Date Knight

by Bridget Essex

  “But no, seriously,” Carly grins at me, “I'm probably just going to get a frozen pizza,” she says with a little shrug. “And what are your plans for this evening?” she asks us, then covers her eyes, holding up a hand, “and try to be G-rated, please.”

  I'm laughing, and Virago is, too, because I explained the rating system for movies just last night when I showed her Jaws and she wanted to understand what the gigantic “R” on the screen had to do with a really big shark. (I'm ashamed to admit that, at first, I joked that it stood for “Really big shark.”)

  “Well, you know,” I say then, lifting my chin as my smile deepens, “today just happens to be our one-week anniversary!”

  Carly's already groaning (in anticipation of our “love cooties,” I'm sure) as Virago's smile deepens, too, and she leans close, bending down her head slowly, gently, to brush her warm mouth against the curve of my neck and shoulder, bared by the ridiculously low-cut costume gown.

  “And it will be a night to remember,” she murmurs, gazing at me with eyes that suddenly seem to spark. A tremor of desire moves through me as she looks at me with total and unabashed lust, her bright blue eyes visibly darkening with desire in an instant. Good Lord—I'm fairly certain that, right this moment, she's undressing me with her eyes...

  “Before you guys start exuding cartoon hearts again,” Carly interjects wryly, stepping forward and shaking her head, “I wanted to tell you good job, Virago,” she says with a wide smile. She gently punches Virago's upper arm like I've seen guys in locker rooms or on sports fields do. “I'm really glad you're enjoying the joust so much. It's obvious that you're passionate about your work,” she says, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets then and rocking back on her heels as she considers the two of us.

  “It has been very easy for me, this 'theatrical' jousting,” says Virago, “for I have a good mount.” She reaches back and affectionately pats the large horse's shoulder. “It is true,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she shakes her head a little, “Brute is not as good as my beloved mare back on Agrotera, but he is willing to learn and is quite responsive. And I think I can teach him,” she says, beaming. “It should only take a moon, possibly two, before he listens as well as Aphelion. Aphelion,” she explains easily to Carly, “is my battle mare.”

  Carly shoots me a questioning look just then, her brows very, very high. I can read Carly like a book, and while Carly could be thinking in my general direction, a battle mare?, I know that, in fact, Carly is currently telepathically asking me, “You didn't tell Virago that the Knights of Valor Festival is closing in a week?” I shake my head just a little, biting my lip as I squeeze Virago's hand tighter. I take a deep breath at that moment and very adamantly avoid meeting Carly's eyes.

  “Soooooo,” says Carly then, dragging out the word as she rocks back onto her heels, trying to quell the momentary awkwardness. Momentary awkwardness, I might add, that Virago does not seem to notice. “It's your one-week anniversary,” Carly says with a wink. “Knowing you guys, you probably have elaborate, romantic plans, yeah?”

  “Quite,” says Virago, taking a big breath and standing triumphantly as she raises my hand into the air. “We are going,” she says, with a flourish, and a small bow aimed in my direction, her body curving forward gracefully, “on a date night. I just learned of this thing,” she says, rising easily and gazing earnestly at Carly. “It is, apparently, a ritual where a couple leaves the house and goes to do something romantic together, such as visiting a fine restaurant, or embarking on an epic quest to slay a—”

  “—or going to a movie,” I insert hastily, then smile.

  “I mean, I can think of a few Republican presidential candidates I'd like you to slay,” says Carly, her grin conveying a hint of menace before she chuckles. “But we kid, we kid,” she tells us with a wink. “That's awesome, you guys... So which of those things are you going to do?” she asks, folding her arms and cocking her head.

  “A fancy dinner,” I tell Carly, with a warm smile. “And then possibly a movie. Or mini golf!”

  Carly blinks at me. Then she takes in Virago, standing next to me with her sword strapped to her back, her lance on the ground beside her horse.

