A Connecticut Fashionista In King Arthur's Court

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  "No! I can't go without you. What if you don't make it?"

  He kisses me on the forehead. "Trust me, Kat. After all, our destiny is written in the stars. How can a little thing like time keep us apart?"

  He kisses me again, a hard, desperate kiss against my lips, and then pulls away, running down the hill to meet the mob. I watch him with a dead, sick feeling inside.

  "Please stay safe," I murmur, tears and rain streaming down my cheeks.

  I turn back to Guen. She's still incanting, her face white and tense, almost old-looking. Her voice has taken on a new quality, no longer musical, no longer girlish. The voice of the priestess she never got to be.

  Lightning strikes the center of Stonehenge, illuminating each stone pillar. But instead of sparking a fire, it creates a strange circular doorway in the center of the circle, seemingly made of light itself. I release the breath I didn't know I was holding.

  The portal. Will this really lead me back home?

  Guenevere opens her eyes and looks at the circle, then at me. "This is it," she says in a reverent whisper. "The doorway to your world."

  I step into the circle, my pulse pounding, my hands shaking. I take one last look behind me. I can see the fight has commenced between Lancelot and the gang of men. Can I leave him? Maybe I should—

  "Kat!" Guenevere grabs me by the hand. "We must go. Now!"

  I feel like my insides are being ripped out. "But Lance!”

  "He would want you to. You know that."

  "Yeah, well, he can be a chauvinistic idiot sometimes!" I cry, breaking free of her hold. I dash out of the circle and scream down the hill, "Lancelot! Come now!"

  I watch as he slashes at Mordred, cutting him down where he stands. As the prince distracts the mob by screaming bloody murder, Lancelot takes the opportunity to climb back up the hill. I look back at the portal; its brilliance is already fading. How long will it hold?

  "Guenevere, go now!" I cry. She opens her mouth to protest, but I put out my hands and shove her through. She stumbles, disappearing into the swirling blue mist.

  I turn back to Lancelot. "Hurry!" I cry.

  He almost reaches me. But suddenly he falls, screaming in pain. The dying Mordred's well-aimed arrow has pierced him in the back. I run over and grab him, dragging him with all my might toward the portal. I feel the way that woman who lifted up the truck to save her son must have felt, my adrenaline giving me superhuman strength. I'm sure that any minute I'm going to get one of those arrows right in the heart, and it will all be over.

  But call it destiny, fate, or just damn good luck—I make it to the portal. Pulling Lancelot into my arms, I stumble through, our bodies disappearing in the swirling sea of light.

  We made it. But will Lancelot be all right?

  Epilogue

  The low-battery beep of my cell phone startles me into consciousness. I slowly open one eye, then another. Are we home?

  I sit up. The landscape is dark. I fumble around in my purse until I find my lighter and flick it on. The quick glow reveals Guenevere and Lancelot lying beside me on the grass, both still unconscious. Nothing else is in sight except a vacant, grassy field.

  We made it. But where are we? Are we on the fairgrounds I left from? Perhaps some time has passed, the fair moved on? Will my car still be there? I pick up my cell phone, but the battery completely gives out before I can place a call. Damn.

  Then I remember: Lancelot is hurt. I flick the lighter once again and examine the spot on his back where the arrow pierced his flesh. It's still there. Evidently time does not heal all wounds. It looks bad, too. Is he going to be okay? I swallow back my sobs. It would be just my luck to get him back to the future, only to have him die. I've got to find him a hospital.

  "Mmmm." I hear Guenevere moan as she regains consciousness. "Are we here?" she asks sleepily.

  "I guess so," I say. "Though I'm not exactly sure where." It feels so weird to be back. Surreal, I guess. Like I'm a visitor to my own world.

  "Is Lancelot here?" Guen asks. "Did he make it?"

  "Yeah, but he's unconscious. And badly hurt. We've got to get him to a hospital," I tell her. At least he can get some good old-fashioned twenty-first-century healing. If we were still in medieval times, we'd be doomed. "Damn Mordred and his arrow."

