"Say that to the old man I yelled at a few months ago for talking a little too loudly to his hard-of-hearing wife."
She laughed behind her hand, her eyes lighting up like two stage lights. I liked the way she laughed. I also liked the way she looked at me with those amazingly round eyes. Her apparent interest in me was giving me some courage.
"So what's your name?" I asked.
"Marion."
"I love that name."
"Really?"
"Reminds me of Maid Marian from Robin Hood."
"Except mine is spelled with an 'o'."
"As it should be," I said for no reason at all.
She smiled as if I'd said something witty. And still she didn't take her eyes off me. The bartender came over and set a frothing mug of orange juice down in front of me. Okay, it wasn't really frothing. It was just a plain glass of orange juice. In my first English bar. Hey, on the bright side, at least I wouldn't be sporting any embarrassing orange juice mustaches or get into needless fights.
Okay, so how do guys hit on girls, anyway? I've never been much of a 'hitting on' type. I'm more of a we-just-happen-to-cross-paths type. Granted, my type gets a lot fewer dates, but I have accepted my lot in life.
"So are you from around here?" I asked.
"No."
"Where are you from?"
Lord, this had to be the world's worst pick-up ever. Heck, I would even hesitate to call this a pick-up. More like a prelude to utter humiliation.
"Iceland," she said.
I almost made a stupid Icelandic joke. Hey, I heard it's pretty cold there. Hey, the land of ice. Hey, I'm retarded.
Somehow I kept my mouth shut. And sadly, I know from past humiliations that when a girl only gives one-word answers, well, she's probably not that into you; otherwise, she would give you more material to work with, right?
And so, with her curious yet beautiful eyes still searching my face, I took my drink and stood. I tried to smile as I said, "Well, enjoy your time here in Glastonbury, Marion with an 'o'."
With that, I turned and left and found a small booth in the far corner of the far side of the room, far away from the happy gazes of the other men, and far away from her. Once seated, I did the only thing I could think of to save face: I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to receive a text message.
God, I need to get a life.
I had just scrolled through some old messages when someone sat across from me at my table. It was Marion, of course.
"Sorry if I seemed rude back there," she said. "It's just that I wasn't expecting to meet you so quickly." She paused, took a deep breath. A deep, ragged breath. As if she had jogged to my booth.
I set my cell phone aside. "Did you say expecting to meet me?"
Still breathing deeply, Marion reached inside her purse and removed a book: A tattered copy of my very first published novel, a mystery thriller called Unwanted Dreams.
She held it out to me. "This is you, is it not?"
I nodded dumbly, too stunned to speak.
"Good," she said and shoved the book back into her purse. "Finish your orange juice, James. We have someone to meet."
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.