A Dark and Stormy Knight

by Bridget Essex

  I tilt my head. “What’s missing?”

  “The star at your throat,” she murmurs, and then she’s reaching up, tying the necklace around my neck, her warm fingers lingering against my skin.

  The shard winks brightly against my chest; I reach up, pressing my thumb and forefinger to it, breathing out slowly.

  In the dream, Charaxus always saw this pendant. Not the one I traded to Stan. I lift my eyes, hold her gaze.

  This is impossible. She is impossible.

  But she's here, nevertheless.

  “Charaxus,” I whisper, my tongue tasting the syllables.

  Something hangs in the air around us, something heavy. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m gasping for air. I don’t want to let this moment go, don’t want to let her go…

  “Charaxus—“

  Then the world takes us back, devouring us in one bite.

  Because a scream ripples across the water.

  And it’s coming from the Shakespeare in the Park stage.

  Chapter 15: Blood Will Have Blood

  Lightning flickers as Charaxus and I move in the water, looking in the direction of the stage. We can’t see the stage, but now we hear an uproar from the crowd, dozens of voices raised in surprise—or panic.

  “We’ve got to go,” I whisper to Charaxus, and there’s a tremor in my voice. I see pain etched on her face, too: neither of us wants to leave this moment.

  But we must.

  We hold hands as we ascend out of the water, staggering as the buoyancy of the lake is replaced by the gravity of land. Charaxus helps me up onto the beach, and then we’re throwing on our dripping-wet clothes as quickly as we can, Sammie whining unhappily at my feet, thumping his tail with hope as he gazes at me with big brown eyes, clearly worried. There’s something ominous hanging in the air; I think all of us can feel it.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I whisper to him, grabbing his leash, though I have no idea if it’s okay or not.

  After Charaxus picks up the katana from the ground, we break into a trot, aiming for the stage. And as we get closer, I hear a man’s voice raised in anger… The voice sounds a little familiar, and when I glance at Charaxus, see the tension in her muscles, the anger flashing in her eyes, I know where I heard that voice before.

  It belongs to Charix. Her brother.

  “Charaxus,” he bellows, the sound echoing on the loudspeakers. The people in the crowd have fallen silent now, deathly silent. We haven’t rounded the corner of the path, can’t yet see the audience. The stillness of the night is strange. It’s almost as if the play is continuing, though we know it’s not.

  “Charaxus!” Charix bellows again, and I can hear metal clanging against metal. “Come out and face me! I know you are here!”

  It’s the last part that makes me bristle, gets under my skin, because Charix doesn't sound angry; he sounds smug.

  Charaxus shakes her head at me, lifts her hand, fingers curling around my shoulder gently as she coaxes me to pause. We’ve reached the back of the stage, and now I can see audience members fanned out around the front of the stage, seated on blankets—some of them standing—their hands raised to their mouths. They all look quietly horrified as they stare at something onstage with wide, worried eyes.

  Anguished, Charaxus says, “You must stay here, Mara.” Her blue eyes search my face, her expression grim.

  “I’m not letting you go out there alone.”

  She works her jaw, preparing to say something else, but she finally sighs, as if she realizes that it’s futile to argue. She takes the cord that the shard is dangling from around my neck, and she lifts it up, peeling back the top of my sopping wet dress. She lets the shard dangle down between the cloth and my skin, then, and she lets go.

  “Don’t let him see this,” she murmurs, and I nod, swallowing.

  And then, hand in hand, we walk around the stage.

  The first thing I notice is that there are several people on the stage who shouldn’t be there. They stand out starkly because they’re all wearing black armor, armor like Charaxus wore, like the guy in the woods wore. They have their helmet face plates lowered, and they’re spread out in a semicircle around the man standing in the middle of the stage.

  That’s Charix.

  I remember him from the dream/vision/whatever-the-hell-that-was, when I thought I had died. He’s similar in height and bone structure to Charaxus: high cheekbones, noble nose. But that’s where the similarities end. Because Charaxus’ eyes are bright blue, and Charix’s are dark, and while her eyes can be soft and kind, there’s nothing but cruelty in Charix’s gaze.

