A Knight to Remember (11 page)

Getting angry at not being able to find a parking spot is far preferable to the erratic heartbeat and sweaty palms that should, by all rights, only ever be sported by a teenager.

Okay, so I’m not a mall person.
 
There.
 
I said it.
 
But I can’t really think of a better place to take Virago clothes shopping.
 
Every year, there’s usually people from the Knights of Valor Festival stationed at the mall as a publicity move, handing out brochures to the bored mall walkers, so it’ll be easier for her—somewhat—to blend in.
 
People can think Virago’s a promotion for the festival.
 

Either way, it makes more sense to me than dragging her into Wal-Mart, which would have a host of problems on its own, the least of which would be getting Virago in her full armor past the greeter.
 
(Somehow, I think that the usual little old lady—who happens to be as sharp as a fox—wouldn’t let Virago in based on how dangerous her boots look alone.)
 

So we’re going to the mall.
 

I sigh as I park at one of the farthest spots away from the actual mall entrance, what happens to be the only available parking space, which we found
only
after circling the mall twice.
 
I forgot it was Saturday morning—what a lovely time to go to a mall!
 
If by “lovely,” I meant “packed and unnavigatable,” then yes.
 
We get out of the car, me clutching my almost-empty frappe cup, Virago holding her bottle of water casually as she glances up at the concrete building with her head to the side, as if she’s sizing up a soon-to-be-conquered beast.
 
Her ice-blue eyes glitter in the sunshine, and I can’t help but stare at her for half a heartbeat as she leans against my car door languidly, her scabbard
thunking
gently against the door.
 

“Um…if you could leave the sword in the car…”
 
I gesture to the empty back seat with my frappe cup.
 
“Mall security might not take too kindly to it.”

“Holly, I can’t leave my
sword
,” she says with a wry smile, shaking her head, as if I’ve said the most amusing joke as she reaches over her shoulder and pats the hilt.
 
“A knight
never
leaves her sword behind when beginning a quest,” she tells me like she’s quoted that particular rule perhaps a million times.

“Well,” I say, my tone wheedling, “this isn’t necessarily a
quest
so much as a journey to buy you pants,” I point out.
 
“And you really won’t need a sword in there.
 
I promise.”

Virago folds her arms, her leather gauntlets creaking as she narrows her eyes.
 
“I am a knight with a maiden, and—as such—it is my sworn duty to protect you.”

My heart is beating so quickly it’s in danger of attacking me.
 
I breathe out for a long moment, try to keep my jaw from dropping onto the ground.
 
Maiden.
 
Protect
me?
 
The idea of her protecting me shouldn’t ignite a very serious fire that races through my heart (and between my legs), not because I need protecting…but that she would have thought of such a thing in regards to me.
 
Like she’s actually thinking about me.
 
And my safety.

That’s so…thoughtful.

“That’s very sweet of you,” I manage, then, not exactly certain what to say. “But…I don’t need protecting.
 
And it’s a mall.
 
The only slightly aggressive thing in there is the lotion salespeople.”

Virago gazes at me with her piercing blue eyes, and then nods her head, inclining it toward me with a graceful bend, her wolf tail and long, silken black hair pooling over her shoulder and over her right breast.
 
“I will do as my lady asks of me,” she says softly, and then she’s unbuckling the scabbard from across her breasts, and pulling it over her head in one smooth motion that, for the rest of my life, I’ll see in my happiest dreams.
 
She’s grace personified.
 
I wish I didn’t notice that so much.

“Thank you,” I manage, unlocking my back door and opening it for her.
 
Virago sets the sword down gently on the back seat, as if she’s setting a relic on an altar and not a gigantic sword on a polyester car seat that’s covered with clumps of shed dog hair.

And then we’re headed, together, for the mall.

“So we’ll get you a jacket, and a shirt, and pants, and some shoes and some underwear…”
 
I tick the items off my fingers and hold the door open for her.
 
Virago stops at that, brow raised, and does a little bow, then, hand at the top of the door, the curve of her body complementing mine as she leans over me, the heat of her skin so close I can feel it.

“After
you
, m’lady,” she says, inclining her beautiful head and leaning down a little as she whispers those soft, low words into my ear.

Okay.
 
Would
that
be considered a come on?
 
Could it be anything
but?
 
I shiver a little as her warm breath drifts over the skin of my neck, and I breathe out, walking through the door, trying not to redden.
 
But after I walk through, Virago continues to hold the door open for a woman and a stroller, and a gaggle of teenagers, and then a little old man who pushes his walker ahead of him.
 
So I really shouldn’t feel special.
 
But she certainly didn’t whisper in anyone else’s ear!
 
Right?

Holly.
 
Seriously.
 
You’re grasping at straws here.
 
I hold onto my frappe’s straw, actually, taking another sip.
 
I realize at that moment that I am
literally
grasping at straws.

“Are you from the Knights of Valor Festival?” asks one of the teenagers, a slight brunette with a boy-band-of-the-hour t-shirt and braces, beaming up at Virago as she pauses in the mall’s entryway.
 
Virago follows her through the door, head cocked, looking to me with brows up, eyes appraising.

“Yes!
 
She is!”
 
I tell the teen, and I take Virago’s arm, my fingers curling around the smooth, warm leather of her gauntlets as I lead her through the second door, into the mall proper, leaving the teenagers behind.

I’m about to start power walking down the mall corridor toward J. C. Penney’s, but I pause, because Virago is pausing.
 
She’s gazing out at the mall that opens up in front of us with wide eyes, with perfect full lips slightly parted in wonder.

Huh.
 
It probably would look kind of weird to someone not from this world.

It’s pretty much like any mall I’ve ever been to.
 
