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.
Chapter Nine
We were still holding hands when she led me to a leafy hollow of some sort, surrounded by tall trees with interlocking branches. The branches nearly blotted out the rain. Nearly. Cold, fat drops doggedly found their way down, to splatter on the back of my neck. I shivered with each drop.
I didn't mind holding her hand. Mostly because I was scared shitless, and any human contact was welcome. That is, any human who wasn't brandishing a sword.
Brandishing. There it was again. Sheesh.
Besides, her hand seemed to fit nicely in mine. A perfect match, if I do say so myself.
The rain continued beating a steady staccato on the leaves surrounding us. Other than that, there wasn't much else in the way of sound. I was still breathing hard, and so was Marion. The three sword-waving throwbacks seemed to be long gone. My heart was still racing. A part of me still believed I was back in the pub, drinking my orange juice and pretending to be reading text messages.
This all happened so fast. Too fast. One moment I was tongue-tied around a beautiful woman, and the next three men with swords were chasing us through a park.
Too weird. Too flippin' weird.
The silence continued and we continued holding hands and moving through the hollow, stepping through puddles and over soggy twigs. With each snap, Marion winced. I shrugged, apologizing. Working my way quietly through a wooded trail wasn't one of my strong points. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I could see Marion's face fairly clearly.
She led me over to a rotted, moss-covered tree log. I was beginning to think everything out here was moss-covered. As we sat, she released my hand. I'll admit, I was sad to let her hand go.
"You're probably wondering what's going on," she said, tucking her long, black hair behind her ears.
"Not at all," I said. "I rather enjoyed running for my life through the deep, dark woods."
She snorted. "These are not the woods, James. This is a city park."
"Yeah, well, it feels like the woods to me."