  It’s obvious, just by looking at him, that this guy is an asshole, and I think everyone in the crowd can sense that. He's standing in the dead center of his men—his knights, I’m assuming. They have their swords drawn, and they’re staring out into the crowd, probably searching for Charaxus.

  But Charix has more leverage than just haughty demands.

  Because Charix is gripping tightly to Miyoko.

  She’s standing there in front of him in her Lady Macbeth dress, and though he’s twisted her arm behind her back, her face isn’t contorted in pain. Instead, she looks pissed. Her back is snug against his front, and his sword is raised, positioned at her throat.

  When he sees us moving around from the back of the stage, his shrewd eyes narrow. He isn't looking at Charaxus, though; he’s looking at me. I hold my head high, and despite the fact that my whole body is trembling, I keep up with Charaxus' pace. We must look so strange: dripping wet, our long hair draping around our faces.

  Heart hammering, I catch Miyoko’s gaze. She looks beautiful, defiant, and the anger doesn’t leave her face as she looks at me…but there’s a flicker of something that only I would notice, and only because I’ve known her for so long.

  She's putting on a tough front, as she tends to do—but she’s afraid.

  Shit. The curse. The curse of the opening night of Macbeth.

  Yeah, I’d guess that being held at sword-point by an evil guy from another world qualifies as something going wrong.

  “Charix, let the woman go,” says Charaxus then, holding up the katana. She moves her fingers easily from the hilt to the blade, and she offers the weapon to Charix. It’s a gesture of goodwill, of surrender—he’s too far away to actually take the blade—but that doesn’t stop him from tightening his grip on Miyoko and pressing his own sword harder against her throat.

  “I know you have it, sister,” says Charix, growling out the words. “Give me the portal key.”

  Portal key? Is that what this shard is? I can feel the weight of the pendant against my breastbone, and I take a deep breath, squeezing Charaxus’ hand.

  “What’s the plan here?” I whisper to her softly. She flicks her gaze to me and shrugs infinitesimally.

  Oh, great.

  No plan, then.

  That…can’t be good.

  “Brother, let the woman go,” Charaxus repeats, and her voice is sterner now. Everyone in the audience is watching us, is watching the stage; no one stirs or makes a sound.

  God, I really hope someone dialed 911. That would throw a wrench into Charix’s plans. I mean, police with guns against a deranged guy with a sword—how hard would it be to defeat him?

  Oh, wait.

  I forgot about magic.

  And that’s exactly what Charix uses now. He reaches out, and despite the distance between himself and his sister, he pulls the katana out of her grasp. The katana swings through the air, end over end, to embed itself, blade first, into the wooden stage, the hilt quivering back and forth as it settles.

  “Give me the portal key,” says Charix, his head to the side. “You will die, of course, sister, but I might spare this woman. And that one,” he says, and his evil gaze flicks from Charaxus…to me.

  When I say “evil” gaze, you have to understand, this guy looks completely unhinged. Like he kills a dozen people before breakfast, and hopes he gets a new torture machine for Christmas. He looks like wha
t actors hope to look like when they’re filming a new serial killer movie.

  Yeah, he’s got the evil thing down pat.

  Charix presses his blade against Miyoko’s neck, and a tiny, hairline cut appears. Miyoko doesn’t react, not even a little—she’s pretty badass—but I can tell by the stiffening of her back that the wound really hurts, and was more than a little upsetting to her. Beside me, Charaxus tenses; she knows that we have to get Miyoko away from him sooner rather than later.

  Then I’m stepping forward, clearing my throat.

  “We have the shard,” I say, and I lift my chin. “The portal key. Let her go, and we’ll give it to you. We’re unarmed,” I say, gripping Sammie’s leash tighter as my dog growls.

  “Do you think me a fool?” asks Charix. He cocks his head to the side and smiles the smile of a guy who’s about to eat an entire pizza and enjoy the hell out of it. “Give me the shard now, or I’ll slice her throat now.”

  And he tightens his grip on his sword.

