"Aye." Panther-man says with a hint of pride.
"He'll deflower and kill you. Come to us and we will treat you well. Our last battle-witch was made a lady and died of old age," the man on the bridge yells.
At least, I think that's what he says. His accent is heavy enough I'm filling in some of the words.
Black Moon Draw. Shadow Knight. Battle-witch.
I rack my brain. There must be a reasonable explanation for what's going on. Perhaps I didn't wake up from a weird dream? Or did my misery turn into an all-out break with reality?
It's all I can think of. I can't remember most of last night after cracking open a second bottle of wine. This place certainly seems real, from the cool mist settling into the trees to the freak show beside me.
But it can't be real. If I were going to be dropped into a book, it'd be Pride and Prejudice or, better yet, Fifty Shades of Grey, both of which contain civilized worlds with Heroes who only need their Heroines to make their lives complete. From what I read, this nightmarish world is plagued by death and war. Why would I be here of all places?
The two are arguing. I'm having difficulty making out their words and more trouble standing. I sink onto the ground and stare, dazed, confused, horrified. There's a tiny voice in my head telling me that if I thought my life was bad before, it just got a helluva lot worse.
Panther-man clasps my shoulder and kneels before me.
I blink his animal face into focus and recoil.
"I claim you in the name of the Shadow Knight of Black Moon Draw. Do not cross Blue Star Bridge. They will deflower and kill you." He places something heavy and cold in my hand. "This will grant you safe passage through our kingdom, should you need it. I will not be gone long." He stands and leaves.
It takes me a minute before the sensation of wanting to faint passes. I'm clutching a black jade or obsidian medallion with strange carvings strung on a thick, worn piece of leather. Studying it, I'm trying not to be weirded out by how heavy and real it feels, as if this whole place isn't a flimsy dream that'll dissipate soon.
How can this be real? I'm perfectly sane, or thought I was. Psychosis brought on by mental trauma sounds more likely than I'm stuck in a book.
"M'lady." Another voice calls from the bridge.
Looking up, my gaze lingers.
Wow. Dressed in a rich red cloak lined with fur, the brunet man on the bridge has the chiseled features of a model. He's smiling, a perfect, white, even grin, that renders him boyish, charming.