A Knight to Remember

by Bridget Essex

  I splutter, swallow, try to form coherent words. “But…there just aren’t any witches on my world. I mean…” I trail off as she shakes her head, her ponytail moving softly over her metal shoulder, the dark hair drifting over the metal like dripping ink. I follow the motion with my eyes, mesmerized, but then my gaze is irrevocably drawn back to her own, to her bright blue eyes that seem to burn themselves into me.

  I swallow as I watch her lean forward a little.

  God…am I actually beginning to believe her?

  “Every world has witches, I promise you that,” she says with conviction, nodding her head slowly, jaw set. “Just because this is not Agrotera does not mean that witches don’t exist here. Every kingdom possesses them.”

  “…Agrotera,” I repeat, tasting the word.

  “My world,” says Virago, smiling proudly. “My beloved world,” she says it softer, her deep, rich voice making me shiver with delight. “Please, m’lady Holly…”

  “It’s just…just Holly. Please,” I say, and in spite of myself, I’m returning her smile weakly. I sigh, take a gulp of fresh oxygen, grapple with what I should do, my thoughts racing.

  “Holly,” she whispers then, taking my hand in her own strong one, her tan fingers cupping my hand, her thumb tracing a pattern over my palm. My name on her tongue is electrifying. She says the word so soft and low that it seems to reverberate deep inside of me. I shiver, again, in spite of myself and clear my throat.

  I sigh.

  “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do,” I mutter, standing, smoothing out the folds in my pajama pants, suddenly acutely aware that I’m wearing an entire fleece collection of mis-matched, crazy prints in front of this incredibly gorgeous creature dressed in leather and armor. “I’m…I’m going to bring my dog back inside,” I start, because it’s really the only thing I can think of in the face of all of this new—and completely out of this world—information.

  I cross the room to the sliding glass door as Virago folds her strong arms, nodding to me. I pull the door open, clear my throat, and say loudly out into the backyard: “Shelley!” But, of course, my dog is paying me absolutely no mind as she stands out in the back industriously licking something.

  “Just a minute!” I tell my guest with what I hope is a cheerful tone. I shove my garden clogs onto my fleece-covered feet and stalk out into the wet backyard and the bright morning sunshine.

  Just like any other day.

  But…not really.

  Okay, I think, as I pace across the backyard, my socks becoming instantly soaked in my clogs from the wet ground as I make a beeline toward my stubborn dog. So Virago thinks she’s a knight from another world. That’s…that’s mentally unstable, just a bit. But, I mean…at least she doesn’t think she’s the messiah or something, right? From another world we can handle, can’t we? I’m sure she’s actually from the Knights of Valor Festival, and if we go visit them, we can get this all sorted…I mean, she has to be from the festival. Her clothes, the fact that she had a sword…

  A sword.

  I stare.

  What my ridiculous dog is busy coating with slobber is, in fact, a sword, stuck in the ground like a cheap knock-off prop of the Arthurian sword in the stone legend. But I can tell immediately that the sword itself isn’t cheap. I’ve seen replicas of medieval-era swords before, and this…isn’t like them. That’s the thing. It doesn’t look like a replica at all, because most replicas are built of cheap metal with a possibly molded rubber handle or the words “made in China” printed along the blade.

  This sword looks like the real thing. Like the swords I’ve seen in museums. For one thing, real swords have little nicks out of the blade (from actually being used in combat) and have an incredibly sharp edge, or a sharp edge that’s been dulled with time and sharpened over and over. Exactly like this one. I take Shelley by the collar and pull her back from the sword (at least she was only busy licking the hilt. She is so weird.). When I make certain my dog isn’t bleeding anywhere, I turn back to the sword, staring at it for a long moment. And then I reach forward, curl my fingers over the hilt and yank the blade up and out of the ground.