  Heart in my throat, I reach up, yanking the cord around my neck, breaking it. I lift the shard, the glass glowing in the stage lights. I don’t say anything. I simply hold the shard out and take a step forward. Sammie glances up at me, and he whines once, twice, before following behind.

  I can see Cecile in the audience, Toby and Rod and Emily, Iris. They’re all staring at me, horrified, but they don’t intervene as I ascend the steps leading onto the stage. Behind me, I feel Charaxus’ powerful presence, but she hasn’t moved, has raised her hands in the air, level with her shoulders, a gesture of surrender.

  “Let her go,” I tell Charix quietly, calmly, holding out the shard to him.

  Charaxus didn’t have a plan, and I certainly don’t have one, either. I just know that I need to get Miyoko away from this asshole stat.

  I peer out at everyone from the Ceres because I notice a movement among them, and it draws my eyes.

  Charix isn’t moving. He’s gazing at the shard in my hand, and his eyes are narrowing, zeroing in. But Toby…Toby’s standing up on the blanket. He’s shaking—I can see that he’s shaking—and he’s lifting something up.

  “Hey, asshole!” he shouts then.

  Charix looks—of course he'd answer to “asshole”—and then Toby grins at him, the kind of grin that he used to give the boys in the clubs before he settled down with Rod: fetching and adorable.

  “Strike a pose!” he shouts, and he lifts up his phone, the thing he was holding in his hand, and he takes a picture.

  His phone’s flash goes off.

  A few things happen at once. I realize that I have a small window of opportunity. I realize that Charix is probably not going to let go of Miyoko unless she’s dead. And I realize that Charaxus is far behind me; I’m the only one who can do this.

  I drop Sammie’s leash, and I leap forward. I hit Miyoko square in the stomach with my shoulder, and it’s enough to dislodge her from Charix’s grasp. For his part, Charix is blinking rapidly, unsettled—for half a heartbeat.

  Miyoko moves quickly, so quickly that you'd never imagine she was wearing a heavy costume. She flies off of the stage and onto the blanket, into Cecile's arms.

  But I don’t get away fast enough.

  Charix recovers from the flash, and even though Toby is still taking pictures, Charix grabs me, pinioning my arms behind my back at the exact same moment that someone from the crowd—Cecile, I realize—is grabbing Sammie’s leash so that he can’t go after any of the knights himself.

  Thank God. My dog is safe.

  But me?

  Not so much.

  I stand there with Charix pressed behind me, and all I feel is utter revulsion. He’s not like his sister at all. He’s enjoying the fact that this hurts, the way he’s pulling my arms behind my back. I don’t make a sound, because I’m not going to give this bastard any sort of satisfaction. Not even when he holds his sword against my neck, as he did with Miyoko. Guess he's a one-trick pony when it comes to restraining hostages.

  He looks out at Charaxus, Charaxus who is standing there in the middle of the crowd, her face pale as she lowers her hands to her sides, her mouth open just a little as she stares at me in Charix’s arms.

  Her brother takes the shard from my hand, tossing it to one of his lackeys.

  The guy catches it, and that’s it.

  Charix has the shard.

  And…he has me.

  I gulp down air, meeting Charaxus' gaze. She hasn't removed her eyes from me, though she has schooled her features to be blank, serene.

  “Well, sister,” says Charix, and by his tone, I can tell that he’s smiling. “Who is this pretty thing?” he asks, enunciating each word. He sniffs at my hair, like a wolf sniffs its prey.

  “Brother,” says Charaxus carefully, “be warned.” Her hands are curled into fists now, and she’s taken a step forward.

  I can feel Charix's grin deepen. He laughs, a low, deep rumble, the kind of laugh a poker player makes when he’s about to reveal his perfect hand. He tightens the sword at my throat. “She dies,” he says, as casually as if he’s commenting on the weather. “Be clear, Charaxus.” He spits out her name as though it’s the most vile expletive. “She dies because you love her.”

  And it’s obvious—obvious as Charaxus takes another step forward, as she locks eyes with me—that, yes, Charaxus loves me.

