Black Moon Draw(6)

“His was recently killed,” he adds. “I know he is looking for a new one.”

“What happened to yours?” I ask.

“’Tis the fate for any battle-witch captured by an enemy. Deflowering and death. But mine died of old age since there has been no war in years.”

“Deflower? You mean rape?”

“Rape or seduction. Most battle-witches are young like you and fall for a handsome knight who brings them flowers. I barter such services to any kingdom that needs it. It’s how my coffers stay filled with gold and I stay on good terms with all.”

He’s a damn gigolo. Why am I not surprised?

“Why not just kill her?” I demand, not understanding the need to seduce a woman before lopping off her head.

He laughs, like I’ve asked the stupidest question on the planet. “Because your kind can’t die! If I chop off your head, it’ll grow back by tomorrow morning. But you can lose your powers, if you are no longer pure, which makes you vulnerable.”

I lower the wine. Do I make a joke about it being too late to be pure and risk him beheading me to prove a point, or do I play along and hope I’m never challenged to prove I’m a battle-witch?

You wake up. That’s what you do. I close my eyes and will myself out of this mess.

“They say if an ordinary man even kisses a battle-witch, his man parts will fall off. I have a certain immunity to such a fate,” he adds.

Are these wacky rules made up by LF? Because they don’t make much sense to me. Have these people ever chopped off the head of an alleged battle-witch to test their theory?

Opening my eyes, I’m not surprised to see I haven’t been magically transported back to my home. I start eating again. I’m guessing sleeping with the fine specimen of a man before me is off the table as well, though I’d rather not sleep with a man-whore in the first place.

Unless he really knew what he was doing in bed, à la Christian Grey and unlike Jason.

“The guards said you appeared last night,” the Red Knight says and leans forward, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear his words. “You were not there and suddenly you were. From whence came you?”

I sip my wine, once again at a loss as to how much I should say. The Red Knight is waiting patiently, his friendly, open features encouraging me. He’s not giving me the vibe I’m used to, that I’m about to be judged or made fun of.

“From another world,” I reply honestly. “I don’t know where or how. I went to sleep there and woke up here.”

“Someone sent you here,” he guesses.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Let’s just say you’re not the first who’s been sent.” He’s frowning, his eyes moving to stare at some point in the distance.

Is it possible the people of this world are aware of mine? How crazy would that be?

“My head hurts so bad.” I can’t even entertain such a deep thought.

He’s too distracted. “This world, is it magical?”

A glance around reminds me these people don’t know what electricity is let alone the Internet. “You can say that.”

He sits back, pensive.

I eat quietly, uncertain what’s bothering him. The cheese is awesome, much better than the bread and wine. I’m not a fan of jerky and quit after choking down one piece.

“What is your name, witch?” he asks finally.

“Naia.”

“Naia.” A flicker of surprise crosses his features. He shifts forward again. “You must not tell others of this magical world from whence you came or the person who sent you or even your name.”

“Why not?”

“A battle-witch, such as you are, is expected to have knowledge of the unknown and magic. But another world?” He shakes his head gravely. “You will be flogged or worse, put to death, for even mentioning it. And . . .” He pauses, as if not sure he should continue, before he does. “I’m going to track down the person who sent you. I don’t need others getting in my way.”

Ummm . . . yeah, right. No book character can find its author, because they aren’t real.

Listening and growing more confused, I’m surprised by the severity of his expression and the sudden way he’s looking at me as if he wants to feed me to Panther-man after all.

It hits me then that this man, the Red Knight, is a warrior, one trained to lead men into battle and kill, even if his kingdom is at peace. It’s not like he’s a Starbucks barista or coworker at the library. He’s armed with a sword and knife and friendly – but dangerous. If he wants to track LF down, I doubt it’s to thank her for creating his world.

“If you find that person, tell her to send me home,” I reply finally.

“I shall,” he said. “In the meantime, listen to me carefully. When asked, battle-witches always say they are from the edge of the world. You and I know differently. No one else can know.”

“I’m sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say. “I didn’t know. I won’t say anything to anyone.” I want to ask him if he knows he’s just a fictional character. By the look on his face, it’s not a good time to point that out.

“And if you are asked by anyone, you are to tell them you were found on my side of the river. Do you understand?” His gaze is piercing, his face stony.