There are free-standing particle-board kiosks with people hawking cell phone cases, overpriced lotion and free piercings to go with your new silver earrings.
 
There’s the fountain in the middle of the mall corridor, right beneath the big skylight dome that looks as if it was (and it really
was
) built in the eighties, with the cartoon characters sculptures that I remember from my childhood—which now, in adulthood, look a little creepy since they’re so old and flaking paint.
 
The statues stand about a foot shorter than me, in various uncomfortable looking poses, the most deranged one—a Ronald Duckington from a Disney copy-cat cartoon—looks like he has sharp teeth on his beak now, because of how the paint flaked off his face.
 

The openness of the middle of the mall shows off the golden bird shapes hanging from the skylights overhead, the skylights covered in bird poop that still lets in a great amount of light to show off the columns and cheap plastic cell phone cases directly beneath them.

I mean, it’s not the Grand Canyon, but if you were from another world, it’d probably look magical to you, too.
 
The shininess of the plastic alone would probably do it for me.

“Come on,” I tell Virago with a smile, tugging gently on her arm, and we begin walking down the length of the mall, toward Penney’s.
 

For a Saturday, the mall is packed even more than usual, and entire groups of people look at Virago, openly staring (some of the teens even taking surreptitious pictures of her on their cells), but she’s not paying them any sort of attention, instead staring at the mosaic floor, and up at the hanging seagulls.
 
We pause as we pass the fountain because she’s practically obsessed with Larry the talking cartoon cat.
 

“It speaks,” she breathes, staring up at it as if it were a statue of a deity.
 

“Always wear helmets, even for short bike rides, kids!” says Larry the talking cartoon cat in the same deranged, slightly out-of-tune recording he’s been repeating for over thirty years.

“Yeah, it does,” I tell her sheepishly, and then, glancing at the fountain in front of us, I dig around in my purse for a penny before I realize what I’m doing.
 
I’m too much a sucker for tradition.
 
My fingers brush against a penny at the bottom of my purse, next to my usual nest of pens and straw wrappers, and I dredge the thin copper coin out, pressing it into her warm palm, as I glance up shyly at her questioning gaze.
 
“I know it’s silly, but ever since I was a kid I do this.
 
It’s this silly thing,” I tell her, licking my lips, “but if you toss it into the fountain,” I explain to her, “and make a wish, maybe it’ll come true.”

“You have water spirits here, too?” she asks me, one brow raised, and I cock my head for a long moment, not understanding.

“No—”

“Then how does the wish come true?
 
That’s how our wishing waterways work.
 
A water spirit accepts the offering of coin and lends us a small amount of her magic to create or accomplish the wish.”

I stare up at her unblinking for a long moment, then clear my throat.
 
“I never…thought about it.
 
It’s just a superstition, really.
 
It’s not supposed to actually
work.
 
I mean none of the wishes I made here, throwing a penny into a mall fountain, ever actually come true…”
 
I say quietly, trailing off.
 

Virago stares down at the penny in her hand and seems to reach a decision of her own, for she nods, curling her long fingers over the coin.
 
She closes her eyes, places her fist over her heart, and then the penny is arcing through the air, glittering in the morning sunshine that drifts down through the skylights.
 
The penny settles with a
plop
in the water, shimmering as it nestles instantly among the other coins there.
 

“It is done,” says Virago, smiling at me.
 
And then she takes up my hand and threads it through her arm again, the curve of her breast pressing against the back of my arm, and we continue walking through the mall like walking arm in arm with a lady knight past the sporting goods store is perfectly normal.

I take a deep, wavering breath, and another sip of frappe to calm my nerves.
 
Because, of course, my overactive imagination is jumping to all sorts of conclusions.
 
But I have to remind myself that just because Virago took my arm back doesn’t mean anything.
 
It’s a very chivalrous thing to do, and she’s kind of implied that she thinks she has to protect me.
 
Which…while being chivalrous and sweet, still isn’t remotely true.
 
Maybe the reason she took my arm is that she thinks I’ll trip on a candy bar wrapper, and she’s just heading off having to dive to catch me.
 
Yes.
 
That’s totally it.
 
I mean I
was
totally graceful this morning when she picked me up from sprawling on top of Shelley.

I grow even redder remembering that.

By the time that we reach the escalator by Penney’s, my heart is beating too fast, and I wonder if drinking so much espresso so quickly was the best idea.
 
I toss my empty cup into a garbage can and wipe my damp palms on my jeans.
 
Virago has (sadly) let go of me to stare at the escalator with her arms crossed over the breastplate of her armor, and a single, imperious brow raised.
 

She looks so out of place here, the wolf’s tail (or, at least, I assume it’s a wolf’s tail—I should ask her about that sometime) over her shoulder, the silver of the fur mixing with the ink-black of her hair, her leather boots straight out of a fantasy novel, her armor scratched and banged up, attention to detail stuff you don’t usually see on replicas.
 
The thing is, I’m starting to realize
this is really not a replica
.
 

People keep staring at her, but not really like she’s an oddity.
 
More like she commands their gaze to gravitate toward her with her regal presence alone.
 
She’s languid and sensual as she strides forward, graceful as a dancer, strength and power radiating off of her like a shimmer.
 
She’s standing with her feet hip-width apart now, as she stares at the escalator, that power drawing me in like a sell, and I’m kind of weak in the knees as I edge over to her from the garbage can, clearing my throat.
 

“What is this contraption?” asks Virago then, indicating the escalator with a wave of her hand.
 

“That’s…a sort of movable staircase,” I tell her, my eyes flicking to the second level of the mall.
 
“It’ll take us up to the second story where the store is.”