Three Witches and a Zombie

by Maggie Shayne

  Her jaw dropped. She closed it. “Get over yourself, Al. I’m scared to ride one of these smelly beasts all by myself, and that’s all there is to it!”

  He smiled slightly and nodded. “Of course you are. You, a woman who stands face-to-face with an armed blackguard, and looks him in the eye without a trace of fear. Of course you’re afraid of an old, plodding horse.”

  “But it’s the truth! I am!”

  He closed his eyes briefly, the exquisite agony of self-denial like a firestorm in his gut. “Soon,” he whispered, leaning closer and looking into her eyes. “It will be soon, Mary Catherine. And worth every second of waiting. I promise.”

  He held her gaze with his, and saw a gleam of passion flit into her eyes. But she blinked, hiding it quickly, looking away. “You’re an arrogant jackass.”

  He laughed softly. “Nonetheless, neither of these mares looks strong enough to carry us both. Much as the thought of holding you nestled between my thighs with your back pressed to my chest, and my arms tight around your waist, might tempt me. I am afraid we have no choice.”

  She pressed a hand to her belly, biting her lip, a little breathless, he thought.

  He turned back to the man, nodded his thanks, and scooped Mary Catherine off her feet and into his arms. He deposited her gently into the saddle, held her waist until she seemed to get her balance. It surprised him when she changed position, moving one leg to the other side so she sat astride, rather than sidesaddle, but he made no comment as he then bent to adjust the stirrups for her. A second later, he swung easily onto his own mount.

  Then he turned to her. “Hold to the pommel, lady, and hand the reins to me.”

  She gripped the pommel until her knuckles were white as Alexandre set his horse into motion at a slow, easy pace.

  “Great,” she muttered. “So I suppose I’m stuck here on this animal’s back until we get to the nearest motel, right?”

  “Quite wrong, dear lady. We will be far less likely to be discovered if we make camp in yonder woods. Very deep in them, I should think.”

  “But...but, Al, I’m hungry. We haven’t eaten. And we don’t have blankets or...or anything.’“

  “We have all we need, Mary Catherine.” He looked back at her, wondering how a woman could be so capable and yet so utterly helpless at the same time. “Have no fear. I am your Musketeer, Lady Hammer. I will feed you and keep you warm. On my sword, I will.”

  He saw her pale, and then her throat moved as if she were trying to swallow and couldn’t.

  Chapter Seven

  She had no idea what he was looking for as they plodded deeper and deeper into the state forest that bordered the farmer’s property. But he was definitely looking for something. Scanning the trees, eyeing everything around them, until finally, he nodded and drew his horse to a halt.

  “This will do nicely.”

  M. C. looked around. “What will do nicely?”

  “This spot. To make camp.” He dismounted and walked to her horse, clasped her waist in his big hands, and lifted her down. As soon as she put weight on her legs, she felt the burn and pull of muscles she didn’t know she had. Her rear end hurt. Al saw her wince, and smiled. “No doubt it will be worse in the morn. If I could have spared you the riding, I would have.”

  She shook her head and limped toward a soft patch of ground to sit. Al led the horses away from her, to a stream she hadn’t even noticed before, and let them drink. Then he took an ancient-looking length of rope from one of the saddles, slicing it neatly in half with a dagger he’d pulled from his boot. “I’ll picket them nearby, where there’s grass,” he said, and led the horses farther along the stream’s bank.

  M. C. leaned back on her hands and wondered what she’d got herself into this time. She was stuck here, alone with Al in the middle of the forest, for the night. Al, who’d somehow wound up with the idea that she was burning up with lust for him. Not that he wasn’t attractive. He was. Very. Okay, so he wasn’t the kind of man she’d toss out of bed for eating crackers, but he wasn’t her type, either.

  She frowned, realizing how little sense that thought made. Her types—the types she’d usually ended up dating, way back when she’d still been dating at all—were losers. Oh, they always seemed okay at first. But then they’d reveal themselves. There was Mike, who’d kept hitting her up for money. Kevin, who’d been busted for dealing drugs after their second date. And Tom, who’d been married. The slug.

