Black Moon Draw (5 page)

“North then northwest,” he repeats with some impatience. “They are on our heels. You must go now.”

I don’t see anyone following them but start down the path, not about to stick around to meet the man-beast I once admired because he chops off everyone’s heads.

“North first!” the White Tree Sound soldier bellows. “Then northwest.”

“Can you just point the way I need to go?”

He does and then whips out his sword and prepares to face an enemy I can’t see.

North is through the forest. Hiking up my cloak, I trip twice over the oversized shoes before finding my footing. This route is horrible – filled with dips I can barely see in the grainy dusk, brush scratching my legs, and thick tree branches that keep getting in the way. There’s no way I can head in one direction long, not with the detours I have to take.

Cursing the knight for pointing me in such a laborious direction, I stop to suck in a deep breath and glance back. I can’t see them anymore. There’s half a forest between us. The clash of swords tells me which direction the White Tree people are in. They aren’t following.

Focused on working my cloak free from bramble, I hear it behind me: the sound of something very large crashing through the forest towards me.

“This just keeps getting worse!” I yank my cloak free and bunch it up around my waist, sick of wrestling with it in the underbrush.

And then I run. Or try to. When I’m not tripping over the oversized boots, I’m smacking my shins on low branches I can’t see in the darkening forest or almost face-planting when the uneven ground throws a dip or hill in my path.

Needless to say, I’m not getting far. At all.

“Dammit!” Frustrated, I stop and look around. Surely there’s a better,
smarter
way of dealing with things. “I swear, LF, if I get eaten by some kind of forest monster . . .” I wrestle with brambles.

Whatever is tearing through the forest after me is almost on my heels. I duck behind the thick trunk of a tree, willing LF to pull me out of this nightmare one more time.

Silence falls around me. It scares me more than hearing my pursuer. I hold my breath and wait, listening for any sound at all.

The forest is utterly quiet, like all the fat birds are watching me, waiting for me to get eaten by a monster more hideous than anything I’ve ever imagined.

A loud snort over my shoulder makes me jump. The long tusks and snout of a boar scrape the bark off the tree trunk, floating like some sort of disembodied beast a foot above my head.

Its eyes glow an unearthly shade of gray.

Holy hell.
My wits at their end, I run.

Branches snap as the thing behind me runs as well. A scrape of something against a tree and a shadow falls over me, one that makes me stop in place.

The boar-headed man uses tree trunks like steps to propel himself upwards, soaring five feet over my head. He’s wearing a kilt and, aside from the thickest, most muscular thighs I’ve ever seen, I catch a glimpse of his round ass as he does a perfect somersault in midair and twists, landing ten feet ahead of me, his unusual fog-colored eyes glaring at me.

I’ve seen large men on television - wrestlers, The Rock, Jason Momoa - but this man embodies the word huge in a way I didn’t think possible. I always found those kind of men sexy. But in person wearing a massive boar head with tusks as dangerous as the small arsenal of weapons he’s carrying?

Terrifying. The Shadow Knight of Black Moon Draw is strong enough to snap me in two with a couple of fingers, not to mention the weapons strapped to his back that are bigger than I am.

Why is he in chaps?
Seconds before, he wore a kilt. Now, he’s wearing a kilt and motorcycle-style chaps. He didn’t have time to change while flying through the air over my head – I’d have seen it.

Not only that, but he has a shadow, because it’s noon now instead of almost dark. I don’t think it’s the kingdom; I think LF didn’t bother rereading this scene for consistency. If I wasn’t scared, I’d be annoyed.

“You forgot to edit this scene,” I whisper to LF, my eyes bugging at the size of the man’s chest and biceps. Leather straps crisscross an otherwise bare, broad, muscular chest, and weapons are strapped to his back, his thighs, and a wound whip at his hip. His biceps are bulging, befitting a man with thighs like tree trunks who also stands a head and a half taller than me and twice as wide.

I can’t get over the boar’s head. Do they grow pigs that big? Because this doesn’t seem possible.