  "It's strange." Guenevere sniffs. "I can't believe that my Arthur is dead. That he died a thousand years ago. I wonder if he triumphed over Mordred's mutiny or died the day we left. I guess it makes no difference now." She sighs deeply. "I miss him already."

  "Oh, Guen, I'm sorry," I say, feeling out her hand and giving it a squeeze. Poor thing.

  After consoling her, I turn back to Lancelot. What are we going to do? We can't move him. And we can't leave him here and head out into the pitch-darkness. We might never find him again. Damn the cell phone battery! Maybe there are some houses around. If I yell real loud ...

  "Help!" I cry at the top of my lungs. "Someone please help us!"

  Guenevere touches me on the arm. "What if someone evil hears you? A marauding bandit or such?"

  "Nah, we're in twenty-first-century upstate New York. There are no marauding bandits here," I assure her before starting my loud plea again.

  About five minutes later I'm totally hoarse from yelling. No one's come. Lancelot's still bleeding. Worried, I rip off a section of my gown and press it against his wound, trying to stop the blood flow.

  "Stay with me, Lance," I murmur in his ear. "I need you. Please."

  "Look!" Guenevere cries. "A light approaches."

  I look up. Sure enough, a bright halogen flashlight flashes toward us. Rescued! I stand up and wave my arms in the air. "Over here!" I cry.

  The light brightens as it approaches; and I'm blinded, so I can't see the person behind it. But who cares who it is? We're saved!

  "What in bleeding hell are you doing out here?" asks an English-accented male voice. I shield my eyes as his light shines in my face.

  "Thank God you're here," I say, pointing to Lancelot. "He's hurt. Do you have a car? Can you get us to a hospital? Or call an ambulance maybe?"

  "Don't be daft; he doesn't need a hospital," says the voice, after the man flashes the light onto Lancelot's back. "I can fix him myself."

  "You can?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "Are you a doctor or something?"

  "Nah. But it's only a flesh wound," the man says. "A child could heal him."

  With the light focused on Lancelot, my vision somewhat returns, and I can see our rescuer. He's a tall, good-looking blond man, probably in his mid-thirties, wearing a very oddly cut silver suit—something you'd see in a couture show, but never on a real-life person. Is he for real?

  "Are they having a medieval fair around here somewhere?" the man asks after looking at our clothing. Ha! And here I am thinking his outfit is weird. We must look like total freaks.

  "Yeah," I say, not knowing how else to explain. "Um, battle re-creation. Lance here got hurt. Where are we anyway? We're kind of lost."

  "On my land. About five miles outside Poughkeepsie."

  Ah, so we did come back to the same area I'd left from. Phew. I was a little worried when I heard the English accent. But we're not too far from home at all. If I can't find my car, I'll call a cab. Sure, it'll be expensive, but totally worth it. I'm exhausted and just want to collapse onto my own bed and sleep for about a year.

  But my relief is short-lived as the man pulls a strange object from his pocket. It looks kind of like one of those Star Trek communicators. He presses it against Lance's wound and pushes down on a button. A red laser light shoots out.

  "What the hell are you doing?" I demand. Great, the first person we meet back in the twenty-first century is a total nutball. Guen's going to get the totally wrong impression.

  He looks up at me. "Surely you've seen a gamma reconstruction wand before. I can't imagine you got insurance to play your medieval re-creation without one on hand."

  Uh-oh! I'm getting a bad feeling here. Especially as I watch Lancelot's woun
d shrink and disappear under the red laser. Could Guen's spell have worked too well? Could we have ...

  The man turns off the gamma recon-whatever and touches Lancelot on the shoulder. "Hey, mate, wake up."

  Lancelot stirs and sits up. My heart swells with love, as I forget our situation for a moment. He's going to be all right—that's all that really matters. I reach over and hug him.

  "I thought I'd lost you," I cry, overjoyed. He hugs me back and kisses me on the forehead.

  "Did we make it?" he asks in a weak voice. "Are we in the twenty-first century?"

  "Twenty-first century?" the man exclaims. "Oy, mate, were you hit on the head as well?"