  And there was Al. A guy who put honor above everything else, who could handle a sword like some kind of master, and who was so polite it was sickening. A guy who’d refused to leave her until he knew she was safe.

  Definitely not her type. Al was no loser.

  Problem was, he had to leave. But why was that so important, anyway? It wasn’t like she was going to go and fall in love with him or anything. Why not enjoy the guy while he was here?

  He appeared then from the trees, his arms loaded down with limbs and deadfall. Dropping the pile to the ground, he shrugged out of his coat and crouched beside it. His jeans pulled tight to his backside when he crouched like that. And the black T-shirt he wore clung. He had great arms. Hard. Nice.

  M. C. got up, deciding to keep her thoughts in line by keeping busy with other things. “I’ll help gather wood,” she said.

  “Nonsense, lady. Gathering wood for the fire is a man’s job.”

  Aha. There it was. She’d known there had to be something wrong with him. No man could be as perfect as he was beginning to seem to her. He was a chauvinist.

  “This is the twenty-first century, Al. There are no men’s jobs or women’s work anymore. Women in this day and age can be police officers or firefighters or world leaders if they want to. And men cook and clean and change diapers.”

  He went still, his back to her, still crouching over the fire he’d begun to lay on a bare spot of ground. “I have offended you,” he said softly. “I am sorry, Lady Hammer. Chivalry... is a part of being a man, in my time. It is difficult to understand how it can have become an insult in only a few centuries.”

  “Chivalry.” She repeated the word.

  Sighing deeply, Al resumed piling dried leaves and twigs, adding larger pieces of wood on top of them. “Yes. The men of my generation are not fools, Mary Catherine. It has never been a matter of believing a woman incapable of doing heavy work. Only a matter of believing she should not have to do it.”

  “I see.”

  He straightened, turning to come close to her, and then dropping to one knee in front of her. “I do not think you do. In my time, Mary Catherine, we cherished our women. Treated them as the precious, beloved creatures they are. The only hope for the continuation of our race, the mothers of our children.” He took her hand in his, tracing its contours with the tip of a forefinger. “Look at this hand. Beautiful, delicate...capable, yes, but small and fragile.” Then he turned their clasped hands over, so his was on top. “Mine, however, is large, hard, and callused. Rough work, unpleasant tasks...are beneath a creature as magical as a woman. She...you...should be adored, treasured—respected as the beautiful being you are. The mother of mankind. Not asked to bruise this lovely hand on something as far beneath you as gathering wood.”

  She couldn’t breathe. His voice had gone soft and deep, and it touched nerve endings somewhere inside her that came to life all at once. Then he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. “A woman like you should be given anything she desires.”

  “A-and...what if what she desires is to help gather firewood?”

  He lifted his head away from her hand, but it tingled where his mouth had touched. Holding her gaze pinned to his, he smiled slightly. “Then she should gather firewood.”

  “You...don’t think I’m too weak for the job?”

  “Weak?” His brows rose. “I’ve never known a woman with your strength, Mary Catherine. But even the most fragile female has the ability in her to capture a man’s heart—to bear his children. Surely the latter task takes far more s
trength than to gather branches from the forest floor. More strength, perhaps, than that of any man.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “I’ll start the fire,” he told her. “If you wish to gather more wood, then do so. But if you’d rather rest from the ride, consider me your humble servant.” He bowed his head.

  For just a moment she had the craziest feeling that she was some kind of queen, and the grass underneath her a throne. Whoa, what a sensation! She had to concede he wasn’t exactly a chauvinist. There was, she decided, a difference between chauvinism and chivalry.

  Al rose and returned to his pile of kindling, pulling a flint stone from his pocket and crouching again.

  Mary Catherine got up and went to crouch beside him, reaching into her own pocket. “You can put the stone away, Al. I have something better.”

  He eyed the lighter in her hand. “Another wonder of your modern world?”