Thank god this is a book. Once again, I experience a sense of bravery I’ve never known in real life. Instead of cowering, I decide to see how this plays out.

“Witch,” the half-man growls in an inhuman voice.

I swallow hard and remind myself again that just because this seems real, it’s not. It can’t be.

“N. . . no. You have the wrong person,” I reply. “I was just walking in the forest when you people attacked me.” I inch away, not wanting to take the chance he doesn’t buy my excuse.

The boar head tilts to the side and he reaches for the whip. “Halt.”

I do. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. It may not be a bad thing, if that’s what it takes to jar me out of this bizarre place.

“You wear purple like a witch.”

“This?” I glance down at the cloak. “I borrowed it.”

“You wear the witching stone of my kingdom.”

My hand goes to the medallion at my chest.

“Tell me you
borrowed
what belongs to
me
and no one else.” With the warning growl, the man-beast steps towards me.

Shit.
“Wait, wait!” I hold up my hand. “I can explain!”

He halts.

“So maybe I
found
this, not borrowed it,” I say quickly. “I can see it’s important to you. I’ll take it back to where I found it. It was just right back there.” I point and turn. “Taking it back. Don’t kill me.”

Leather creaks as he reaches for some weapon and I bolt, panicking. A flash of metal flies over me. I duck instinctively.

The huge axe smashes into the tree ahead of me, severing the trunk clean through. The tree groans and crashes into others as it topples over backwards. The weapon acts as a boomerang and returns to the man who threw it, far enough above my head to tell me that was a warning.

He just cut a tree in half with no effort.
It hits me then. The Shadow Knight has to be the Villain of this story. I mean, he’s not even
human
and he tears through the armies of this world like they’re toy soldiers.

I start forward.

The crack of a whip makes me run, but the thin leather winds around my waist, holding me in place.

“Okay. I, uh, see your point,” I say, raising my hands. “How can we get through this without you chopping me in half?”

“You tell me you’re the witch or prove you didn’t steal the witching stone from her.”

“That’s reasonable. But . . . hear me out here.” Silently, I’m cursing, my mind racing. I face him. He’s got the axe in one hand, the whip in the other, poised for battle. Sexy as sin, I’ve also never seen anything so terrifying in all my life. My chant of
this is fiction
sizzles and bursts into flames in the face of this man’s intensity. “What if neither is true and this is a huge misunderstanding? I mean, I’m not supposed to be here. I had a bad day because of Jason and was drinking wine and watching TV and then blacked out and . . . I’m not supposed to
be
here!” There’s a hysterical note in my voice and my eyes are watering. I’m two seconds from a breakdown.

The man-beast is listening, or I assume he is. There’s no expression on his boar-face, but he’s not moving and not trying to kill me.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I repeat, my throat tight. “This is a mistake.”

“You
are
the witch.”

“I’m
not
a witch! I’m a librarian! I read
books for a living, not run through forests or eat jerky or wear big boots or talk to birds!” I’m shouting the words, but I don’t care.

“You are a
new
witch. I will show you.” He strides towards me, the sight of him moving manages to still some of my panic. He jiggles the whip loose and winds it deftly, replacing it at his hip.

The man is . . . incredible. He’s got a body unlike anything in the real world. He’s too beefcake-y, too perfect to be anything other than a character in a book. Wide, thick, muscular torso, lean abdomen, not an ounce of fat on him, and biceps and thighs that make me drool, or would, if not for his weird boar’s head.

Should I run away instead of stare at him? My face is hot and I can’t stop looking at his chest when he approaches and halts close enough for me to smell him. Some part of me melts.

My god, he smells like. . .night. And sweet clover. And horses. And . . .
man.
A combination I’ve never experienced before in the real world. It’s strong and makes my mouth water, a tantalizing combination of his skin, dark musk, and a drop of sweetness that gives me the sudden urge to nibble on him. It reminds me a little of food, but I can’t place what.

