Wincing, I hoist myself onto my elbows and attempt to clear my brain-fog with a violent head shake. Ow. Mega pain. Bad idea.
Slowly, the guy’s metallic-colored eyes materialize out of the gloom. Intense and dazzling, they’re set wide in a scowling face and surrounded by a wild mane of golden hair. Next to the man, a humongous hairy animal pants foul breath in my face. It’s some kind of dog.
“Balor,” the man says. “I told you to stay back. Shall I tie you to Jinn on the way home?”
Balor? Jinn? What strange names. Those creepy girls must have drugged me, and then left me for dead. The absolute cows. But why would they do that? I had nothing of value in my pockets.
I guess people will do anything to feed their bellies or their drug habits. It’s sad. Too many people suffer in this city, and sometimes l hate living in it.
Okay, back to the scary guy—drug dealer, pick pocket—whatever he is, maybe if I don’t look at him, he’ll disappear. I should tell him I don’t have any money on me.
“Answer me!” he thunders, making me yelp.
Flight reaction kicking in, I flee backward, shuffling over rough rocks before losing my balance and falling into something wet. Oh, God. I’m in a creek or a river.
I’m going to die young like my mom did. This is the end.
The guy is unlikely to save me, but that doesn’t stop me screaming and flapping my limbs around in panic.
“Seven storms, Balor,” he growls. “Must you always catch fools at inconvenient times?”
The dog barks like it’s ready to attack.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I prepare to have my throat chewed open. I hope it won’t hurt too much.
Water splashes my face, then my coat collar is seized. I’m dragged through the shallow creek, boots scraping rocks, and then dumped like a bag of garbage onto spongy grass.
“Don’t dare scream,” the man orders.
Hugging them close, I bury my face in my knees. A pair of black leather boots is visible on the ground beside me. I should check this guy out. Is he a friend or foe? Savior or murderer?
“And do not cry.” His boots squelch in the wet grass as he shifts his weight. “There’s nothing in the seven worlds I hate more than tears.”
If he’s here to help, he’s a very unsympathetic rescuer. What did I do to deserve such callous treatment? I’m not a bad person. Truly, I’m not. My chest heats, threatening to boil over with fury. How dare this guy be so rude?
I can’t bear injustice. It makes me lose my mind. I want to scream and yell at him. Even if he’s a grumpy cop here to help, I’d really like to smack his face.
“Sorry to be such an inconvenience.” Blinking back the despised tears, I force myself to glare up a set of long legs to his… Wait. Flaming. Hell. Oh, boy.
The guy stands before me, hands braced next to a sword hilt that’s strapped to his hips, and he’s wearing full-on fantasy costume. What’s surprising is the outfit’s not the tiniest bit lame—he looks amazing. And convincingly scary.
A massive lump in my throat makes it impossible to speak. Or scream. I open my mouth to try and nothing comes out. I pat my pockets, searching for my cell. I need to phone Isla, then get a photo of him. Otherwise, she’ll never believe me. No, what am I thinking? I should call 911.
But there’s no phone to be found. What do I do?
Goggle-eyed and silent, I watch in horror as his expression darkens. He looks furious. It’s weird how he seems so familiar, like an indistinct face from a fading dream.
“Have you swallowed your tongue, creature of the mud?”
“I… no, I…” I begin, trailing off into dumb silence. I’ve gone into shock.
Flinging his hand out as if he’d like to whack me over the head with it, he says, “Yes? Do go on.”
From wrist to elbow, one arm is covered in an antique archer’s bracer, intricately patterned, and it's beautiful to behold, just like the rest of him.
I gape at his lustrous silver and gold magnificence. Dressed like a fairy tale hunter, he has long tousled hair and sullen, chiseled features. I wonder if he’s an actor who’s strayed from a movie set? Or maybe a cosplayer searching for a buddy to slay?
As my muteness continues, he bristles with impatience, the dog snarling at his side as if I've stolen its dinner. Or maybe I am its dinner, and it can hardly wait to chow down.
“Can’t you control your dog?” If that’s what it is. “I can’t think straight with that noise.” I cover my ears, wishing I’d thought to play dead as soon as I woke up.
“Balor! Shut your trap.”
Instantly, silence descends. Not one single bird dares to chirp from the countless trees surrounding us. I must be in some kind of woods, and it’s way past time to get out of here.
“Where am I?” I ask, my chin thrusting out like I’m not scared of him.
“Ithalah Forest. Or to be precise, you’ve recently been reclining in Merrin Creek.”
Merrin Creek? As far as I know, there’s no water anywhere near Blackbrook.
“And what town are we in?”
“Do you mean whose territory?”
“I guess so,” I say, tremors racking through my body.
A haunting screech echoes in the distance.
The cosplayer’s hand suddenly flicks into the air like he’s about to catch a baseball. “Quiet,” he whispers.
Muscles tensed, head cocked, he listens and waits. As he stands there, it’s as if the whole world waits with him.
One second. Two. Three. Then with a quick one-shouldered shrug, his arm drops to his side.
Well that was strange. What stupid game is this guy playing at?
“You’re not very funny,” I say, too annoyed to worry about self-preservation.
He ignores me and scrutinizes the sky.
“Did you hear me?” I persist. “I don’t like your dumb game at all.”
The fear I awoke with has dissolved and been replaced by a simmering rage. If this guy and his dog are going to murder me, I wish they’d hurry up and get it over with rather than act out some childish, Shakespearean drama.
I glance away from his haughty smirk, otherwise I might leap up and punch it off his pretty face.
“Where are the rest of your players hiding?” I ask, trying to match my sneer to his.
“I cannot begin to guess what you mean. The land you crouch on is neutral. There are no other players as you call them.” He indicates the hill behind with a jerk of his head. “But south of the forest, well, that is an entirely different story.”
Well that is an entirely different story.
What a dedicated actor he is, his voice so crisp and dramatic. Next, he’ll tell me winter is coming and we need to battle the gray walkers, or the red riders, or whatever the blazes they’re called.
I’m sick of this ridiculous farce. “So, tell me, Jon Snow, who lives south of the forest, then? Is it Goldilocks and the three bears?”
He frowns. “I think not.” Then he seems to consider my statement seriously. “Certainly, within the forest bears do dwell, but the Southern lands belong to the Court of Merits. But you are partially correct in your guess, some of them do wear locks of gold.”
So does he.
Amazed at the cheek of this madman, I laugh. “The Court of Merits? How nice. And where are you from? The Court of Crackpots?”