Black Moon Draw(4)

Maybe this isn’t heaven. I stagger to my feet, smash to my knees, and then stumble up again.

I fling my arms out to either side to help me balance. The ground isn’t moving, but it feels like it is. When my head stops spinning, and I’m fairly confident I won’t fall, I look again at the half-man . . . thing. He’s dressed in brown leather leggings and a long shirt cinched at his waist by a thick belt. A sword dangles from the belt.

From the neck down, he’s a man in every way I can see, from his very human hands and fingers to normal shaped feet in boots.

But his head . . .

“What are you?” I ask.

He’s watching me closely with his round panther eyes, his jaw open in a noiseless pant. He hasn’t moved out of his crouch, as if he’s trying to figure me out the way I am him. “You are from the edge of the world?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not from here.” I gaze around in confusion. “This isn’t heaven, is it?”

He laughs, a strange, half-growl, half-guffaw.

I take a step back.

“Black Moon Draw has never been mistaken for heaven,” he replies.

Black Moon Draw?

“Oy!” someone shouts from the bridge.

I turn, gripping my head again at the sudden movement. A man – a normal man – is standing in similar clothing in the middle of the bridge. His tunic is white and bears the symbol of a tree on it.

“Will you be claiming that witch?” he calls to the man with the panther head. He has a Cockney accent I have trouble understanding.

“She’s on our land!” The panther-man snarls, standing. “You would be wise to heed my warning. If you cross that bridge, none of the gods will stand between you and my master!”

The other guy is hanging out in the middle of the bridge. It’s clear he’s not going to cross it and I don’t blame him one bit.

“Did you say Black Moon Draw?” I ask the panther-man.

“Aye.” He glances at me then returns his golden glare to the man with the tree on his shirt.

“No, really. Black Moon Draw?”

“Aye.”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” the man on the bridge calls. “White Tree Sound is at peace and ruled by a man nothing like the beast of Black Moon Draw.”

“My master is not a beast!” Panther-man retorts.

My ears are buzzing and I’m starting to think I either didn’t wake up or I woke up in hell.

“Is your master the Shadow Knight?” I ask. “The one with a boar’s head who knows no mercy and chops off the heads of pretty much everyone he meets?”

“Aye.” Panther-man says with a hint of pride.

“He’ll deflower and kill you. Come to us and we will treat you well. Our last battle-witch was made a lady and died of old age,” the man on the bridge yells.

At least, I think that’s what he says. His accent is heavy enough I’m filling in some of the words.

Black Moon Draw. Shadow Knight. Battle-witch.

I rack my brain. There must be a reasonable explanation for what’s going on. Perhaps I didn’t wake up from a weird dream? Or did my misery turn into an all-out break with reality?

It’s all I can think of. I can’t remember most of last night after cracking open a second bottle of wine. This place certainly seems real, from the cool mist settling into the trees to the freak show beside me.

But it can’t be real. If I were going to be dropped into a book, it’d be Pride and Prejudice or, better yet, Fifty Shades of Grey, both of which contain civilized worlds with Heroes who only need their Heroines to make their lives complete. From what I read, this nightmarish world is plagued by death and war. Why would I be here of all places?

The two are arguing. I’m having difficulty making out their words and more trouble standing. I sink onto the ground and stare, dazed, confused, horrified. There’s a tiny voice in my head telling me that if I thought my life was bad before, it just got a helluva lot worse.

Panther-man clasps my shoulder and kneels before me.

I blink his animal face into focus and recoil.

“I claim you in the name of the Shadow Knight of Black Moon Draw. Do not cross Blue Star Bridge. They will deflower and kill you.” He places something heavy and cold in my hand. “This will grant you safe passage through our kingdom, should you need it. I will not be gone long.” He stands and leaves.

It takes me a minute before the sensation of wanting to faint passes. I’m clutching a black jade or obsidian medallion with strange carvings strung on a thick, worn piece of leather. Studying it, I’m trying not to be weirded out by how heavy and real it feels, as if this whole place isn’t a flimsy dream that’ll dissipate soon.

How can this be real? I’m perfectly sane, or thought I was. Psychosis brought on by mental trauma sounds more likely than I’m stuck in a book.

“M’lady.” Another voice calls from the bridge.

Looking up, my gaze lingers.

Wow. Dressed in a rich red cloak lined with fur, the brunet man on the bridge has the chiseled features of a model. He’s smiling, a perfect, white, even grin, that renders him boyish, charming.

“I’m the Red Knight of White Tree Sound. I rule all of this.” He motions to the forest beyond the bridge. “I would like to invite you into my lands and home.”