  “You’re gonna love this,” she said, and she flicked the lighter. He smiled when a flame appeared. She touched it to the dried leaves at the base of the pile and watched the flames lick up at them, catch, and begin to spread to the kindling.

  “Wonderful,” he said.

  M. C. sat back on her heels as the fire took hold, and she began to think that maybe being up here with him all night wasn’t such a terrible thing.

  “So, did you mean all that stuff you said about women, Al, or is that a line you use to charm them out of their pantaloons?”

  He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I meant it.”

  “You really believe a woman can do just about anything a man can?”

  “Some women,” he said. “You, for example.”

  “That’s good, because I want to ask you to do something for me. And it might not be the kind of request you’re used to getting from women.”

  He met her eyes, a reflection of the growing fire dancing deep in his own. “Ask me anything, Mary Catherine.”

  She smiled at him. “Teach me how to use that sword of yours.”

  His eyes opened wide, but then his lips curved, and he shook his head slowly. “Why should that request surprise me coming from you? If you wish to learn, Mary Catherine, I will teach you.”

  This night was looking better and better.

  “But first,” he said, “I will find us something to eat.” He added larger pieces of wood to the fire, then rose, glancing around the woods. “I saw signs of deer nearby. Also possum, and quail.”

  “Um, I’d rather go hungry than eat a possum, Al.”

  He bowed slightly. “Then I shall not bring one for your dinner.”

  * * *

  He didn’t bring her a possum. He brought a wild turkey big enough to feed a dozen people. M. C. had busied herself gathering more firewood and making a neat stack of it. She’d checked on the horses twice, and was beginning to get bored and more than slightly worried about Al, though she knew she probably should have known better. Then he showed up with the turkey. He’d quite chivalrously taken care of the nastier parts of preparing wild game far away from camp, lest her delicate female stomach protest.

  She was glad of it, too.

  This bird he brought was ready for the oven. Or the campfire, in this case. It didn’t look anything like what she was used to seeing in the grocery stores or on Thanksgiving tables. It was skinnier, longer, and not as smooth and shiny.

  She was surprised when he began cutting it up with his dagger. It was stupid of her to have expected him to roast it whole, she mused; it would have taken half the night. Then he skewered hunks of meat, and using forked branches to hold them up, set them to cook over the fire.

  Before long the tantalizing aroma had her stomach growling out loud. He pretended not to notice, but she knew he had to hear it. Then she wondered why she cared.

  He turned the meat until it was done, then handed her a sizzling, perfectly browned breast portion. One bite and she was in heaven. “God, this is good,” she mumbled, and ate some more.

  Al seemed equally enamored of his own helping of turkey. But as M. C.’s stomach got full, her mind turned to other matters. “Al, how did you get this bird without a gun?”

  He reached down to his boot and withdrew the dagger. Then replaced it, as if he had answered her question.

  “But...you couldn’t just sneak up on the bird and—”

  He shook his head. “The dagger is perfectly balanced. An excellent throwing blade.”

  M. C. blinked. “You threw your knife at the turkey? And you hit him?”

  Al tilted his head. “It would hardly be worthwhile to throw the dagger and miss him, Mary Catherine.”

  “Oh. Well, how practical.” She finished her meat, licked her fingers, and got to her feet. “So will you show me how to use the sword now?”

  “Of course.” He got up as well, his rapier dangling from a belt at his waist. He wasn’t wearing the coat now, so the sword was in plain sight. M. C. stepped forward and reached for it. Al dodged her, shaking his head. “Non. You must learn before I entrust you with the actual weapon.”

  M. C. frowned at him. “How am I supposed to learn without a sword?”

  “I brought you a... a practice sword,” he said, and nodded toward the large tree behind her. She saw a long, narrow stick—a branch with all its twigs and leaves stripped off—leaning against the massive trunk.

  “You want me to use that?”

  “For now,” he told her. “Trust me, Mary Catherine. I have no desire to lose a hand or to see you lose an eye when you make a misstep. This will be safer.”

