Read Online A Knight to Remember by Bridget Essex - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bridget Essex
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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
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
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