that could shake off a two-story drop to a stone floor, the way Brandt’s wound knit together before my eyes?
    “I think it’s all connected,” I said aloud. “I bet you can do it, too.” Phil would probably be even better, since she was already a great athlete.
    Twenty minutes later, we were making our first circuit around the Piazza Navona, a vast, oblong plaza packed with tourists, Italians, cafés, and gelato stands. From our vantage point at the far end, it was easy to see the piazza’s origins as an ancient Roman racetrack. The buildings that had grown around the border maintained the outline of the field, and giant marble fountains were the only break in the flat, cobblestoned court.
    “This is gorgeous!” Phil exclaimed, holding her arms out wide. I tried to look inconspicuous, but two teenaged blond girls in Rome were apparently something to stare at. And harass. Every few seconds, a man approached me with a handful of withering roses, trying to make a sale. A few feet ahead, swathed in wraps despite the afternoon sun, a Gypsy woman hobbled along, bent nearly double with osteoporosis. Near the fountain stood a knot of children in dirty T-shirts and shorts with pieces of cardboard in their hands. While Phil brushed off the latest flower guy, I observed the kids, wondering what they were doing out here alone.
    It was a mistake. As soon as they noticed me staring, they converged upon me, chattering away in a language that didn’t quite sound like Italian, holding their cardboard panels up like serving trays as they pushed against me.
    “Stop it!” Phil cried. “Astrid, get away from them!” But I wasn’t going to shove a child out of my way. In another second it was over and the kids scurried off.
    With my purse.
    “No!” Each one was going in a different direction. “No! They’re pickpockets!”
    “You think?” Phil said drily, but I’d already taken off after the nearest one.
    “Stop, thief!” I cried. I sprinted past the fountain, leaped over the legs of a few people sitting on the edge, and kept running. The boy ahead of me dodged and ducked through the crowd with practiced ease, and I started falling behind. Unlike my earlier pursuit of Bonegrinder, here there was no supernatural speed, no strange narrowing of the universe. Here I was just a girl. Not a hunter.
    “Stop!” I gasped.
    Another figure flew by, shouting in Italian. “Fermate il ladro!”
    I caught a glimpse of jeans and a faded red shirt rushing past, arms and legs scissoring in perfect runner’s form. I puffed and tried my best to keep up as the three of us barreled toward the end of the piazza, where the ancient planes of the racecourse gave way to buildings and shadowed alleyways.
    The thief had picked his alley well. So narrow I could touch both sides with my fingertips, it was also blocked by a Dumpster and parked motorbikes. I jumped over a concrete post, banging my shin, and limped on.
    I overtook them just as the runner in red grabbed hold of the little boy by the back of his T-shirt. The child squealed and for a second I thought he’d wriggle right out of his clothes. But then the runner closed his hand around the boy’s matchstick arm and started issuing orders in a tone I didn’t need to know Italian to understand.
    Give it back to her.
    “What did he take?” The runner asked me. There were traces of sweat on his temple, and his black curls stuck to the dark skin of his forehead. His English held no trace of an accent.
    “My purse,” I said, still out of breath. I wasn’t sure I liked the way my helper’s hand completely encircled the child’s upper arm, thief or no. “Be careful with him.”
    The guy looked at the little boy in his grip, then at me. “I hate to break it to you, but this kid