Britt managed to roll her eyes open, which allowed her to discover that she was flat on her front, surrounded by shriveled weeds. Britt spat dead grass out of her mouth and rolled over. She was going to kill Lyssa. A priceless photo op? HAH!
When Britt rocked to a stop she found herself blinking up at a man. He had pale blonde hair, but his eyes were a dazzling shade of blue. He was drowning in a watery grey cloak that reminded Britt of cold water. It was definitely a cloak, not a jacket. It was practically a dress as it fell past his knees. The man caught Britt’s gaze and smiled—a gesture so handsome it momentarily made Britt forget about his ridiculous outfit. “Greetings, new ruler of Britain.”
Britt fell out of her smile-stricken trance. “What?”
The man’s brow momentarily wrinkled. “You’re a girl,” he said, staring at Britt’s chest.
“Yeah? Are we rare in these parts or something?” Britt said, wincing as she eased herself upright. She frowned. Lyssa, Amber, and Grace were nowhere to be seen. “Have you seen three other girls around here?” she asked, fishing a dead leaf out of her blonde hair as she looked around the graveyard. It was much smaller and much newer than she remembered. Maybe getting shocked had affected her eyesight?
“A woman as our king?” said a man. He stood behind the cloaked hottie, next to a shorter, stocky man. Calling the speaker a man was perhaps stretching it as he was certainly under the age of twenty. Both of the onlookers wore warm cloaks that almost completely obscured their knee length tunics and the belts strapped around their waists.
Britt stared until the young man grew uncomfortable and looked away.
The cloaked hottie kneeled at Britt’s side, studying her with great intensity. “The sword brought her here, which means she is meant to be our king.”
Britt cautiously looked back and forth between the men. The way they casually tossed around the word ‘king’ had Britt’s hackles raised. Had she been kidnapped by some bizarre renaissance fair cult?
The stout, older man shifted. “Very well. She’s our King then. Only a fool fights Merlin’s word,” he said to his young companion.
“Wait, Merlin?” Britt said. She cast her eyes at the cloaked hottie before glancing at the sword—which had not a speck of rust on it and actually glowed gold although it was still stabbed into the anvil. “I see what’s going on here. Very funny Lyssa. It’s cute, but you should have paid for this experience yourself. I don’t give two hoots for King Arthur and his knights,” Britt said as she heaved herself into a standing position. She shivered and brushed her bare arms. The temperature must have dropped while she was out of it. Previously Britt was comfortable in a t-shirt. Now she was growing jealous of the warm cloaks the renaissance actors had.
“Lyssa?” the young man in the tunic asked.
‘Merlin’ stood and shooed the gawkers away. “Allow me to enlighten her to our, herm, problem. It will be easier to explain without an audience.”
The stout man nodded and started off through the graveyard, his gait stiff but strong. The younger man leaned back on his heels.
‘Merlin’ smiled and pushed his cloak aside to place an arm on the young man’s shoulders. “If you would be so kind, Kay. I know this ordeal has been upsetting for you, but things will turn out. Perhaps even better than I estimated with the original Arthur. Why don’t you go polish your armor? You want to look good for the glorious event, yes? Of course you do, good day,” Merlin said, escorting the young man—Kay—to the graveyard gate. He pushed him through the border of the cemetery and watched him leave before he spun on his heels and locked his searing eyes on Britt. “Now then. What is your name, lass?”
“Britt Arthurs,” Britt said, shivering as she peered behind a gravestone. “Lyssa, Grace? Come on Amber, help me out here,” she said as she walked through the cemetery.
“You have two names?” ‘Merlin’ asked, strolling behind Britt.
“What? Oh. Britt is my first name, Arthurs is my last name,” Britt said when she finished exploring the back area of the cemetery. “So who put you up to this? Lyssa? It’s gotta be Lyssa.”
“I do not know this Lyssa you speak of. I assume she is a companion of yours in which case I can assure you she is neither here, nor is she aware of this dire situation you have found us in.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Britt Arthurs—the heavens must have selected you for I cannot believe it is mere coincidence that you also bear the name Arthur—you placed your hand on the Sword in the Stone, and it recognized you as its master and brought you back through time—very far in time might I add, based on your irregular clothes—to be crowned King of Britain,” ‘Merlin’ said, twitching his shoulders back as he drizzled his words like honey.
Britt nodded very slowly. “Lyssa, I hate you!” she shouted, turning from ‘Merlin’ to shout at the gravestones.