  And Charix hates her. So he hates anything that she loves.

  He’s going to kill me.

  It seems obscene to die in front of so many people. I hope that my death won't traumatize the kids in the audience (or, you know, the adults). At least Miyoko is safe.

  I lock eyes with Charaxus, tense, and I struggle against Charix’s hold on my arms, even though it hurts, my shoulders screaming in protest, my wrists crying out in agony. I’m not going to go down without a fight. I’m not going to stand here like a lamb led to slaughter.

  Then, just like that, my odds shift: Charaxus takes two running leaps, and she’s standing right beside me. She pulls out the katana from the stage, and she hits her brother on the face with the butt of the weapon—hard.

  I’m shocked that he wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he was paying too much attention to me and my struggles. I wrest my arms out of his grasp and leap off the stage; Cecile and Toby and Rod and Iris and Emily gather me into an enormous group hug.

  And before us, on the stage, Charaxus and Charix square off against one another.

  “Sir,” says one of the armored men, stepping forward. He’s got the shard, and he’s holding it up to Charix, clearing his throat nervously. “Sir, we should go. We don’t have to fight this traitor.”

  Traitor, because she left a country that had no use for her. Traitor, because she wanted to go someplace where she felt like she belonged.

  Charaxus is no traitor.

  Her family betrayed her.

  “Better run home, brother,” she says, and she hefts the katana with a small smile. “Wouldn’t want your sister to best you. Again.”

  Charix is snarling. Was it really just yesterday that Charaxus and Charix were fighting one another, right before she appeared in the Buffalo River? That battle may have been left unfinished, but in truth, it’s been unfinished for all of their lives.

  Charaxus and Charix have been engaged in a lifelong fight, wrestling with their destinies, their inheritance, their fate.

  As brother and sister begin to circle one another, stepping artfully, expertly, it’s clear that Charaxus does not hate him. There’s pain in her eyes as she studies him, as she follows each move that he makes. I doubt that Charaxus is capable of hating anyone. I know I’m biased, but after everything that Charix has put her through…she really ought to hate him. And she doesn't.

  Charix steps forward now, and he makes the first move, lunging at her with his sword.

  From somewhere far away, I hear sirens…

  God, the cops are coming. This is going to be awfully hard to explain. But if they arrive in time, maybe no blood will be shed. May
be—

  No. Charix leaps forward, and with a single flick of his wrist, he draws blood from Charaxus’ cheek, a thin slice across her cheekbone bleeding brightly onto her pale skin.

  She doesn’t flinch, simply keeps up her pace, gracefully placing one foot beside the other as she moves across the stage, the katana held to the side, its blade flashing.

  Cecile grips my hands, and I risk a glance away from the fight to meet her eyes.

  “Mara,” she whispers to me, squeezing my palms. She doesn’t say anything else, just holds me tightly, as we watch what’s happening on the stage.

  I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.

  Charaxus doesn’t need me up there—my presence would only cause more problems for her—but it’s awful to stay down here, watching her swordfight her brother.

  This isn’t a warm-up or a practice.

  This is a matter of life and death.

  It’s Charaxus who steps forward just then, raising the katana. The thing isn’t very sharp, and I’m sure she knows this. There can be nothing elegant in the way she thrusts forward if she expects to draw blood: she must be direct, concise in her swing. And she is. It’s still graceful, the way the blade shimmers through the air as she darts forward, as fast as light.

  But, of course, Charix grew up cheating; there isn't a world in which he would fight fair. As Charaxus aims for her brother, the katana before her, Charix’s men rush in from the sides and surround her. She has to change her trajectory, swinging the blade in a wide arc to fend off the armored men.

  Her blade whizzes through the air, whistling sharply, but it only keeps the men at bay. Charaxus steps back, away from her brother, her bare heels at the very edge of the stage as Charix lifts his chin, his eyes flashing triumphantly.

  “You always lose,” he says then, cocking his head. “That’s what you do. You lose, dear sister.” The dear is spat out, and then he does spit, his spittle landing on the floor of the stage, right beside Charaxus’ feet.