  "What?" I cry, suddenly shivering with fear. What the hell is going on here? "Please tell us, sir. Who are you? And, um, when are we?"

  "Oh, I get ya. Still role-playing," the man concludes with a chuckle. "Well, luv, I don't want to burst your medieval bubble, but since you asked, I'll tell you. It's the year 2110." He holds out his hand. "And I'm Arthur, CEO of Camelot-dot-com."

  Oh, man. Beam me up, Scotty; here we go again.

  Thanks for reading A Connecticut Fashionista in King Arthur’s Court. I hope you enjoyed Kat, Lancelot, and Guenevere’s adventures in Camelot. A few things to note:

  This is the first book in my Twisted Time series. A sample chapter of the sequel, A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest, (Chrissie’s story!) can be found on the next page.

  Would you like to be informed when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list here:

  You can also follow me on Twitter @marimancusi or like my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/bloodcovenvampires.

  Reviews help other readers find books! I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative. Doesn’t have to be long and detailed – just a few lines to let others know what you thought of the read!

  Remember, this book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Share it with a friend!

  And again, if you’d like to read an excerpt from A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest just turn the page.

  Chapter One

  Kat Jones is so dead!

  Seriously, when I find that Park Avenue princess wannabe I’m going to wring her Burberry clad neck.

  The girl has been nothing but a pain in my ass since we arrived at King Richard’s Faire a few hours ago. Nonstop whining and complaining--worse than Scarlet O’Hara and Heather Locklear on Melrose Place put together. I mean she even bitched out a poor old gypsy who was just trying to eke out a living by reading palms.

  And now I turn my back for one second and she’s disappeared.

  I’m Chrissie Haywood, by the way. A simple fashion magazine photographer not normally given to violent tendencies. In fact, I’ve even been called a hippie by some. But hey, just because I prefer tofu to tuna and peaceful politics to unjust occupation of third world countries that pose absolutely no threat to the United States, doesn’t mean I’m some unwashed, patchouli drenched, flower child, does it?

  But enough about me. Right now I need to find my slacker coworker. Last I saw her, she was watching the jousting match. I offered to get her some water since she said she had a headache. Now I realize that was most likely her ruse to get rid of me so she could take off early.

  I push past the throngs of people, many dressed in authentic looking medieval garb. I myself am wearing a capped sleeved, royal blue velvet gown that I made from a pattern I got off eBay. I know it’s a little silly, but when in Rome, right? I certainly fit in a lot better than Kat does, what with her couture clothing and stiletto heels. Who the hell wears stilettos to traipse through upstate New York mud?

  When my editor first emailed me today’s assignment, I was over the moon. After all, how many times does one have the opportunity to get paid to hang out at a medieval faire all day, taking photos? Then I read the P.S. I’d be working with her. La Mode’s resident fashionista and all around shallow bitch. And sure enough, the second we got here, Kat started complaining. You’d have thought our editor asked her to go to the front lines of Fallujah the way she’s been moaning and groaning.

  I’ve tried to make the best of it, ignore her and enjoy the faire, but let me tell you, that girl could put a damper on Pollyanna’s day.

  “Excuse me,” I say, tapping a random knight in shining armor on the shoulder. He turns around and gives me a dazzling smile. Delicious. “I’m looking for a girl. Blonde. About this high. Dressed in Armani…”

  “Me too.” He grins, then shakes his black curly head. “Sorry. Haven’t seen her.” I try to ignore his thick Brooklyn accent--which seriously detracts from the medieval authenticity level—and concentrate on his tempting backside as he walks away. Not that I should be looking at knight in shining armor backside. After all, I am still technically married, though those death-do-us-part vows don’t really mean anything to me anymore. They certainly didn’t mean diddlysquat to Danny when he was off screwing the coffee house waitress after the poetry slam in The Village last month.

  I’ll never forget the moment I caught the bastard, naked and writhing and spouting bad verse in the woman’s bathroom stall. Like a cheesy Lifetime movie, except for the fact that in made-for-TV land, the husband’s usually a successful businessman in corporate America. Someone with assets the jilted wife can acquire once she has her revenge.