  The blade is so bright that when I turn it, it reflects the sunshine into my eyes, temporarily blinding me. It’s so heavy, that it’s actually hard to lift, and when I can see again, blinking away the spots in my vision, I notice the gem in the pommel, what I thought was a rhinestone when I first picked it up. But no. This doesn’t really look like a rhinestone. It looks, instead, more like a gem, like, an actual precious stone. It’s clear, like a diamond, but it also has this weird blue-green flash of color deep within…

  The flash of the gem almost blinds me again, but I turn my eyes at the last second, rest my gaze on the ground.

  I blink for a long moment, still staring at the ground. Because there’s something on the ground that’s even more fantastical than this massive, heavy, too-real sword in my hands. Something utterly…impossible.

  I move the sword so that the point rests against the earth, and the pommel is leaning against my side for a moment, because I’ve suddenly lost a great deal of my strength, and I can’t hold the sword up anymore. My legs are buckling under me, but I tighten my knees, stare down at the ground. Beyond the sword, in the grass of my backyard, are the divots I saw from the back door. But, this up close, I can actually see them much more clearly, can see the details.

  They’re not divots.

  They’re…tracks. Animal tracks, I realize, as my brain tries to make sense of what, exactly, I’m seeing.

  They look a little like a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s footprints, is the first thing I realize.

  And then I realize that I’m comparing fresh footprints in my backyard to those of a dinosaur. But really, what else in the whole world could I compare them to? Each individual print (and there are three perfectly clear ones and a few smudges into the earth, I realize, as I count them up) is about four feet long. Four feet. That’s about how long my dog is.

  I glance up after a long moment and stare thoughtfully at my shed. Or, rather, what used to be my shed. Because the useless little building that I always thought only existed to house snakes and spiders (and would never, ever house my little lawnmower for those exact reasons) is now flattened, boards everywhere in tangled stacks, and the roof smooshed into the ground.

  Really, the best word to describe it is obliterated.

  For a single heartbeat, I wonder if it was destroyed because of a lightning strike. I wonder if lightning hit the roof of the shed and it just sort of…exploded. And then I think better of it, because, seriously—I know better. It wasn’t because of a lightning strike that my shed is now a pile of kindling in my backyard.

  I stare at what was once my shed and swallow, my heart starting to pound inside of me.

  Is it actually possible that Virago could be telling the truth?

  I mean…I know that I saw something last night, something that can’t really be explained. It was enormous. And it was out in my backyard. So, no, I don’t know exactly what I saw, but it couldn’t possibly have been a hallucination—could it have? It seemed so real.

  I stare down at the footprint.

  That certainly seems real enough.

  I turn around and stare at the woman who stands in the doorway easily, leaning against the frame with raw grace, one hand on her leather-clad hip, her head to the side, her silken black ponytail pooling over her shoulder as she watches me intently. A little shiver runs through me, and I close my hand around the pommel of the sword that leans against my side.

  I saw Virago’s wound last night. I saw the blood, the blood that leaked onto my couch, the evidence of which is still there. That wasn’t faked—it was real. And now, somehow, the wound is healed, the wounds in both her side and her thigh completely gone, as if they’d never been there.

  And then, of course, there’s this sword. I look down at it, try to lift it again, but I can’t, really, because it’s solid metal. This isn’t a fake.

 
It seems real enough, too.

  Okay, Holly, what are you going to do? I think to myself. I worry at the edge of my lip with my teeth, and then I take a deep breath and start back across the lawn, half-dragging, half-trying to carry the sword after me. Shelley follows along, leaping alongside me, the happiest I think I’ve ever seen her, her luxurious furry tail wagging and waving behind her like a fan.

  “She really likes you,” I grunt, heaving the sword after me as Shelley and I traverse the three steps up onto the porch. Shelley prances right up to Virago and sits down in front of her, her tail wagging so hard and so quickly that it makes a little, faint thump against the floor.

  Virago smiles affectionately and crouches down, tousling Shelley’s head with long fingers and ruffling the tufts of hair behind her ears.

