Black Moon Draw(67)

“I understand, witch.” He’s entertained, the skin around his eyes crinkling with warmth. “You have honor.”

“Yes,” I say, recovering from my latest slip up with him.

“You are also a coward.”

“I am not!” I retort. “Wait, are we talking about in battle? Because I will admit to having an aversion to being stabbed with a sword.”

“Not battle. In going after what you want.”

“Why? Because I don’t share your aggressive, obsessive, single-minded determination to take over the world?”

“You are fortunate, witch. If I had no betrothed, that determination would be channeled at you.”

Is he serious? He likes me? Like, really, truly is interested?

I stumble over my feet, stunned. He catches my arm to steady me and I’m silent.

There’s no comeback for that, no way to save face when it’s obvious he’s just rocked my world.

His hand slides down to take mine. Without looking at me, he squeezes.

I can’t think of anything to say and I like the feel of his large, warm, calloused hand too much to want to pull away like I probably should.

More than willing to do what I can to help him, it’s what follows the last battle that makes me far less comfortable. As long as we save the kingdoms, this place will exist, and he’ll live happily ever after with his perfect princess.

Like Jason. What happens to me then? I get turned into a servant? I go home to live alone with the knowledge I met someone I really liked, who liked me, and it still didn’t work out? I get tossed into a new book?

It’s complicated enough to give me a headache.

Lost in thought, I walk hand in hand with him towards the edge of the foothills.





We walk for hours in the cool weather, and my eyes drift between the gorgeous scenery and the swirl of fog originating from the direction of his castle. It resembles the sky above Mordor in the Lord of the Rings movies: slow swirling clouds of darker gray than the fog block out the blue, the center of the curse and the eye of the fogs of Black Moon Draw the castle itself.

I’m afraid to know what’s there and certain I’m going to find out.

After several hours, I’m hungry, and we haven’t spoken at all since I tripped. It was morning when we started. Time is hard to tell when the skies are covered with gray all day, but I think it’s close to four or five o’clock.

The overbearing brute of a man who never leaves a soul standing on the battlefield has been quiet and calm the entire day, holding my hand and walking with me through the beautiful lands of his like we’re headed to the chapel and not to battle. I don’t get his calm, unless he’s happy to be home.

In contrast, my head is a mess, torn between wanting more from him and hating myself for even considering it. I’m too good to take advantage of the situation, though I suspect he won’t be the one to back out if I wanted more than hand holding. I can’t get the idea he thinks I’m a coward out of my head either. He’s held a mirror to me today and I’m embarrassed by what I see in my reflection: someone so afraid of failure and being judged, she never tried to follow any dream.

I’m changing that. Little by little. For the first time in my life, I’m occasionally standing up for myself, even if it’s only with the Shadow Knight, and taking chances. I’ve been in mortal danger, went to battle, and rode a horse . . .

I’m doing it. I’m becoming someone even I can respect. The mushroom part of me panics every once in a while, wanting to disappear into the shadows and run away to my safe apartment. While I have a long way to go, I’m starting to think that the occasional adventure, preferably one that doesn’t involve war or a curse, might be good for me.

With a sidelong look at the Shadow Knight, I reluctantly acknowledge another nagging instinct, one that’s harder to accept. My experiences with him and this world have been rattling around my head all day. I’ve been mustering up the courage for an hour or so to utter words I never thought I’d say to the man beside me.

I’m about to burst from flip-flopping about saying anything, when I finally decide that the New-Improved-Naia needs to go for it. “Atreyu, I’m sorry.” I start. “I’ve been kind of a jerk since arriving. If I stopped to ask why you do what you do instead of judging you or if I hadn’t been so hell bent on going home . . .” I drift off and then shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m saying or thinking. I should know better because I live that every day. I’m sorry I judged you when I should’ve listened and given you a chance. I should’ve tried hard to use magic and help you.”

“You apologize too much,” he replies. “I have lived with this knowledge since I was a babe. My master-at-arms was the only one who knew the truth. I never intended to tell anyone before I met you.”

“Even your other battle-witches or betrothed?”

“No one.”

So I am special. A shot of hopeful, ecstatic energy lifts some of my exhaustion.

“I am only grateful my man parts did not fall off when we kissed,” he adds.

“You had to go there!” I pull my hand free of his and cross my arms.

“’Tis a relief for a man.”

My face feels hot. “I swear men everywhere are the same!”