  “Sure,” says Carly, rolling her shoulders back. “Mini golf. That...sounds like something a knight would be interested in. Why not?” She's chuckling a little as she shakes her head. “Hey, it sounds like it'll be a fun night for the two of you, sincerely.” And I know she's being sincere. She glances down at her watch just then. “Have a fantastic time, okay? I've got to go do the grueling work of preheating that oven. And, seriously, Virago, great joust. You're a natural,” she says, lifting a brow.

  “Thank you, lady Carly. It is an honor that you say so,” says Virago, smiling companionably.

  “Call me later,” Carly mouths to me, lifting her thumb and pinkie to her ear and mouth, one brow raised as she shakes her head a little. Knowing Carly like I do, she's either going to call to ask if the frozen pizza box is accurate in its assumption that you don't really need a pan and can just put it directly on the rack...or ask me why the hell I haven't told Virago that the festival is ending very, very soon.

  That pizza question I can answer. The other is going to be a little more complicated...

  “Bye, lovebirds. And happy anniversary,” Carly tells us with a wink before she turns, her hands shoved into her pockets as she makes her way into the crowd, disappearing into the Knights of Valor festival.

  “I must cool Brute down,” says Virago, squeezing my hand before letting me go again. She takes a step back, gathers up her mount's reins, and untethers him from the makeshift hitching post. “It won't take me very long,” she tells me, curving her gloved fingers into a slim space between her breastplate and her leather shirt on the right side of her chest. My eyes grow a little wide (and my hearts skips about ten beats in a row) until I realize that she's pulling out a leather thong that she then uses to gather up her hair, tying the leather around a makeshift ponytail. She chuckles at my expression when she catches it (she wasn't trying to be sexy, but that's the thing about Virago: she is sexy, effortlessly), and then she smiles slowly, seductively at me before leaning in, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close again.

  “My love,” she tells me in a low whisper, her brow up as she gazes down at me, her lips wet, her bright blue eyes smoldering. “When do we have to be at the restaurant?” she purrs into my ear as she leans down, pressing a very (very) indelicate, hot, rather intense kiss at the nape of my neck again.

  “Um...whenever you want. It's not a place that...um...takes reservations or anything,” I tell her breathlessly, my knees going weak again, my legs struggling to hold me up as her hand slides down my waist and rests almost innocently against the curve of my rear.

  But it's so not innocent as Virago gently, delicately, squeezes my butt.

  Her eyes are dancing now as she chuckles a little, and I'm laughing, too, even though it was pretty sexy and I shouldn't be laughing—but we both are. Virago curls her hand around the curve of my waist alone, and I press the palm of my hand against the plate of armor that's covering her stomach, feel the scrolled metal beneath my skin, feel the warmth of that metal because Virago's body heat has made the metal hot. The levity leaves me, and desire takes over, pulsing through me like my blood, making me feel ridiculously heady. I shiver.

  “Oh, good,” Virago tells me then, stepping back again, lifting up her chin, her eyes flashing with an intense brightness. “I had a few things I wanted to...take care of first. Before dinner,” she murmurs, nodding to me with a knowing, secret smile.

  I'm laughing breathlessly as I nod, trying to still my erratic heartbeat.

  Yeah, Carly was right about those cartoon hearts. I can practically see them dancing above my head as a blush reddens my cheeks, making my whole body feel flushed.

  “Um...” I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around Virago's neck again as I lean forward, my breasts squishing
against her metal breastplate. Don't ask me why that's super sexy, but for some reason, it is. “We don't...we don't have to go to dinner for our one-week anniversary,” I'm telling her, my voice low and purring in what I hope to be a sexy timbre.

  Virago is shaking her head wildly then, placing both hands on my hips firmly and holding my gaze.

  “Lady Holly,” she says, in her no-nonsense-this-is-serious-business voice, “you have told me that a 'date night' is a sacred and time-honored tradition of your world—”

  “I mean, sort of,” I tell her hastily.

  “And this will be our first one!” she says, searching my gaze. “Our very first date night,” she reiterates, enunciating each word like it's an incantation to a sensual spell. “That it is our first means that it is special and sacred, and deserves to be treated with respect. So dinner and mini golf must happen in order for the tradition to remain unsullied and pure, and to commemorate our one week together.”

