The flash of the gem almost blinds me again, but I turn my eyes at the last second, rest my gaze on the ground.
I blink for a long moment, still staring at the ground.
Because there’s something on the ground that’s even more fantastical than this massive, heavy, too-real sword in my hands.
Something utterly…impossible.
I move the sword so that the point rests against the earth, and the pommel is leaning against my side for a moment, because I’ve suddenly lost a great deal of my strength, and I can’t hold the sword up anymore.
My legs are buckling under me, but I tighten my knees, stare down at the ground.
Beyond the sword, in the grass of my backyard, are the divots I saw from the back door.
But, this up close, I can actually see them much more clearly, can see the details.
They’re not divots.
They’re…tracks.
Animal tracks, I realize, as my brain tries to make sense of what, exactly, I’m seeing.
They look a little like a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s footprints, is the first thing I realize.
And then I realize that I’m comparing
fresh
footprints in my
backyard
to those of a
dinosaur
.
But really, what else in the whole world could I compare them to?
Each individual print (and there are three perfectly clear ones and a few smudges into the earth, I realize, as I count them up) is about four feet long.
Four
feet.
That’s about how long my
dog
is.
I glance up after a long moment and stare thoughtfully at my shed.
Or, rather, what used to be my shed.
Because the useless little building that I always thought only existed to house snakes and spiders (and would never, ever house my little lawnmower for those exact reasons) is now flattened, boards everywhere in tangled stacks, and the roof smooshed into the ground.
Really, the best word to describe it is
obliterated
.
For a single heartbeat, I wonder if it was destroyed because of a lightning strike.
I wonder if lightning hit the roof of the shed and it just sort of…exploded.
And then I think better of it, because, seriously—I know better.
It wasn’t because of a lightning strike that my shed is now a pile of kindling in my backyard.
I stare at what was once my shed and swallow, my heart starting to pound inside of me.
Is it actually possible that Virago could be telling the truth?
I mean…I know that I saw something last night, something that can’t really be explained.
It was enormous.
And it was out in my backyard.
So, no, I don’t know exactly what I saw, but it couldn’t possibly have been a hallucination—could it have?
It seemed so real.
I stare down at the footprint.
That
certainly seems real enough.
I turn around and stare at the woman who stands in the doorway easily, leaning against the frame with raw grace, one hand on her leather-clad hip, her head to the side, her silken black ponytail pooling over her shoulder as she watches me intently.
A little shiver runs through me, and I close my hand around the pommel of the sword that leans against my side.
I saw Virago’s wound last night.
I saw the blood, the blood that leaked onto my couch, the evidence of which is
still there
.
That wasn’t faked—it was
real
.
And now, somehow, the wound is healed, the wounds in both her side and her thigh completely gone, as if they’d never been there.
And then, of course, there’s this sword.
I look down at it, try to lift it again, but I can’t, really, because it’s solid metal.
This isn’t a fake.
It seems real enough, too.
Okay, Holly, what are you going to do?
I think to myself.
I worry at the edge of my lip with my teeth, and then I take a deep breath and start back across the lawn, half-dragging, half-trying to carry the sword after me.
Shelley follows along, leaping alongside me, the happiest I think I’ve ever seen her, her luxurious furry tail wagging and waving behind her like a fan.
“She really likes you,” I grunt, heaving the sword after me as Shelley and I traverse the three steps up onto the porch.
Shelley prances right up to Virago and sits down in front of her, her tail wagging so hard and so quickly that it makes a little, faint
thump
against the floor.
Virago smiles affectionately and crouches down, tousling Shelley’s head with long fingers and ruffling the tufts of hair behind her ears.
“She’s a good beast,” she says easily, even as Shelley’s face darts forward, and she begins to bathe Virago’s cheek and chin with her bright pink tongue.
Virago laughs with delight, and I’m frozen to the spot as I watch this exchange.
Yes, Shelley loves a lot of people, but she’s also a pretty good judge of character.
Nicole hated Shelley, and Shelley wasn’t too keen on Nicole.
Now, Virago chuckles, sits back on her heels, and she glances up at me with her ice-blue gaze as she ruffles Shelley’s ears again.
“What is the beast’s name?”
“Shelley,” I say hesitantly, still watching their interaction for a moment.
Then I shake myself out of it, offer the hilt of the sword to Virago.
She rises in a single fluid motion, and takes the hilt from me, those long fingers now wrapping around mine as she lifts the blade out of my hands, her warmth lingering against my skin for a moment as I watch her heft the sword into the air.
She lifts it up like it’s about the same size and weight as a piece of
celery
.
“Like in…Mary Shelley.
I named her after Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,” I say, trying to stick to things I actually feel like I understand at this moment.
“She wrote
Frankenstein
,” I continue, as Virago raises her brows questioningly.
“It’s…a very good book.
One of my favorites.”
“Ah,” says Virago, and ruffles Shelley’s head again with a small smile.
“Named after the maker of a good book.
A good name for a good beast,” she finishes, smiling at me then, her full lips in a gracious curve.
“Thank you for retrieving my sword,” she says, stepping back genteelly to let me in through the door, holding the sword so that the blade is pointing down and to the side, at ease.