  “You sound like my mother. ‘You could put an eye out, Mary Catherine.’ ”

  “A wise woman, your mother. It would be a shame for harm to come to such beautiful eyes.”

  She averted her “beautiful” eyes now, turning to pick up her stick instead of letting him see her blush yet again.

  “They’re like rich brown velvet, you know,” he went on.

  “Or mud,” she replied.

  Al chuckled, and it did something wild to her insides. He had a sexy laugh—she’d give him that much. She gripped her stick and turned to face him. “So what do I do with it?”

  Al lifted his sword, holding his opposite hand up in the air behind him. “En garde, my lady.”

  Chapter Eight

  Wielding a sword was nowhere near as easy as Al made it look. M. C. discovered that while trying to mimic his graceful moves with her stick. To her credit, she only whacked him upside the head twice, but he had a bright red welt to show for it. Still, he’d kept his patience, and she thought she’d mastered a move or two by the time they finished.

  “Now,” Al said, gently closing his hand on the hilt of her branch and taking it from her. “Try it with a real sword.”

  She was breathless, and she had no doubt her face was bright red from exertion—while he stood there as relaxed as if he’d just been napping. No doubt about it, the guy was in great shape. She, on the other hand, definitely needed to do more aerobics. Or something.

  He dropped the stick to the ground and pressed his gleaming sword into her hand. “Like this,” he said, guiding her fingers around the grip, then covering them with his own. “Ready?”

  She nodded. Al stepped away from her...a good three feet away, and that made her grin. “How can I fight without an opponent?”

  He smiled back at her, and it made her heart skip. “For now, your opponent is going to have to be make believe, ma belle. Imagine Monsieur de Rocci standing before you.”

  M. C. narrowed her eyes. “That should help immensely. Can I castrate him?”

  Al frowned. “You are more bloodthirsty than I realized.”

  “Only for de Rocci,” she said, and she lifted the sword as he’d shown her. “It’s heavier than the stick,” she said, then she brought it down in a sweeping arc.

  “Bon. Now thrust! Parry! Dodge! Block!” As he shouted commands, she obeyed, and she couldn’t deny she felt incredibly powerful wielding the weapon—though not exactly graceful, nearly tr
ipping over her feet once. Still, when she finished, he nodded in approval. “You are an excellent student, Mary Catherine. You learn quickly.”

  She nodded, smiling, breathless. “I only wish you were going to be around longer.” Then she bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about his leaving lately, but now the idea made her inexplicably sad. And not just because he wouldn’t be around to give her lessons.

  She actually liked the guy. Amazing.

  “I wish it, too,” he said softly.

  “What was your life like before I stole you away from it. Al?” Her voice was softer than usual, she realized.

  “Ah, my life before.” Did he sound wistful? “It was a grand adventure, Mary Catherine. To be a Musketeer is every Frenchman’s dream...or it is in my time. I am respected and admired, even envied, by everyone I meet.”

  A man of stature, she mused. Successful and in love with his work. “Did you have any family?”

  He lowered his eyes. “I was my parents’ only child. They died of a fever when I was still young, so I was reared by my uncle, who had served with the Musketeers before he finally married and settled down. He is gone now too. I have no family. But then, a Musketeer is better off without one. My life is my work, you see.”

  “And love?”

  Shrugging his broad shoulders, Alexandre smiled. “When love comes, it will become my life. For true love alone, would I lay down my sword. Until that day comes I am happy to fight for right and the honor of the king. Each day brings a new challenge, a new adventure.”

  “A new woman...?”

  His smile changed to one filled with mischief. “Sometimes. A warrior never knows which day will be his last, so he tends to make the most of his nights. But sex is not love, my Lady Hammer. Those moonlight trysts meant nothing, neither to me nor to the ladies involved. And I think you are wise enough to know this.”

  She wondered if it would mean anything if she were “the lady involved.” Then told herself it didn’t matter. He stepped closer, brushing a damp tendril of hair from her face. “You are tired now, and it has grown late. We should rest.”