  I never thought the words “mini golf” could be uttered in a sultry tone, but then I hadn't met Virago until about a month ago, so... She could sing the Presidents song we were all taught in school, and it would be a feast for the senses. And I may have taught her that song a few nights ago, just to prove to myself that she could sing it sexily. And, wow, she did. “Monroe, Adams...” I mean, I get shivers right now just thinking about Taft, and that's a little weird.

  “All right, all right,” I tell her, squeezing her in an embrace and pecking a final kiss on her cheek before letting her go and taking a step back. “We'll do dinner. It's not that I don't want to do dinner...” I tell her, one brow up, head tilted to the side.

  “We have time enough for all things,” says Virago, her voice low and husky as she smiles at me. And now her eyes are flashing even brighter, and her blue gaze travels the length of my body appreciatively before moving back up to my eyes again.

  That single glance just told me that we're going to have a lot of fun before dinner.

  “Meet you at the car,” I tell her, still breathless, and she nods confidently before walking away with Brute to cool him down. The horse lets out another long-suffering sigh—which I translate as finally—and as he walks past, the horse swishes his tail and nearly thwacks me in the face. Yeah, I'm definitely not his favorite person...

  I turn on my heel and make my way through the Knights of Valor Festival. And on my way back to the car, I pass people telling Shakespearean jokes, people selling hush puppies and turkey legs, Coca-Cola and mead, crystals and hand-rolled incense. I pass women in elaborate dresses and armor, and men in armor and breeches and, yeah, a few men in dresses. It's a pretty friendly festival, and Boston is a pretty friendly city, in general. I pass an alpaca and a small petting zoo that consists entirely of a rotund, annoyed-looking donkey and his turkey friend. That the petting zoo pen is positioned right next to the booth selling turkey legs is in bad taste, I think.

  But I don't really see any of that stuff. Because my heart is beating irregularly (it's probably not cause for a visit to the cardiologist, since this is what Virago does to me every damn day, making my heart skip beats), and my face is likely flushed to the color of a ruby.

  If I were in a movie, right about now is when I'd start in on my first major musical number, singing about the most wonderful woman in the world and how madly in love with her I am. There would be a flame thrower or three in said musical number, and it'd end with confetti guns spewing a metric ton of golden glitter into the air.

  God, I have it bad.

  The thing about falling in love—in real, mad, true love—is that pretty much everything else in your life feels like a musical number, anyway. Or maybe that's just me. I really don't have any basis for comparison, because I've never felt this before, and God knows I'm not much of a dancer...or singer, for that matter. I'd be the first one to admit that my strengths and superpowers are all librarian-based. But I'm so in love with Virago that I can't help but think in lyrics from cheesy musical numbers, where someone declares devotion and everlasting love.

  There's a large part of me that can't quite believe this is happening to me. Me, the woman who, historically, always goes after the wrong woman. I've acquired a long list of terrible dating experiences throughout my life, ranging from the hilarious (like that one time that I dated my literary criticism professor, and she failed me for a test because the date we'd been on the night before “missed the mark entirely.” True story.) to the tragic (like the time that the woman I'd been dating for four years, the woman who I thought I would marry, had secretly been cheating on me for an entire year behind my back with her assistant). But, for some wonderful and miraculous reason, my bad luck in the romance department has dried up and has been replaced by a vision in shining armor.

  Virago is literally a dream come true. My dream come true.

  So, yeah, I'm seriously considering that musical number as I walk through the Knights of Valor Festival, as I weave through the laughing, happy crowd milling around in the sunshine, the minstrel singing a ballad across the little path from a jester juggling a dozen brightly colored balls. The jester's face is a slightly creepy mask, but his juggling is pretty topnotch. He's doing a ridiculous bit where he's acting as if he can't keep up with the balls swirling through the air, and he's staggering all over the place as if he's about to drop them. But he always catches them at the last possible second. Like most of the people who have been walking past him, I stop to watch his act for a moment...

