Chivalry of the Cursed Knight

Chapter 1

A knight is meant to be brave, honest, and above all else, chivalrous. I fear I am losing those very virtues.

Chivalry is dead.

Six-feet-under, decomposing, only-the-bones-are-left, dead. As evidenced by the guy who just asked me why my dress doesn’t show more tit.

Charming.

I tried explaining to him that my dress was historically accurate to the fifteenth century, but his eyes quickly glazed over, and his rendition of “Oh! My friend is over there, gotta go!” was reminiscent of a middle school theater student.

Sighing, I blow my bangs out of my face before looking around for my best friend, Leah.

Her Halloween party is legendary in Auraria, and even at the age of thirty—and as a damn adult who can make her own decisions!

—I’m not allowed to skip. I tried last year, and she literally drove to my apartment, forced me into a slutty nurse costume, and made me pass out Jello shots as punishment.

So I’m here this year. Leah didn’t have to ask me twice.

But I did pick my own costume—handsewn, actually.

I found a pattern online for an authentic medieval princess dress that I am actually obsessed with.

It’s mauve-pink velvet with gold brocade trim, a drop waist, and puff sleeves that come in at the elbows before flowing out toward my hands.

My dark locks are intricately braided around a golden circlet that sits atop my head.

The only thing that doesn’t match the time period are the large square glasses that sit upon my nose because I refuse to wear contacts.

I feel like the medieval princess I’m dressed as.

It’s my absolute favorite costume, and I wish it wasn’t frowned upon to wear clothes like this on a daily basis.

I might have even used a teeny bit of my magic to make all of the gold thread emit a light sparkle, but seeing as that’s the only magic I’m good at, I feel like I should be able to use it as I please.

Finally, I spot Leah pouring drinks and flirting with a man dressed as that guy from Jurassic World—round glasses, vest, and cargo shorts. He’s hot in a ‘90s dad sort of way.

The path across the dance floor is littered with sweaty bodies and, unfortunately, the only way out is through.

I squeeze past couples dressed in quite the array of costumes, wishing—not for the first time—that I was at home passing out candy to trick-or-treaters.

Maybe by the time we’re forty Leah will have moved on to quieter celebrations.

A girl can dream.

I’m halfway to my destination when a metallic hand wraps around my arm. I look up to see an honest-to-gods knight in literal shining armor looking back at me through the slits in his helmet.

“Woah! Cool costume! It matches mine.” I take a step back, gesturing to my outfit. “I even put pockets in—look!”

I dip my free hand into my pocket to demonstrate, as is a right for any girl who finds pockets in her dress. When the knight continues to stare at me instead of complimenting how wonderful my pockets are, I gently pull my arm from his grasp with a muttered, “Alrighty, then.”

Before I can turn away, he finally speaks.

“Hold, my lady. Whence comest thou hither? Prithe, what dost thou have upon thy visage?” His voice is silky smooth, deep and sensual with the sexiest English accent—so much so my knees almost buckle and it takes me a moment to register that I have no idea what he just said.

“Oh, really in character are we? Can you repeat that in modern English?” I chuckle awkwardly. “Or even better, let’s step outside so I can hear better. This music is ear-shattering.”

Pivoting, I head toward the backyard where the partygoers who are easily overstimulated have disconnected the outdoor speakers. As soon as we leave the house, I realize how loud this knight’s armor actually is. I can’t believe I didn’t hear him before he was right next to me.

With a sigh, I drop into one of the Adirondack chairs around the firepit, gesturing for the knight to sit next to me. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Penny—well, Penelope, but only my mother and grandmother call me that.”

“Alisander,” he replies, taking an uncomfortable looking seat on the edge of the chair, hindered by his armor. “Mine companions doth call me Sanders.”

So we are still on the medieval-speak thing, I see.

“Sanders. I like it. You can take off your helmet, Sanders.” Selfishly I’m urging him so I can see if his face matches his voice.

“Prithee, is it safe?” He looks around the backyard as if he’s actually inspecting for danger.

“Uh… yeah. Leah lives in a pretty safe area. The Were are very protective over this city and its inhabitants.”

Auraria is one of the only magic-touched cities in the United States, sitting just outside of Charleston, South Carolina.

Those of us who have lived here our whole lives have come to expect all manner of paranormal creatures, including witches, like me, and Were, like Leah.

Though, I’m a really shitty witch. My grandmother said it’s because our line was diluted with too much non-magical blood back in the fifteenth century.

She and my mom were shocked when I showed any magical ability at all, even if it really only manifests when I have a needle and thread in my hands.

Sanders, apparently, is not from here though because his head tilts in question. “Were?”

“The Were? Werewolves? Like Leah?”

He’s silent for a moment before declaring, “I shall keep mine helm upon mine head.”

“Cool, yeah. That works too.”

He takes a deep breath, his armor rattling a bit, and then leans toward me conspiratorially. “Whence cometh thou hither? How didst thou accomplish it?”

Now that I can hear him clearly, I still don’t quite understand what he’s asking. “How did I get here?” He nods in encouragement. “Oh, well, I drove from my apartment…?”

Somehow I know that’s not what he’s looking for.

That notion is confirmed when his shoulders droop.

A moment later he tries again. This time, he removes his glove and gently takes my skirts between his bare fingers.

His veiny hand flexes as he rubs the fabric, and I would really like for him to take his helmet off.

“My lady, art thou from these parts?”

Finally, a question I know the answer to! “Yes! Lived here my entire life. What about you?”

“No, my lady.”

Duh. The accent gave that away. “You can call me Penny.”

“I shall make use of the formal—my lady or Lady Penelope.”

I absolutely don’t hate the way Lady Penelope sounds coming out of his mouth. “Whatever suits your fancy.” I shrug. “Speaking of suits—is that armor heavy? I can’t believe how real it looks.”

“Verily, it is true. And, yea, this armor is exceeding heavy.”

“Where did you get it?” I wish I could see his face to gauge his reactions to my questions.

“‘Twas wrought by a blacksmith’s own hands.”

Huh? “Where’d you find a blacksmith in Auraria?”

“Lady Penelope, I?—”

“PENNY GRAVES, GET YOUR ASS BACK INSIDE! It’s almost midnight and you know what that means!”

My best friend is… eccentric. “That would be Leah, the hostess with the most-ess. Have you met her yet? It’s our tradition to take a midnight shot on Halloween.” I mime gagging.

“Hark, ‘tis near midnight? I must hence anon.” Sanders stands, offering me his still un-gloved hand. His skin is calloused and rough, and it feels delectable.

What is wrong with me?

“Are you Cinderella?” I joke. “Will you turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight?”

“A pumpkin?” he questions.

“You know.” I wave my hands around in an attempt to demonstrate. “Cinderella’s carriage turns into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

I can almost hear his sad smile when he says, “Nay, ‘tis not a pumpkin, my lady.”

Sanders bends, lifting the base of his helmet to plant a kiss on my hand, lighting me on fire with his touch. A moment too late, I bend trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he’s returned the armor back to its proper place. “Mayhap we shall meet again, Lady Penelope.”

Then he’s gone.

And Leah is dragging me inside for our midnight shot.

Which turns into shots, plural.

Something I will certainly regret in the morning.