Forever and a Knight

by Bridget Essex

  “There are no big animals about,” says Attis conversationally, glancing at Wonder. “If you let her go, I'm sure she'll come back to you.”

  “That's so irresponsible,” I mutter, burying my fingers into her fur. “She's the world to me,” I tell Attis, and my breath hitches as I feel Wonder purring against me. I glance down at my slowly blinking cat who's proceeding to kneed the forest floor as she purrs louder. “I mean, I can't believe she found me. Across worlds, she found me. If I can't go back home, she can't, either. At least I have her.”

  Attis glances at me in surprise. I take a deep breath, and then I let Wonder go, setting my hands on my thighs. Immediately that cat saunters out into the forest, her belly close to the ground as she slinks into the darkness, disappearing from sight. I feel my heart rise in my chest with worry, but I've got to believe that she knows what's she's doing. She came to find me across worlds. I'm sure she can hunt some tiny, defenseless prey and remain safe.

  That poor tiny, defenseless prey... I grimace, and I'm about to call after her to not murder small animals when Attis reaches across the space between us.

  Reaches across the space...and takes my hand in her own.

  Her armor is cold against my skin, but it contrasts with the warm leather beneath the plates of metal, the leather that's warmed from her body. Attis holds my gaze with eyes so warm and golden, like honey, that it melts something inside of me.

  “I'm sorry you're stuck with me, Josie,” she says, her mouth turning up a little at the corners as she smiles softly.

  My heart pounding inside of me, I wet my lips. I take a shallow breath.

  “I'm not,” I tell her.

  For half a heartbeat, Attis looks surprised. But, then, something passes over her eyes, and her gaze darkens visibly in the firelight. Her mouth opens, just a little, as her breathing quickens. God, I can't help but stare at that perfect mouth, at the creamy, curving line of her chin and neck, disappearing beneath the silk curtain of her burnished hair. I want to touch her hair, want to run my fingers through it, want to feel how soft it is, how it streams through my fingers like liquid fire.

  I want to taste her.

  I want to kiss her.

  There are a million reasons I shouldn't do this. Yeah, there's certainly a chance (a big chance) that I'm not going to be able to make it home. But there's also a chance that I will. And I don't want a one-night stand. I want her. And if I leave this world, I can't have her.

  A ghost stands between us, her lover, long dead, the woman Attis has never stopped mourning. And I understand; God, I understand. I can never stop mourning my sister. I know what it's like, to have that ghost with you, every day, the press of memories that you'll never be able to make, moments you'll never have. I shouldn't kiss Attis, because Hera is not forgotten.

  But I don't want to let this moment pass. I don't want to let the possibility disappear from me forever. And I feel that it will, if I don't do this, if I don't find that one, last little scrap of courage to lean forward, to press my mouth against hers, and—in that single moment—drink in all that is Attis.

  Even though I shouldn't.

  I want to. I want to desperately. I ache to kiss her.

  So I take a deep breath.

  And I dare.

  Attis is kneeling on the ground, and I'm sitting on the log next to her, so it's very, very easy to simply lean forward, to lift up my hand tentatively, softly. I let my fingers brush through the bright strands of her hair, the dark, red, flashing mane of it, letting my fingers drift over its softness until my palm is against the curve of her jaw, my cold fingers tracing the sweet warmth of her skin.

  My heartbeat is racing through me as her eyes darken further. As her mouth parts again while I lean forward. I cup her cheek and let my fingers slide down to the back of her neck.

  As my mouth meets hers.

  She's as soft and warm as I imagined. She tastes of mint. Her mouth is hot and yielding against mine as I reach forward and kiss her, and she's yielding for a long moment until she's no longer soft against me.

  Because her hands are at my waist then, and my legs are parted, and she's kneeling there, between my legs, her front pressed against my front, her arms wrapped around me so tightly, possessively, assuredly, that I let a little moan escape me because there was such a surge of euphoria and pleasure that roared through me at that moment, I couldn't remain silent. She's kissing me wholeheartedly, her mouth hard against me one moment, soft the next as she tastes me.

