A Knight to Remember (19 page)

“How…how did you figure out the toaster?” is what I articulately manage to get out, and Virago has such a big smile on her face that she actually ducks her head a little and clears her throat with an elegant shrug.
 

“You’ve been so hospitable to me.
 
I wished to return the favor.
 
Admittedly, the toasting device wasn’t so difficult to understand, after you showed me how to use the television,” she says, her mouth twitching at the corners as she tries to suppress her smile.
 
She leans forward then, smoothly, and makes a lovely, sweeping bow.
 
I stare at her as she rises again, her ice-blue eyes sparkling as she indicates the two plates.
 
“So please…partake of breakfast, m’lady.”

I stand for a long moment, wavering in indecision.
 
Finally, I stare up at her, my heart pounding.
 
The drama of the moment is somewhat lessened by the fact that I can’t help staring at her two teapots.
 
“That looks great on you,” is what I finally get out, and she smiles again, though it’s a little sad.

“Not nearly as great as the cows,” she says, nodding her head toward the stairs.
 
And the bedroom.
 
And, I assume, my cow-covered pajamas.

“It’s obvious you’re from another world.
 
No one from this planet would think those pajamas were great.” I’m laughing and blushing fiercely as I take up my plate and go to sit on the edge of the couch in the living room.
 

My phone in my pocket rings an obnoxious version of the chicken dance.
 
Which means that Carly is calling me.

“Hey,” I mutter into the phone, propping the plate on my lap.
 
Shelley is running around gleefully in the backyard in tight circles, sniffing and peeing on pretty much every blade of grass.
 
I watch her thoughtfully as static interferes with the reception of the call for a second.

“…oh, my God, Holly?” Carly squeaks, the roar of a very busy television station behind her voice.
 
“Oh, my God,
turn on the TV
…”

My blood goes cold.
 
I almost drop the plate as I jerk upright, but I manage to fumble with it and set it down on the coffee table, grab the remote and almost drop it, too.
 
I do manage to turn the TV on, and I switch it immediately to the public access television station.

“…reports are pouring in from the streets beside the bay that something large has been moving beneath the water,” says the news anchor in her pale beige business suit, eyes wide as she presses her earpiece to her ear, staring at the camera.
 
Behind her against the blue backdrop in the news room is a picture suspended over her left shoulder of a dark, shadowed hump in several waves of water, not entirely unlike the famous doctored photos of the Loch Ness monster.
 
But this is not the Loch Ness monster.

This is
our
monster.

Our beast.

Virago stands to the side of the television, her lips pressed together, fiddling with the back tie of the apron as she carefully draws out the bow she’d tied behind her waist, takes the apron off over her head, folds it neatly and sets it aside on the counter.
 
Virago now looks almost out of place in her tie and shirt and jacket, like she doesn’t belong in them.
 
Like she doesn’t belong here.

I have to keep reminding myself…she
doesn’t
.

“This is not a whale, folks,” says the reporter, glancing down at her desk as a piece of paper is handed to her from off camera.
 
The wrist attached to the hand holding the paper has a gigantic poppy tattooed on it.
 
Carly.
 

“Listen, can you get down here?” hisses Carly into the phone.
 
I almost forgot I was holding it to my ear.
 
I blink.

“What?”

“We’re getting a lot of different footage that we’re not showing right now.
 
And my station manager would like to talk to Virago.”

“Carly, you didn’t
tell
her— ” I practically squeak into the receiver.
 
She sighs the longest and most longsuffering of sighs.

“No, no, c’mon, you know me better than that,” she tells me in hushed tones.
 
“But I told her that there
might
be someone who had a bit more info on the monster, and right now she’s desperate for that.
 
Right this
minute
more people are tuning into our station than pretty much all the other days of this month
combined
, Holly.
 
It’s our highest rating in
all of time
.
 
So can you both get down here pretty quickly?
 
And anyway, I think it’s important for Virago to see this stuff.
 
Maybe we can figure out where the monster is with enough cobbled together footage—maybe we can go find it…”

Go find it.
 
Panic seizes me, and suddenly breathing is a little harder.
 
But…if Virago finds the beast, she might die during the ensuing battle.
 
And, at the very least, if all goes well, finding the beast means that Virago will leave.
 

Oh, my God, Holly, did you
really
just think that?
 
(Yes.)
 
This beast could leave the water, could begin hurting people pretty much at any time, and I’m worried about losing…

Well.
 
