Black Moon Draw

"No."

"We will take a route . . ." The boy continues to explain the route and expand on his earlier list of atrocities the Desert Knights have committed over the past thousand years. I listen curiously, amused by his animated features. ". . . and slay him." He finishes. I shift with a grimace.

There's no way I can ride a horse today. Uncomfortable already, I refocus on the boy. "How do you know all this history?" I ask. "It doesn't seem like you have time for school if you're riding to battle all the time."

"I am a scribe," he says proudly. "'Tis my duty to know history, letters, and writing."

It's an odd combination. They value history, even if no one wants to talk about the past. "Not many people do that here?"

"Nay. There are but three in our armies, and that is threefold what other armies contain!" he says in excitement. "I am with you to record your great deeds and help guide you in our ways."

"And protect me."

"Yes." He blushes, as if he'd forgotten the most important duty.

That explains a few things. Like how he can hardly lift a sword and would probably climb a tree with me if we were confronted by anyone.

Bathroom. I look around, once more surprised when an outhouse magically appears. I don't question it this time, simply happy to have one around. When I emerge, the squire stands.

"We must go," he says, indicating the mounted lord and master of the universe.

I meet the gaze of the Shadow Knight who handled me with a combination of gentleness and command last night. I've never thought myself submissive in bed, but I'm entertaining the thought now. My cheeks grow hot as we look at one another a little too long.

"Are we off to slaughter a bunch of -" I start.

With his usual charm, the Shadow Knight reaches down to grab me and hauls me unceremoniously onto the horse in front of him. I admire his strength but the manhandling? Every once in a while I start to think I'm doing the feminists of my world wrong by wanting to surrender each time he touches me.

"I can ride on my own!" I say, at once flustered by his scent and nearness.

"Were I to trust a tree-witch." He wraps both arms around me in a silent refusal to let me go. "You did not protest last night when my hands were on your body."

Those thick arms and the warm skin of his chest are better than a shot of espresso. I'm wide-awake, wet somewhere I don't want to be. My blood is buzzing. I love being in his strong embrace.