  “She’s a good beast,” she says easily, even as Shelley’s face darts forward, and she begins to bathe Virago’s cheek and chin with her bright pink tongue. Virago laughs with delight, and I’m frozen to the spot as I watch this exchange. Yes, Shelley loves a lot of people, but she’s also a pretty good judge of character. Nicole hated Shelley, and Shelley wasn’t too keen on Nicole.

  Now, Virago chuckles, sits back on her heels, and she glances up at me with her ice-blue gaze as she ruffles Shelley’s ears again. “What is the beast’s name?”

  “Shelley,” I say hesitantly, still watching their interaction for a moment. Then I shake myself out of it, offer the hilt of the sword to Virago. She rises in a single fluid motion, and takes the hilt from me, those long fingers now wrapping around mine as she lifts the blade out of my hands, her warmth lingering against my skin for a moment as I watch her heft the sword into the air. She lifts it up like it’s about the same size and weight as a piece of celery. “Like in…Mary Shelley. I named her after Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,” I say, trying to stick to things I actually feel like I understand at this moment. “She wrote Frankenstein,” I continue, as Virago raises her brows questioningly. “It’s…a very good book. One of my favorites.”

  “Ah,” says Virago, and ruffles Shelley’s head again with a small smile. “Named after the maker of a good book. A good name for a good beast,” she finishes, smiling at me then, her full lips in a gracious curve. “Thank you for retrieving my sword,” she says, stepping back genteelly to let me in through the door, holding the sword so that the blade is pointing down and to the side, at ease. “If I may, perhaps, have a cloth to clean it?”

  “Sure,” I say, because why not? I wander in past her.

  I am so in over my head.

  I find the roll of paper towels on its side on my counter from where I ripped some off last night to staunch the flow of Virago’s blood, and I bring in a handful of them to her. Virago’s seated on the couch, sword resting lightly on her knees, and she takes the towels from me, nodding and smiling her thanks. Holly, seriously, oh, my God, get it together! It’s just so hard to get it together, because every single time Virago looks at me, or her gaze lingers on me, I find that it’s difficult for me to form a complete thought, let alone complete sentences, but there are so many problems with that fact, because—first and foremost—she thinks she’s from another world, and though I’m going to be breaking up with Nicole, right now I’m still in a relationship with her, and...

  Okay. Let me just be completely honest: the worst problem, the insurmountable problem? There’s really no possibility that she’s gay. I watch as she begins to stroke the wad of towels deftly along the length of the blade, rubbing off the mud and bits of grass, making certain they don’t fall on my carpet. I mean. Maybe there’s no possibility that she’s gay. She certainly gives off the gay vibe, and I’ve always congratulated myself on my impeccable gaydar. But how can I be having these thoughts about someone who genuinely believes she’s from another world?

  Because she’s gorgeous and kind and chivalrous, I think in the back of my head.

  And, anyway, I realize, reeling myself in and depositing myself back on the sad, desolate earth. I have Nicole.

  …Nicole. Shit. Shit. I was supposed to call her, and then never did, and last night was terrible, I remember clearly. Everything about yesterday was pretty darn disastrous. I straighten, clear my throat, take a step back. “Um, I’ve…I’ve got to call my…” Virago looks up questioningly, and I falter. “Um. I have to call someone,” I tell her, and she nods, and I slime away, feeling like the worst traitor on the face of the planet. Nicole is my girlfriend, I should have told Virago that I had to call my girlfriend, but…

  But what? I don’t want Virago to know that I have a girlfriend? I mean, for how much longer am I going to have a girlfriend?

  And Virago’s not gay, Holly, would you stop drooling all over her?

  I sigh, hit Nicole’s speed dial, and wander up the stairs and into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Of course she doesn’t pick up. Of course I get her voicemail. It’s Saturday morning, and she’s probably still in meetings, but everything around me just became so strange, that I realize, my heart aching inside of me, that I really needed to hear her voice just then.

  But she probably doesn’t even want to speak to me right now, what with Carly volunteering her to make a fool of herself on stage.

  Maybe she realized last night, too, that we have to end this.

  “Hello, you’ve reached Nicole Harken,” her voice mail message says breezily. “Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

  I breathe out.