He takes my arm.

“You are newly come from the edge of the world,” he says.

I look up and cringe. No matter how good he smells and how ripped his body is, he’s got the head of a freaking monster.

Figures I find a man who looks like this and isn’t human.
If there’s one thing LF has got spot on, it’s my horrible luck with men.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“’
Tis obvious by your hysterics. You are behaving most unwitchly.”

Pretty sure that’s not a real word, LF.
“A man with a monster head is making fun of me,” I mumble.

He takes my forearm. His hand is huge, warm, and rough, and his touch sends a spark of electricity through me. For a fictional character, he’s feeling like the real thing.

With his other hand, he lifts the axe.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I say, yanking at my arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Showing you that you are a witch,” he replies calmly. “I will chop off your hand and you will watch it grown back. Then you will believe me.”

“Chop off my hand?” I echo in astonishment. “No!”

“You wish me to chop off another part of your body?”

“What? No! What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand. “You can’t go around chopping off parts of my body!”

“If you are a witch, which I suspect you are, it will grow back. If you are not, it will not,” he reasons.

“But if it’s not, I won’t have a hand.”

“You have another. Many men have survived with one hand before you.”

My mouth drops open. “Fine. I’m a witch. You caught me. Now let’s
not
chop me up!”

The hand around my forearm leaves and he wraps it around my neck.

I freeze, uncertain if being strangled is better than having parts of my body violently removed.

“First, witch, learn this. You will never, ever, ever lie to me.” The sharpness of his tone makes me jump. He’s gone tense, the veins of his forearms and neck standing out in a sign of visible agitation while the boar’s nostrils flare. “I know when a man lies or deceives. Do you understand me?”

I nod quickly.

“Now, watch.” He takes my arm again and readies the axe.

“No, no, no, no!” I try to get away. “Don’t! Please! LF – get me out of here!”

He twists, isolating my hand and leaving me with nothing but his broad back to pound at.

That’s when it hits me. He smells like camping: forest, horseback riding, and . . . brownies.

God, I
love
brownies.

The axe goes up and drops.

Hot agony shoots through me.

I scream.

Darkness takes me.

If she is a witch, she is not a very good one.
The Shadow Knight caught his newfound prize with one arm as her body sagged. He secured the axe at his back and took her arm again, watching in satisfaction as the wound healed. Skin grew over the stump of her arm and, within two breaths, a new hand began to grow. She healed quickly – a sign of good fortune and great power.

Of course, the battle-witch who was supposed to be learning this lesson was not conscious to see it.

Were all witches newly come from the edge of the world like this? Hysterical, rambling about nonexistent places, and talking to people he was not able to see? Was this her magic or madness?

The Shadow Knight had never met a new witch. His were looted from neighboring kingdoms, and all of them had been stately, calm, and commanding the respect of his men the way he did. In fact, he quarreled with many of the battle-hardened women when he was a young knight about the best way to win a battle.

They were always right. It was a lesson he reluctantly accepted after two key defeats.

But this one . . . She was unlike the others. He doubted he would be taking advice from her anytime soon. Maybe this was the way of the battle-witches; they had to be trained, the same way a boy who one day grew into a knight.

If so, she was indeed in the right kingdom. He had been at war since he was old enough to hold a sword and could share with her the winning strategies he intended to use in the arid, treeless expanse of Brown Sun Lake. His only real concern was how he was going to train her when he needed her magic now.

He shifted her in his arms. She was delicate and unusually pretty with long, dark hair and large, expressive green-blue eyes. Her golden skin was so much softer than that of any woman he had ever had in his bed, even the pampered daughters of other Knights. He found himself petting her arm, intrigued by the silky sensation.

The cloak clearly belonged to a battle-witch, along with the medallion his scout had been given to mark his claim on the newest member of Black Moon Draw. The clothing beneath was unlike anything he had seen. Thinner than silk, smoother than polished marble, it left most of her body exposed, as if the material was too expensive for her to have a full gown made.