  Danny’s assets consist of a beat-up Harley from the 60’s and a signed, first edition copy of his hero Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road.”

  Not exactly the stuff revenge is made of.

  Shaking unpleasant thoughts from my head, I squint and scan the crowd. Where could Kat be? Maybe she went to the car. I make my way to the front gates of the faire and into the parking lot, finding my old-school yellow Volkswagen Bug “Flower” still parked where I left her.

  “Have you seen the bitch, Flower?” I ask the car, patting her on the hood. Unfortunately, for all her cuteness, Flower is more the strong, silent type.

  Suddenly, as if on cue, my dress bursts into song. After listening to a few polyphonic bars of my Jefferson Airplane ringtone, I reach under my skirts and pull the cell phone from my jeans’ pocket. (I know, I know. Not very authentic medieval undergarments, but I forgot to sew pockets into the dress.)

  “Hello?” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

  There’s static on the other end of the line. Typical upstate New York reception. At least the residents’ babies won’t die of cancer from living in close proximity to countless cell phone towers like the rest of us probably will. I’m totally anti-cell phone and wouldn’t even own one if work didn’t require it.

  “Hello?” I repeat, walking a few steps away from the car, seeking a better signal. “Can you hear me now?” I ask, unintentionally mimicking the Verizon guy.

  “Chrissie?” A tinny voice registers from the static.

  “Kat?” I pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. Full bars. That’s weird. Must be on her end. I raise the antenna on the phone, just in case. “Is that you, Kat? Where are you?”

  “I need your help.” The crackling grows louder. Her voice sounds like it’s a million miles away, even though I know she’s probably somewhere within a block radius.

  “Um, okay,” I say, though I’m more than a bit wary of what she’s going to ask me to do. Knowing her she’s probably having a broken heel crisis and wants me to swing by the nearest Neiman Marcus to grab her a replacement Manolo. “I can barely hear you.”

  “I know. Sorry. Evidently they’re still working out the kinks in this time-cell continuum thing. Actually it’s pretty amazing they can do it at all. I mean, think of the practical applications! You could call your dead grandmother, for example. Though, of course, that might freak her out a little. I guess it’d only work if you had a dead grandmother that didn’t have a weak heart--”

  I pull the phone away from my ear again, staring at it in confusion. Is the static distorting her words so much that I’m mishearing them?

  “--But I supp
ose you could always call your dead grandmother, but not tell her it’s you or pretend that it’s the you that existed when she was still alive…what?” I hear muffled voices on the other end. “Oh. Okay. Sorry. Chrissie, I got to go in a sec’, sorry. Evidently these time-cell calls cost like a million dollars a minute. And there’s no nights and weekends plan either.”

  “Kat, what the hell are you talking about?” I ask, trying to gain some semblance of control over the conversation. “And where are you? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “Well, that’s sort of why I’m calling. You’re never going to believe this, but I’m in the future. Like a thousand years in the future.”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “Kat, stop screwing around. We need to get going.”

  “I’m not joking, Chris. I wish I were. I’m in the future. Well, first I went to the past. To the days of King Arthur if you can believe that. The land of knights, damsels and no flush toilets. And then Lancelot and Guenevere and I went through the time portal at Stonehenge to get back to the 21st century, but Mordred and his army showed up and Guenevere must have messed up the spell in her rush to cast it. ‘Cause now we’re stuck in the 22nd century. And I need your help.”

  “I’m hanging up the phone now. I’m tired and ready to go home. Go prank call someone else.”

  “No! Wait! You have to believe me.”

  I pause, the sheer desperation in her voice making me reconsider hitting the end button.

  “What, Kat?” I ask, tight lipped.

  “Please, Chrissie, I need your help! I know it sounds bizarre. I didn’t believe it myself at first. But I’m desperate! I have to get word to Nimue and you’re the only one I know in close proximity to her. I can’t call the medieval Nimue ‘cause they didn’t have cell phones then and the time-cell continuum thing only works through cell phones.”