Let me be honest here:
 
losing one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.
 
I glance up at Virago who has her arms folded, who is watching the television intensely, her eyes searching, her jaw clenched, her feet spread, like she’s about to head into battle.

It was only a momentary thought, accompanied by everlasting heartache and pain, of course.
 
Of
course
we’re going to go down to the public access station, of
course
we’re going to find out where the beast is, try to locate it, fight it.
 
We need to, technically I guess, save the world.

“Yeah, we’ll be right there,” I mutter into the phone, end the call.

Virago flicks her piercing blue gaze to me, and I’m swallowed deep into that perfect blue of her eyes.

God, I knew this wouldn’t last forever.

I just didn’t think it’d end this soon.

---

I need a latte.

The minute we get in the car, I should be turning my wheel toward the public access television station—it’s actually not that far from my house, as the crow flies.
 
I buckle myself in, wait for Virago to buckle her seat belt, try not to watch how a stray wisp of her ink-black hair falls into her eyes, as she bites her lip a little, sitting back in the seat, rolling her shoulders back like she’s preparing for something.

At the very least, I need a little caffeine for whatever’s about to happen next.
 
I mean, I don’t know…what if we head out to go after the beast right away?
 
After the night I had, if I don’t have some caffeine in my system, I’ll probably be dead in less than ten seconds.
 
Not the greatest strategy.

“We’re going to go get some coffee,” I tell Virago, which is met with a small, tight sideways smile and a brief nod.

“Sure,” she says.
 
“I still haven’t had any.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure if it’ll make you explode,” I mutter, backing out into the street.
 
“You’re already capable of a lot of amazing things, and well…general awesomeness.
 
What if you just…can move so fast, you vibrate out of existence?”

She cocks her head as she considers my words, as she gazes at me.
 
She shakes her head, then, as I start off down the street, as she adjusts the strap of the seatbelt over her chest.
 

There is a long pause.
 
A moment in which there is only the background noise of my car, and the silence of nothing to say.

But then:

“Holly…”
 
The single word she murmurs is so soft, the two syllables like velvet as she speaks them.
 
Like she’s tasting them, savoring them.
 
Savoring my name on her tongue.
 

“Yes?” I try to tell her, but it comes out as a sort of half-cough.
 
Because Virago is reaching out between us, and she grasps the hand that was curled in my lap, my right hand.
 
She gently curves her long fingers over it, bending them to conform to my palm, squeezes…

And then she just holds my hand gently, softly, warmly.

My heart is beating too quickly.
 
I breathe out, try to pay attention to the road.
 
I can’t be having all of these feelings—the same feelings from last night—right now.
 
I’m fairly certain that Virago holds my hand and arm because people are more affectionate on her planet, not because she’s attracted to me.
 
That, right this moment in particular, she’s trying to comfort me.
 

And, anyway,
I can’t be having these feelings right now.
 
Not today.
 
Because Virago’s going to be leaving in a short amount of time, and I have Nicole…

Oh, Nicole.
 
Nicole who hasn’t contacted me since I saw her at the Knights of Valor Festival.
 
Nicole who would never contact me if I didn’t contact her first.
 
Nicole who forgets that she has a girlfriend most of the time.
 
Forgets that I, perhaps, even exist.

I’m starting to feel incredibly sorry for myself, and that’s where a latte will come in handy.
 
We can’t feel sorry for ourselves when espresso is coursing through the blood, making you feel confidence and overwhelming energy in equal doses.
 

“Hey, Henry,” I practically shout to the speaker when we get to the drive-through.
 
“Can I have two triple vanilla soy lattes?”

“Aren’t we in a feisty mood this morning?” asks the barista companionably over the crackling speaker.
 
“Pull up, darlin’.”

“Triple?” asks Virago, a slight hint of trepidation hanging in the air between us.

“Triple shots of espresso.
 
You’ll like it,” I tell her, nodding, as I pull out my wallet.
 

I pay for the drinks, and then pull out of the Starbucks parking lot, heading eastbound toward the TV station.
 
“Here,” I tell her, handing the hot cup over.
 
“Be very careful, it’s
very
hot,” I tell her as she doesn’t hesitate, but tips her head back and takes a gigantic swig out of the paper cup that was too hot to even
hold.

To her credit, that gulp of latte doesn’t end up all over my windshield in a spit take, but after she swallows it, she makes a little sigh.
 