“If I may, perhaps, have a cloth to clean it?”
“Sure,” I say, because why not?
I wander in past her.
I am so in over my head.
I find the roll of paper towels on its side on my counter from where I ripped some off last night to staunch the flow of Virago’s blood, and I bring in a handful of them to her.
Virago’s seated on the couch, sword resting lightly on her knees, and she takes the towels from me, nodding and smiling her thanks.
Holly, seriously, oh, my God, get it together!
It’s just so
hard
to get it together, because every single time Virago looks at me, or her gaze lingers on me, I find that it’s difficult for me to form a complete thought, let alone complete sentences, but there are so many problems with that fact, because—first and foremost—
she thinks she’s from another world
, and though I’m going to be breaking up with Nicole, right now I’m still in a relationship with her, and...
Okay.
Let me just be completely honest:
the worst problem, the insurmountable problem?
There’s really
no
possibility that she’s gay.
I watch as she begins to stroke the wad of towels deftly along the length of the blade, rubbing off the mud and bits of grass, making certain they don’t fall on my carpet.
I mean.
Maybe
there’s no possibility that she’s gay.
She certainly gives off the gay vibe, and I’ve always congratulated myself on my impeccable gaydar.
But how can I be having these thoughts about someone who
genuinely believes
she’s from another world?
Because she’s gorgeous and kind and chivalrous
, I think in the back of my head.
And, anyway, I realize, reeling myself in and depositing myself back on the sad, desolate earth.
I have Nicole.
…Nicole.
Shit.
Shit.
I was supposed to call her, and then never did, and last night was
terrible
, I remember clearly.
Everything about yesterday was pretty darn disastrous.
I straighten, clear my throat, take a step back.
“Um, I’ve…I’ve got to call my…”
Virago looks up questioningly, and I falter.
“Um.
I have to call someone,” I tell her, and she nods, and I slime away, feeling like the worst traitor on the face of the planet.
Nicole is my
girlfriend
, I should have told Virago that I had to call my
girlfriend
, but…
But what?
I don’t want Virago to know that I have a girlfriend?
I mean, for how much longer am I going to
have
a girlfriend?
And Virago’s
not gay, Holly, would you stop drooling all over her
?
I sigh, hit Nicole’s speed dial, and wander up the stairs and into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
Of course she doesn’t pick up.
Of course I get her voicemail.
It’s Saturday morning, and she’s probably still in meetings, but everything around me just became so strange, that I realize, my heart aching inside of me, that I really needed to hear her voice just then.
But she probably doesn’t even want to speak to me right now, what with Carly volunteering her to make a fool of herself on stage.
Maybe she realized last night, too, that we have to end this.
“Hello, you’ve reached Nicole Harken,” her voice mail message says breezily.
“Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
I breathe out.
“Hey, it’s me…”
I mutter into the phone.
“Um.
About last night…”
I trail off.
I remember the way she looked at me yesterday.
She’d looked so angry.
So put out.
This isn’t really something that we can talk about over voicemail.
I swallow, try to think of something to say.
“Just call me back, okay?” I manage, and then I hang up.
I rub my hand over my face in frustration, go into the bathroom, stare at my reflection in the mirror.
God, I look
terrible
.
I didn’t take my makeup off from last night, and because of the rainstorm and the bath and everything else, I sort of look like a very deranged clown, the blue eye shadow creased with the glitter I’d applied for the Renaissance Festival now congealed next to my eyebrows and my eyeliner running down the sides of my nose.
My blonde hair is all tangled, and sort of standing up around my head like a puffy, messy halo.
I turn on the hot water, get my hands soapy, wash my face slowly and methodically, relishing the warmth against my skin.
It draws me back into the moment, helps me think.
So yeah, I looked terrible, but it doesn’t matter if I look attractive or not, because Virago isn’t gay, and she thinks she’s from another world.
Okay, good.
I scrub at the eyeliner that leaked down the side of my nose.
And, anyway, I’m with Nicole.
I pause, wiping some soap off the tip of my nose.
But I’m not
really
with Nicole, because I have to break up with her, and if last night was any indication, I have to break up with her pretty darn soon.
I turn off the water, reach for the hand towel and rub my face vigorously with it.
I hang it back on the rail and grimace at my freshly scrubbed reflection in the mirror.
I need to be completely honest with myself:
I’m really attracted to Virago.
But she thinks she’s a
knight
, for Christ’s sake.
I take another deep breath and stare at myself in the mirror as my eyes widen.
Okay.
Yes.
I have a total thing for knights, obviously.
But that doesn’t change all of the facts.
I peel off my fleece shirt and my fleece pants, and pull on jeans and a bright blue tank top that reminds me a little of Virago’s eyes, which I fully admit to myself.
Then, with a long sigh, I take the tank top off and put on a bra, then put on the tank top again, and pull my hair in a pony tail.
Then I take my hair out of the pony tail, then put it back into the pony tail, with another long sigh.
I think about taking off this plain white bra and putting on one of my black ones, but I realize I’m being ridiculous and don’t, in fact, change my bra.
I trot downstairs, trying not to care how I look, and at the foot of the stairs, I stop.