  “Hey, it’s me…” I mutter into the phone. “Um. About last night…” I trail off. I remember the way she looked at me yesterday. She’d looked so angry. So put out. This isn’t really something that we can talk about over voicemail. I swallow, try to think of something to say. “Just call me back, okay?” I manage, and then I hang up.

  I rub my hand over my face in frustration, go into the bathroom, stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  God, I look terrible. I didn’t take my makeup off from last night, and because of the rainstorm and the bath and everything else, I sort of look like a very deranged clown, the blue eye shadow creased with the glitter I’d applied for the Renaissance Festival now congealed next to my eyebrows and my eyeliner running down the sides of my nose. My blonde hair is all tangled, and sort of standing up around my head like a puffy, messy halo. I turn on the hot water, get my hands soapy, wash my face slowly and methodically, relishing the warmth against my skin. It draws me back into the moment, helps me think.

  So yeah, I looked terrible, but it doesn’t matter if I look attractive or not, because Virago isn’t gay, and she thinks she’s from another world. Okay, good. I scrub at the eyeliner that leaked down the side of my nose. And, anyway, I’m with Nicole. I pause, wiping some soap off the tip of my nose. But I’m not really with Nicole, because I have to break up with her, and if last night was any indication, I have to break up with her pretty darn soon.

  I turn off the water, reach for the hand towel and rub my face vigorously with it. I hang it back on the rail and grimace at my freshly scrubbed reflection in the mirror.

  I need to be completely honest with myself: I’m really attracted to Virago.

  But she thinks she’s a knight, for Christ’s sake.

  I take another deep breath and stare at myself in the mirror as my eyes widen.

  Okay. Yes. I have a total thing for knights, obviously. But that doesn’t change all of the facts.

  I peel off my fleece shirt and my fleece pants, and pull on jeans and a bright blue tank top that reminds me a little of Virago’s eyes, which I fully admit to myself. Then, with a long sigh, I take the tank top off and put on a bra, then put on the tank top again, and pull my hair in a pony tail. Then I take my hair out of the pony tail, then put it back into the pony tail, with another long sigh. I think about taking off this plain white bra and putting on one of my black ones, but I realize I’m being ridiculous and don’t, in fact, change my bra. I trot downstairs, trying not to care how I look, and at t
he foot of the stairs, I stop.

  The sword is now in the scabbard on Virago’s back—the scabbard that I didn’t notice until now—and Virago is talking very quietly with Shelley.

  My dog, my dog who’s never paid rapt attention to anything other than food in her entire life, is sitting at attention at Virago’s feet, her front paws even together, her long snout angled up toward Virago and her bright brown eyes wide as she stares up at the woman, eating up every single word that Virago tells her.

  “…and you are a very good beast to the mistress Holly,” says Virago softly, her low voice like a big cat’s purr. She nods, the wolf tail moving over her shoulder with her long black hair fluidly. “What a very, very good beast.”

  Shelley’s white-gold tail has not stopped wagging.

  “Wow…she never even looks at me like that,” I manage, putting my hands in my jeans pockets as I step down to the staircase landing. Virago rises and turns, her head inclined toward me with a nod.

  “I have always loved hounds,” she tells me with a soft, indulgent smile as she shrugs toward Shelley. “And they tolerate me, for the most part.” She rolls her shoulders back, stands at attention, but not before I notice something that makes me practically speechless. As she stands at attention, her bright blue gaze roves over me. Literally. Her eyes actually travel—slowly—down my face, over my chest and stomach and hips and legs, and then slowly back up.

  Did she…just check me out?

  My knees feel weak as her gaze flicks back up to my eyes. Her mouth is turning up slightly at the corners now, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it?

  Did she just check me out?

  Virago clears her throat, nods toward me. “Now, m’lady Holly—”

  “Remember…it’s just Holly…” I manage to tell her, and then I realize that my cheeks are probably bright red, and I don’t want her to see that my cheeks are bright red. So I wander past her into the kitchen.