“Yes, very hot,” she manages, voice a bit gravelly, and then she chuckles a little.

“Oh, my God, you really are a knight, aren’t you?” I mutter in wonder, tightening my hands on the steering wheel
 
“That would probably have killed a random person.
 
Or at least inspire a lot of lawsuits,” I tell her after I take a careful, tiny sip from my drink.

“Well,” says Virago softly, her rich, deep voice curling toward me like a beckoning finger.
 
I chance a look at her.
 
Her eyes are hooded, her gaze so intense it sends a delighted shiver down my spine in spite of myself.
 
“Knights can bear much more than others,” is what she whispers then.

I swallow, feel my skin grow cold.
 
Bear?
 
What is she bearing?
 
Is she talking about the beast, having to find it and fight it?
 
I don’t know what to say, so I keep silent, my heart thundering in me until we’re turning into the parking lot of the news station.
 
I pull into an empty spot, throw the car into park, turn off the ignition, fiddling with my key chain as I gaze down at my lap and then out of the front window, not really seeing anything.

I should…I should tell her, I realize, the clarity of that thought dawning on me as bright as the sunshine outside.
 
I should tell Virago that I find her attractive, and then it’ll be out in the open, and then it would exist, that statement.
 
And she’ll know.
 
She can do whatever she wants with that information, but I absolutely, positively have to tell her.

I gather courage, but I don’t really have a lot of courage to gather, and then I’m turning to her, my mouth open, everything I am the biggest ball of nerves that ever existed…

But whatever I was going to say is completely interrupted, because Carly is there, then, knocking loudly on my car window.

I jump out of my skin, my courage and resolve evaporating instantly.

“
Holly, come on
,” hisses Carly through the closed window, hefting a clipboard and about five pounds of printed paper in her right hand.
 
She jerks her thumb inside, takes another pull on her cigarette before stomping it beneath her high-heeled shoe.
 
“There’s lots of stuff,
looooots
of stuff going on,” she mutters as I open the car door, get out stiffly, jaw clenched.
 

The moment is gone.
 
Whatever I was about to say…it’ll have to wait.

If I can find the courage to try and say it again.

“Lots of stuff, Carly?” I ask wearily, and then she’s shoving the clipboard into my hands while she presses the headphones harder against her ears, cupping out the outside sound with her hands as she mutters into the microphone attached to her headset.
 

“You just don’t even know—read that, okay?” she mutters, and then she’s jerking her thumb inside, with an obvious indication that we’re to follow her.
 
She’s trotting back toward the building, tossing the cigarette onto the pavement before I have a single second to respond.
 

Instead, I simply follow after her and crush the smoking butt beneath my flip-flop, grinding the butt into the ground before we push through the door, too, and into the station.
 
Virago is a warm and strong presence beside me, her long fingers curling around my elbow in a quick, smooth motion, squeezing once before she lets go.

For comfort.
 
She’s doing that for comfort.
 

I swallow.

The secretary of the station is not at her desk.
 
That’s the first thing I notice.
 
Cheryl’s been at her desk every moment of every time I’ve come in since Carly got the job.
 
That damn secretary is as dependable (and probably as immovable) as Mount Everest, and she’s
not there
?
 
I didn’t think the woman ever even peed.
 
But as we head into the crowded main hallway of the station, I understand why she’s not at her post.

Everyone’s running
everywhere
in a controlled sort of chaos.
 
The televisions hanging overhead are playing the same news anchor—she’s a new one, probably won’t last long, they never do at public access TV—who’s nervously (and obviously) reading from a teleprompter.
 

“…we have confirmed sightings of the unidentified animal on multiple streets in the North End as of
this
hour,” she says, her voice shaking.
 
I wander toward the recording studio, almost running into Carly as she dashes back across the hallway.
 

“Come on…we’re going to talk with Deb,” she says, inserting her arm through mine and all but dragging me down the rest of the hallway as Virago follows along behind us.
 
“C’mon, Virago—she wants to talk to you, too,” shoots Carly over her shoulder.

Deb Oliver, the station manager, is currently slumped in her chair in her office, running her hands through her hair and tugging her gray curls at odd moments as she watches the live feed on the television propped up on the folding table across the tiny, closet-sized room from her desk.
 
That dilapidated folding table holds not only the blaring television, but several reams of paper, a very dead aloe vera plant, and a framed picture of her husband brandishing a small, stuffed crocodile.
 