  And, for that single moment, it's still all song-and-dance numbers inside of me, with the jester staggering around, singing a song to himself, the kids in front of the crowd surrounding him laughing. Everything is nice and wonderful and picture-perfect...

  But then a cloud scuttles across the sun, obscuring the brightness of the sunbeams. The cloud is very black, and the scene transforms from brightly lit, a gorgeous summer's day...to darkness. Darkness descends all around us like we've just stepped into a gray-scale photograph. The jester drops one of his balls, and then another; soon enough, they all fall to the ground.

  Everyone looks to the sky, murmuring quietly.

  Hmm.

  This isn't ominous at all. Nope...

  In denial, I glance up at the sky, too, shielding my eyes as I shiver. I'm remembering what was, a mere moment ago, a perfectly cloudless day, the kind of day that artists paint pictures of, or seventies-style rockers write songs about...

  But I can see, above the treeline surrounding the dog park, and all along the horizon, that there are storm clouds forming, big, pillowy mounds of dark gray clouds that are starting to pile on top of each other, billowing taller, bigger, closer.

  And there, across the sun, is a single small, dark cloud. And even though it's much smaller than the bank of clouds growing along the horizon, for some reason, this one looks just a little bit more menacing.

  I wrap my arms around myself and stare up at that little cloud. Odd... It was supposed to be a gorgeous afternoon and evening. But now, even as I glance at the far bank of clouds building up over the city, I can see the unmistakable crackle of distant lightning, thread-like but white-hot. There's a soft rumble from the sky. Thunder.

  Even though there shouldn't be—not a single meteorologist predicted it—there's going to be a storm tonight.

  Well, it's not as if the weather guys and gals are always right, and after last winter, I should know better than to trust them. Plus, considering that I'm acquainted with some of the weather forecasters at Carly's public access television station, it's surprising that I ever trusted them in the first place... But I checked multiple weather sites online, and even called Carly at the station earlier, because I wanted to make absolutely, positively certain that it was going to be a perfect night for mini golf. (I know, I know—mini golf. Kind of a guilty pleasure of mine. But it's no fun playing play put-put in the pouring rain.)

  As if in answer to my inner musings, there's another flicker of lightning along the dark gray bellies of the clouds and—far dist
ant—a small, grumpy, and yet surprisingly ominous growl of thunder.

  My skin breaks out into goosebumps as I stare up at the sky.

  I'm sure it's nothing, no big deal, I tell myself, which is denial again, because that's not what I'm thinking at all. I have a lot of really terrible memories about storms...

  Like the one about a month ago, when a tremendous storm brought Virago to me...but it brought with her a monstrous beast. Virago has told me now that it's because of the violent power of the storm that the portal between our worlds was able to be opened. That the storm made the link work, the door between Agrotera and Earth swinging wide. At least...she thinks that's how it worked. But, either way, the storm delivered something wonderful...and something horrible at the same time.

  Something horrible that almost took that something wonderful away from me forever.

  It's not as if I have a fear of thunderstorms now; there have been several that happened since Virago came through the portal to Earth. It's been a pretty stormy summer, after all.

  But—and I couldn't tell you exactly why—there's just something sinister about this one. Maybe it's how quickly the clouds appeared, billowing and rising like a distant, nefarious castle. Maybe it's how the lightning flickers, crackling along the underside of the clouds as if it's some sort of strange, electrical monster, searching for something...

  Okay, Holly, whoa. That's letting your magnificent imagination get a little bit carried away there. It's just a storm, I remind myself, turning away from the jester who's attempting to pick up all of his balls (there's a joke in there somewhere...). I aim for my car.

  But as I walk through the rest of the festival, past the ticket turret entrance and into the greater parking lot, to wait for Virago, I feel that ominous dread inside of me grow. I snatch glimpses of the darkening sky from moment to moment, watching those clouds grow bigger, darker, stronger. I bite my lip, unlock the car door and sit in the driver's seat, unrolling the window to gaze out at the nightmarish clouds.