Chapter Seven

The Who'd A Thought It was hopping.

People were smoking and drinking and having a grand old time. A warm fire crackled in a stone fireplace nearby, rain streaked the smoky windows, and sitting directly in front of me was a crazy woman. Beautiful, admittedly, but crazy nonetheless. And crazy trumps beautiful every time. At least, in my book.

I said, speaking slowly, "What exactly did you mean by 'we have someone to meet'?"

"Exactly that," she said.

"Look," I said, "I've had a long flight from Seattle and a two and a half hour cab drive from Heathrow. I'm a little slow on the uptake here. Not to mention I just had my first English ale and it was a little stronger than I'm used to - "

"Holy smokes, you're long-winded, James. Good thing your books aren't. Anyway, tell you what, ditch the orange juice and I promise to buy you another one when this is all over."

"When what's all over?"

Nothing was making sense. Had someone spiked my juice? Or was this another crazy dream? After all, I was in the land of dreams, right? Heck, the Faery King's underground kingdom was allegedly within a nearby hill.

As these thoughts raced across my mind, Marion surprised the hell out of me by grabbing my orange juice and knocking it back in three big gulps. She slammed the empty glass down on the table, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, and burped quietly.

I gaped, too stunned to speak.

"Come on," she said, offering me her hand. "I have a lot to tell you."

I stared down at her tiny, proffered hand, somehow sensing that my life would forever change if I took it. How exactly it would change, I did not know. I also sensed that every decision and choice I had ever made in my life had led me to this very moment. How I knew this, I didn't know, but the feeling was a strong one.

"Well, James?" she said. "We don't have all night."

"We don't?"

"No."

She was crazy. I knew that. Beautiful and crazy, and suddenly I was finding it hard to think straight. The music seemed a little louder. The laughter seemed a little louder. And Marion seemed, somehow, even more beautiful. Her hand was tiny and white and it was waiting for me. And before I realized what I was doing, I was reaching out for it -

She snatched my hand like a mongoose. The brightness in her eyes instantly turned mischievous, and it turns out her hand wasn't so delicate after all. No, it was iron-like, and it promptly yanked me out of my cushioned seat and onto my feet.

"Hey!"

But she wasn't listening. She turned and, still gripping my hand, led me through the pub and toward the open front door, where I could see it was still raining steadily outside.

At the door, I heard a scream behind, followed immediately by a grunt and the sound of a glass crashing to the wooden floor. I gasped and spun around and saw something I would not soon forget.

On the far side of the tavern, three men dressed in full medieval garb - chain mail, tunics, hoods, high boots, and what appeared to be very real swords strapped to their backs - were pushing their way roughly through the bar, scattering men and women and ale. All of them were staring at Marion and me, and all of them looked utterly insane. They appeared to have entered the bar from a back entrance.

"Um, Marion, are these friends of yours?" I asked, pointing.

She turned, and when she saw the three approaching Medieval Times castoffs, she did something that surprised the hell out of me.

Still holding my hand, she yanked me out the door and into the night, where we ran as if our lives depended on it.

Which, I was beginning to think, they very well did.

Chapter Eight

Fog hung low over the ground, swirling ominously. We had only gone fifty feet or so, when Marion hung a hard right and we headed back toward High Street. She released my hand and now we were really running.

Yeah, I'm dreaming. Any minute now I'm going to wake up.

"Hurry, James!" she shouted ahead of me.

Sure, what does it matter? No doubt I'm making a tangled mess of my bed sheets as I pantomimed running. For all I knew, I was back in my condo in Seattle and the trip to England was just one long, surreal dream.

But I played along. After all, I had seen Inception, too. Maybe there were more to these dreams.

Unless, of course, I wasn't dreaming at all.

I put my head down and did my best to keep up with Marion, who was apparently part cheetah. I heard a noise behind me, and if I had to guess, I would say it sounded looked the clank or clink of armor. The three Renaissance fair rejects, no doubt. I looked back over my shoulder, and sure enough, the three lunatics just rounded the corner, too. Their boots echoed loudly along the quiet street. I saw that they were now brandishing their swords.

Brandishing. A word I never, ever thought I would use.

Ever.

A word meant for pirate movies and medieval romance novels. Not in real life.

You're dreaming, James. Remember that. It's all a dream. Just like the dozens and dozens of dreams before this one.

Only this one had a fresh spin on it.

Men brandishing swords.

Rain drove straight into my face. The street was empty. The street lamps were mostly obscured behind the rain and fog and displayed spectacular golden halos.

We rounded a corner and headed down a dark side street. A small chapel was to our right and a low brick building was to our left. I was sucking wind. I felt a stitch in my side. I needed to stop. I needed to double over. I needed air.

Behind me I heard the three men round the same corner. No time to double over. No time to even breathe.

Lord help me.

We crossed another empty street and Marion plunged under an ivy-covered arch and straight into what appeared to be a spacious park. A dark and spacious park. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I followed right behind her, through the archway.

The stitch in my side was now something more than a stitch. My new pal Marion dashed along a curving concrete path and I dashed right along behind her.

My breathing was loud to my own ears. My chest heaved. My heart pounded. My side burned. Adrenaline flooded my bloodstream.

Sweet Jesus, I couldn't do this for much longer.

Adrenaline would only last so long before reality set it. And the reality here was that I'm a full-time writer who occasionally plays street basketball and even more occasionally takes his mountain bike out for jaunts around town. The reality was this: sooner or later I was going to drop dead.

The trail curved to the right, toward the park exit. Marion, to my utter surprise, hung an abrupt left, and plunged headlong into some bushes and trees and along what might have been a game trail. Like an idiot, I followed right behind, blindly dashing into a tangle of branches and leaves and thorns. I covered my face with my arms, fully expecting to run headlong into a very wide and very hard tree trunk.

But I didn't. At least not yet. We were on a trail. A very narrow trail that was almost not a trail at all. We followed it for another hundred feet or so before Marion ducked behind a large moss-covered tree and stopped. I stopped right behind her, about a second too late.

"Sorry," I said, holding her up. The bump into would have been more memorable if there hadn't been three goons waving swords behind us.

We waited. While we waited, I tried catching my breath. I wasn't doing a very good job of it. White and yellow spots blurred my vision. I was certain that I was on the very brink of passing out.

Water dripped down from the branches above. A cricket chirped. I held my side, wondering if the pain would ever leave.

So far, it hadn't.

And through the sounds of my own ragged gasping, I could hear the three men approaching down the park's main concrete path. Marion shushed me and I did my best to quiet my breathing. The running footfalls came and went, and when they were gone I collapsed against the mossy tree trunk.

"You okay?" Marion asked.

"No," I said. "I think I might die."

She grinned, then reached down and took my hand and hauled me to my feet. I almost cried.

"No resting," she said. "C'mon."

And she led me deeper into the woods.