I’ve never asked how they came in possession of a small, stuffed crocodile—I probably don’t want to know.

“Holly,” mutters Deb with a sigh, leaning forward, breathing out and tapping the desk with a chewed-on pencil.
 
She’s not looking at me, though—she’s staring right past me at Virago.
 
“Who’s this?”

“Virago,” says Carly, jerking her thumb to Virago, who’s folding her arms, inclining her head to Deb genteelly.
 
“This is the woman I was telling you about—”

“Do you know
anything
about this monster?” asks Deb, grabbing a pen from behind her ear, and a sheet of scrap paper from her messy desk.
 
She’s poised to start writing, but Virago clears her throat.

“I honestly don’t know much about it,” she says then, head cocked.
 
“I know that this beast is not from this world.”

“
What
?” asks Deb, and the pen’s flying out of her hands, across the desk as she starts to hyperventilate, waving her hand, trying to take deep breaths and failing.
 
Then she slumps backward in her chair, defeat making her expression turn gloomy.
 
She drinks too much espresso, which is why she can change so dramatically from one heartbeat to the next.

She stares up in disgust at Carly, shaking her head.
 
“Carly, why the hell did you bring me this chick?
 
Another world?” she mutters, waving her arms around, opening the top drawer of her desk and taking out a pill bottle.
 
“I need to fucking retire,” is what she says, taking two of the little pink pills out of the bottle and swallowing them dry.
 

“Deb, seriously, get a hold of yourself.
 
Take a couple of deep, cleansing breaths, okay?” says Carly, rocking back on her heels as she waves her arms in front of her like a yoga instructor, sweeping them out and in like she’s about to start a meditation session.
 
“You got this!” she follows up cheerfully before she presses the headphones to her ears again.
 
“Oh shit, Mandy’s taking calls—”

“I
told
her not to take calls on the air.
 
It’s what you do on talk shows, not on
news
shows,” Deb groans, peering at the television screen.
 
“Go yell at her, okay?”

Carly salutes in reply and races out of the room.

“Look,” says Deb then, leaning forward, tapping her blunt finger on her desktop.
 
“I need this shit straight.
 
Holly, who the hell is this jokester?”
 
She waves her hand toward Virago.

That’s just how Deb talks, but it still rubs me the wrong way as I stare down at her, seated in her swivel chair, and frown.
 

“Deb, I’m not certain how to break this to you, but it’s not exactly the Loch Ness monster out there,” I tell her sharply, folding my arms in front of my chest.
 
“This isn’t something that can be
explained
.
 
It’s a
monster
out there,
literally,
and Virago is here to…to kill it.
 
Because it’s very dangerous,” I tell her, summarizing the reasons that Virago needs to find the beast succinctly, and—I hope—drawing no further questions about other worldly origins for the beast.
 
And for Virago.

“Wait…
kill
it?” says Deb, scribbling something furiously on a piece of scrap paper with another pen that she fumbles out of her desk drawer.
 
She glances up, just then, narrows her eyes shrewdly at Virago.
 
“Why are you gonna
kill
it?
 
Are you some big game hunter or something?
 
What exactly
is
it that you’re trying to kill?”
 
Deb has worked in news long enough that she thinks that if she asks the question in enough different ways, eventually she’ll get the answer she wants to hear.

“I don’t know exactly what it is,” repeats Virago, crossing her arms, too, as she shakes her head.
 
She raises her chin, her eyes glittering dangerously.
 
“I do know that it will put many people’s lives in danger, so I do what I must do in order to keep that from happening.”

“
Danger?
 
Oh, God, this is seriously too good to be true,” mutters Deb, drawing a big circle around whatever it is that she scribbled down.
 
She’s rolling her eyes, too, which means that she obviously doesn’t believe that last part.
 
Deb flicks her gaze up to the television, and then groans out loud.
 
“That damn kid is still taking phone calls, I have my phones ringing off the hook and hundreds of email messages are pouring in from everywhere because we are the
only
news station in all of
Boston
who’s saying anything about this right now.”
 
She places her hands flat on the desk and glances up at us with her sharp gaze.
 
She shrugs.
 
“So, okay, here’s what we’re going to do, kids.
 
I’m going to send a cameraman with you for the day to shadow you, see you meet this monster head on.”
 
She’s already picking up her phone to page the secretary as she rattles off quickly, like something in very fine print:
 
“I mean, if you’re okay with that.”