Black Moon Draw(9)

The strange, light metal is worn around the edges and the leather necklace frayed in two places. Either it’s an heirloom, which makes little sense since it was given to a stranger, or it’s a cheap souvenir. I’m not sure why I have it or what I’m supposed to do with it – or why for a split second, I thought it was glowing purple.

“Come,” the teen urges me.

Tucking the medallion back into my dress, I push my feet into the soft leather boots and stand. It’ll take some work to keep from tripping over my feet. I drop the wooden coins into a deep pocket of the dark purple cloak and pull it off its post to swing around me. It falls to my ankles and has three buttons down the front that run from my neck to just below my breasts.

“Ohhhhh!” The inside is lined with thick, soft fur I want to melt into. I run my fingers through it, fascinated by the length of the silky fur. I’m not sure I’ve felt anything this luxurious.

“You are a battle-witch.” The young man is staring at me, eyes wide. “The one foretold an era ago.”

“I’m not sure about that,” I reply. “I’m a lost traveler who thought she was getting a ride somewhere safe. I think we need to –”

Something smashes into the wagon and it rocks to one side before slamming back onto all four wheels. I catch myself against the wall, startled, and glance over my shoulder at the bird and boy.

Both have been flung to the floor. The kid is getting up while the bird’s feet are kicking in the air.

“Aw, you poor thing.” I stoop to pick it up. My pockets are bigger than the bag I found it in, so I carefully place the bird into one of them and button my newfound cloak. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“I will never forget this favor, m’lady.” The shaky teen offers a stiff bow.

“Save it, kid,” I advise. “We’ve got to escape first.”

The bird starts chirping again, its grumpy complaints reminding me of how my cats often grumbled at me when I pushed them off the couch so I could sit, too. I miss them already, along with my computer and the cave my apartment has become.

Instead I’m . . . here. Or stuck in a dream about here. I can’t think about it without my head pounding harder. The food helped, but my headache remains.

The shouts are coming from the side of the wagon where the Red Knight exited. I make my way to the door on the opposite side and press my ear to it. I don’t hear anything close on that side and open the door cautiously, the teenager at my back.

The forest on this side of the wagon is more than shaded – it’s gone dark. I woke up in the morning mist and am now walking out into what appears to be late afternoon. Either every kingdom is on its own timetable or time passes faster than I’m accustomed to. I have no idea what LF is doing. One of the reasons I love her books is because they’re unpredictable. It never seemed like a problem before now.

“Or maybe she forgot to edit this part. If you can hear me, you better get me out of here soon!” I tell the elusive author who somehow trapped me in her book.

No one answers and no writing scrolls across my hand.

“Guess I’m on my own for now.” I hop out of the wagon. The shouting and strange sounds of metal shrieking against metal is louder. I can’t see anything on the other side of the wagon and decide I’m better off in the forest.

After spending my life in the shadows, I greet the idea of having my own adventure with a combination of dread and exhilaration. No one here knows me; I don’t have to live under anyone’s thumb. Looking at the foreboding forest, I can’t help thinking maybe it’s safer to be a mushroom than to take a chance in the sun.

“Is this a spell? To whom do you speak, witch?” The teen is confused.

“No one,” I mumble.

“I have never seen trees before.” His fearful gaze is on the canopy overhead. “’Tis true that they are possessed by spirits?”

“Um . . . I don’t think so.” Anything is possible in fiction. Not that he’d understand that. “We have to get out of here either way, right?”

He offers an uncertain nod. I can’t get over how pretty his eyes are, a shade between khaki and tan, one that matches his skin.

His first few steps are disastrous and he lands on his knees with a grunt of pain. I help him up quickly.

There’s an animal path nearby. I wade through the thigh high bushes hugging the base of tall trees until I reach the trail then begin walking down it. The forest smells fresh and alive, of long-needled pines and earth. It’s a peaceful place, or would be, if not for whatever is going on behind us. We go far enough that I have a chance to run if this gets too real for me.

Turning, I peer around a tree to see exactly what’s happening.

Men are fighting. That much I expected. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life, except maybe at the Renaissance festival where two knights pretend to be fighting one another.

This isn’t acting, though. There are no pauses for comic relief or faked grunting where two knights pretend to fight one another and the swords are definitely not wooden. There are horses with unnaturally glowing blue eyes milling, men fighting, and the wagon obscuring my view. It takes me a moment to figure out whom the White Tree people are fighting.

Panther-man gives away the identity of the attackers.

I suck in a breath, my heart quickening. I read enough about the savage Shadow Knight to presume his men being here does not bode well for me.