  My head is spinning, and every inch of my body is alive, alive and sparking, just like the fire dancing behind us as she moves her hands down, curling her fingers around my hips and gripping me tightly to her. She's pressing her hips between my legs, her armor against my coat and my leopard-print bottoms, and there's really not that much between us, I realize, as my center comes alive, tingling, spreading warm desire and need through every inch of me.

  But as Attis kisses me, as I lean forward to follow her movements, as I grip her metal chest piece to hold her tighter against me, the top of my coat shifts open.

  And the locket falls out of that coat opening, dangling and flashing in the firelight as it hangs around my neck, out in the open.

  And Attis pauses almost instantly. She pulls back, sitting on her heels as she breathes hard, staring at the locket with darkened eyes that suddenly narrow.

  “What...what is that?” she asks me, her voice gruff and low as she reaches out between us and takes the locket in her hand, turning it. My heart, pounding through me unstoppably, begins to feel a little heavy.

  I don't want to tell her, for some reason. Well. No. I know the reason.

  This bear killed her lover. Didn't it? And now it's following us.

  I didn't want to worry her. But I can't keep this from her.

  “Um...” I undo the clasp at the back of my neck with slightly shaking fingers (God, now that it's started, I never wanted it to stop), and then the locket falls into her outstretched palm. “I got it from... I don't know how to tell you this,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair in frustration. “The silver bear was in the woods today. When you went to the store, and while I was waiting for the blacksmith. So I...uh. I followed her.”

  Attis' face hardens in a single instant. It had been so warm, so open, so wanting, and in a single heartbeat, that all fades into obscurity. Her jaw is clenched, her eyes are flashing dangerously, and her wet lips, a few heartbeats ago soft and drinking me in, are now a thin, hard line.

  Yeah, the kissing is definitely over.

  “Why didn't you tell me this immediately?” she growls, standing and striding around to the other side of the fire. I'm instantly cold from her absence, and I wrap my arms around myself, bristling at her tone. “Where, exactly, did you get this locket, Josie?” she says, rounding on me, her tone cold and flat.

  “The bear gave it to me,” I say, standing, too. I curl my shoulders back, an edge to my voice. “It was my sister's. That locket was buried with her when she died, and I don't know how the bear got it, but she did. Somehow. And she gave it to me.”

  Attis stares at me, her face going through a very quick range of emotions until she settles on fierceness. And fury. “Why didn't you tell me this immediately?” she growls again.

  “I didn't want to worry you,” I interject quickly, but it sounds flat, even to my own ears. “What the hell is this bear, anyway? How the hell did it get a locket that was buried with my dead sister on another world?” Emotion roars through me, and I hate that a single, hot tear creeps down my cheek. My hands are shaking in anger as I curl them into fists. “How is this even happening?” I ask her.

  Attis stares at me for a long moment before she softens, her shoulders sloping down as she takes a few steps forward. I didn't expect this, but she's wrapping her arms around me tightly.

  It scares me how right this feels, as I press my cheek against the cold metal of her shoulder.

  I don't want it to feel this right. But it does.

/>   And I can't deny that feeling.

  “I don't know, Josie. I only know that bear is evil,” she mutters, pressing her chin to the top of my head.

  “But I don't... I'm not sure,” I tell her, forcing myself to take a step back from her, forcing myself to hold her gaze as the butterflies rush through my stomach. I'm more nervous about this than any crank caller or show gone wrong.

  “What if...” I lick my lips, take a deep breath. “What if she's not evil? She doesn't seem evil to me. She could have killed me both times she saw me, but she didn't. And now...now she's bringing this locket to me.”

  “Josie, you must trust me when I say that I know her very, very well,” Attis tells me, her eyes narrowing and her mouth returning to its thin, hard line. “And she is pure evil, the kind of evil that can kill without any ramification or consequence. She kills, of course,” she continues, bitterly, “without any sort of consequence, because she is a savage animal, and that is what savage animals do best.”

  Out in the darkness of the forest, a feeble animal scream cuts the night like a knife, trailing off thinly until it is silenced. Wonder. Wonder found her prey.

  I shiver, holding the coat tighter around myself, tight against the coldness of the night. And the coldness of Attis.

  “Why would she give me this locket? Why would a bear follow us through the woods and happen to have this locket? How is that even possible? Nothing evil would give me my sister's locket—”

  “Do not speak about something you know nothing of,” Attis snaps, and—almost immediately—I can tell she regrets her words; her mouth closes, her eyes narrow, and she rakes a gloved hand through her hair, turning from me with a long sigh. But the words are already out between us, crackling in the cold, night air, sharp and deadly.

  “How could you know anything about this bear?” I ask her angrily.

  “Because it is the same bear,” she snarls at me.

  “What are you talking about? The same bear?” I ask, my heart thudding inside of me.

  I know the story. But she doesn't know that I know.

  Silence descends between us for a long moment. Attis picks up another log and sets it on the fire, where the flames begin to devour it eagerly. She folds her arms in front of her, rocking back on her heels as she shakes her head, steeling her jaw.

  “This is the same bear who killed Hera, my lover,” says Attis then, heavily.

  All of the fight goes out of me, and I suddenly feel the vast emptiness of the night, pressing down on us. The fire is so small in a forest so vast and dark and unknowable. I wrap my arms even tighter around myself, feeling her lover's name invoked between us.

  The darkness seems more absolute, somehow, as we turn away from each other.

  “I must set up the tent,” Attis tells me formally. I nod, sit down on the log again, pressing my hand to my heart as I curve forward, pain flooding through me.

  I shouldn't have kissed her. And I should have told her about the bear. But there are so many shoulds and should-nots that I simply can't think about all of them and remain sane.

  I glance up at the trees that rise so far away from me, so tall they seem to brush their majestic heads against the sky.

  Beneath them, I feel very small.

  Even though Attis is just across the clearing, quickly and efficiently rigging up the tent, even though the fire roars in front of me, small, but savagely bright...

  I sit in the dark, alone.

  Chapter 10: The Decision

  We eat a meager dinner of dried meat and fruit and split a biscuit I pocketed from Ilya's table that morning. We eat in silence, the crackling of the fire the only break in the smothering quiet.

  Together, we crawl into the tent; together we lie down, as far apart as possible in the relative smallness of the tent allows. I can't tell what she's thinking. I wish I could.

  I close my eyes and fall asleep, heart aching.

  ---

  I'm standing in my office at the radio station. Somehow, there's the odd sensation flooding my body that I shouldn't be here, that being here is impossible, but I shove the feeling away. Why shouldn't I be in my office? It's a weekday morning. I know that as clearly as I know I should be working...but I can't.

  Because it's pitch dark here. I'm only able to make out the outline of my desk because there's a small amount of light thrown in from the hallway. It's dark in my office just as it was the day the lights were turned off, the power shut down, the grant pulled.

  Wait, the grant was pulled... There technically isn't a radio station anymore, right? I take a few deep breaths, curling and uncurling my fingers slowly.

  Something's not right. But I can't quite put my finger on what, exactly, it is that feels so off...

  I shouldn't be here, I realize. But I am.

  Why am I here?

  There is absolute silence, the heavy press of silence that's so muffling and velvet that I know I could hear a pin drop across the building. But no pin drops. Nothing changes. There is darkness and my empty office, my consoles devoid of light, darkened, dead. These machines will never be turned on again.

  My breath catches as I reach out and brush my fingertips against my coffee mug on the edge of the desk. “Josie in the Morning!” the mug reads in a plain, boring font the color of the ocean. “LEM 100.5, Public Access Radio” is scrolled underneath my show's name, most of it worn away from repeated washings. I've used this cup as my coffee mug here, at the station, since I started my show.

  I pick up the mug in my hand now, curling my fingers around the well-worn handle, turning it slowly in my hand as I stare down at it, perplexed.

  Everything feels kind of heavy, like I'm moving through water. My head feels heavy, too, like I've had too much to drink the night before, but...I'm fairly certain I didn't drink last night.

  I can't remember anything, don't feel anything other than that nagging thought that things aren't right.

  I let my fingers uncurl, let the mug fall to the floor.

  It bounces on the carpeting, bounces slowly, each leap prolonged and extended, like the mug is made of rubber. It rolls to a rest next to my desk, and then—as I watch it—the mug fades out and completely disappears.

  I lift my gaze, moving so slowly, moving like I'm covered in mud now, like a mudslide has buried me completely. I turn, can hear my breathing in the absolute silence. Turn, my heart beating faster as I look toward the open doorway of my office.

  The bear is there.

  She's standing in the hallway, the darkened hallway, but it's not dark, because she's there, her fur glowing like a star. She casts light down the dark corridor as she stands peacefully, each paw firmly planted on the drab hallway carpeting, her silver bulk practically touching each wall, even though the hallway is five feet wide, her back brushing against the ceiling. Her nose is lifted toward me as she wrinkles it, sniffing the air.

  I stay perfectly still as I watch the bear, as I listen to her sniff the air, listen to my own breathing, my own heartbeat.

  The bear stares at me calmly, her bright blue eyes blinking once.

  And then she's gone, too, fading away in an instant. She has completely disappeared.

  I move out into the corridor, begin walking down the long hall that stretches in front of me like a strange backdrop to a treadmill. I'm not moving very fast or getting very far. The hallway's not that long, but I seem to be stuck in the same place, walking, walking, walking, the same drab carpeting stretching out in front of me, the same stupid, generic artwork on the walls depicting pastoral scenes of barns and buildings and cities and people. Over and over the paintings repeat until, finally, I stop.

  I put my hand on the door to the right, the door that always led to the janitor's broom closet (I really did have choice office real estate in our building). The door shouldn't be here; I've walked far enough to be a few blocks away, but when I turn, I take in the fact that I'm still outside of my office. So I turn the doorknob to the closet in my hand, put my shoulder to the door becaus
e it always stuck, and I push the door open, pushing so hard that my breathing quickens. I strain, planting my feet into the carpeting, pushing.

  The door finally opens, swinging wide, and instead of an unkempt pile of brooms, mops, vacuums and cleaning products inside that small broom closet, it's the streets of Boston that I see beyond the door.

  I know this place, too, this street: it's that nice little section a few blocks from my apartment, full of coffee shops and bookstores and one little pet store.

  But as I step through the door, as the door shuts smoothly behind me, I realize there's something wrong.

  There's no one out on these streets.

  They're empty.

  I walk down the city street, down the very center of that street, peering into the cars that sit in the middle of their lanes, completely empty. I walk down the pavement, my heels clicking against the ground the only sound in this silent city; I feel my heart rise in my throat.

  “Hello?” I call out, my voice shaking and soft. I clear my throat, try again: “Is there anyone here?” I shout.

  But no one answers me. The words I uttered echo down the street and then come back to me, echoing plaintively around me, over and over and over again. Hello? Is there anyone here? The words echo louder and louder, until it sounds like they're mocking me.

  I begin to run, my hands over my ears to shut out the words I shouted, my heartbeat roaring through me. I look in every car, peer into every store, calling out for someone, anyone.

  But there's no one here.

  Finally, I stop in front of a department store. The department store window's display is full of mannequins and mirrors, fake, plastic women wearing short dresses and big shades, jutting their pointy elbows toward me as they gather around the one tall mirror, like they're clamoring to look at themselves. I bury my fingers in my hair in frustration, and I crumple to my knees, curving my shoulders forward. Where is everyone?

  God, I feel so alone.

  “What's the matter?”