Not a Dream
Maya's POV
I scrambled backward so fast I fell over my own feet and landed hard on my butt.
The man in the armor wasn't moving. Maybe he was dead. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe both.
"This is not happening," I whispered, pressing my back against the wall. "People in medieval armor do not crash through apartment ceilings. This is impossible."
But my coffee table was certainly broken into a million pieces. There were chunks of wood everywhere, and something that looked like real metal armor glinting in the blue light still coming from my laptop screen.
I pinched myself so hard it left a mark. Still here. Still real. Still completely insane.
The armored figure groaned and tried to sit up. That's when I saw his face for the first time, and my heart nearly stopped beating.
He was young, maybe in his twenties, with dark hair that was messy from whatever just happened to him. His skin was tan like he spent a lot of time outside, and there was a small scar above his left eyebrow. But it was his eyes that made me forget how to breathe.
They were the most amazing green I'd ever seen, like emeralds or deep forest leaves. And right now, those beautiful eyes were looking around my room with total confusion and what looked like fear.
"Where am I?" he said, and his voice had an accent I couldn't place. It sounded old-fashioned, like characters in those medieval movies my history professor sometimes showed in class.
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. My brain was still trying to understand that there was a real live person in armor sitting in my living room.
He tried to stand up, wincing like he was hurt. The armor made clinking sounds as he moved, and I could see now that it wasn't some outfit or fake movie prop. This was real metal, dented and scratched like it had been in true fights.
"I asked you a question," he said, and his voice got louder. "Where have you brought me, witch?"
"Witch?" I squeaked. "I'm not a witch! I'm a computer science major!"
He looked at me like I was speaking a strange language. Which, I guess to someone from olden times, I kind of was.
"You speak strangely," he said, taking a step toward me. "And this place..." He looked around at my apartment with growing concern. "What sort of sorcery is this? These glowing orbs without flame?" He pointed at my ceiling lights. "This box that speaks without a person inside?" He pointed at my still-glowing laptop.
"Those are just normal things," I said, finding my voice again. "Electric lights and a computer. You're in Portland. Oregon. In America. In the year 2024."
His face went totally white. For a second, I thought he might faint.
"2024?" he repeated. "That's... that's impossible. It was 1524 when I..." He stopped talking and put his hand to his head like it hurt. "I was in the house. Marcus was casting his spell. There was light everywhere, and then..."
"Marcus?" I asked. "Who's Marcus?"
But before he could answer, something even stranger happened. The blue light from my laptop got brighter, and words started typing across the screen again, just like before.
THE PORTAL IS UNSTABLE. DANGER APPROACHES. TRUST NO ONE BUT EACH OTHER.
Both of us stared at the screen. The knight - because what else could he be - looked like he might throw up.
"Dark magic," he whispered. "Marcus sent me forward through time to get me away from the final fight. But why here? Why to you?"
"I don't know!" I said, feeling like I was about to cry. "I was just doing homework and wishing my life was more exciting, and then everything went crazy!"
"You wished for excitement?" He looked at me with those intense green eyes. "Right before I arrived?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything! People make wishes all the time and knights don't just fall through their roof!"
"Not just any knight," he said sadly. "I am Sir Damien Blackthorne, leader of the royal guard. And if Marcus sent me here, it means he's planning something terrible back in my time."
The name hit me like a punch to the gut. "Damien Blackthorne?"
"You know of me?"
"I... I've been dreaming about someone named Damien," I admitted. "For months. Dreams about castles and fights and..." I stopped, feeling my cheeks get hot. "It's probably just a coincidence."
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. The man from my dreams had the same green eyes, the same scar above his eyebrow. How was that possible?
"What did you dream?" Damien asked anxiously.
"I dreamed about a knight fighting a man in black clothes. A wizard. And there was always this feeling like... like something terrible was going to happen if the knight didn't win."
Damien's face got even paler. "Marcus wears black robes."
Before I could reply, my laptop screen flickered again. New words appeared, and these ones made my blood turn cold: THE SORCERER COMES. HE KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE. YOU HAVE MINUTES TO ESCAPE.
"What does that mean?" I asked, but I was already afraid I knew.
Damien was looking around my room like he expected something to jump out at us. "It means Marcus isn't satisfied to just send me away. He wants to make sure I can never return."
"So what do we do?"
"We run," Damien said. "Right now."
As if his words were a signal, every electrical device in my apartment started going crazy. My TV turned on by itself, flipping through channels at super speed. My oven started beeping. Even my digital alarm clock was showing random numbers.
"He's using magic to track us through the electrical devices," Damien said. "We need to leave immediately."
I grabbed my bag and started shoving things into it - my phone, my wallet, a change of clothes. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold anything.
"Wait," I said. "If this Marcus guy is coming, maybe we should call the police."
Damien looked at me like I'd proposed calling Santa Claus. "Your modern warriors cannot fight magic with their metal weapons."
Just then, all the lights in my flat went out. The only light came from my laptop screen, and the words on it made my heart stop: TOO LATE. HE IS HERE.
That's when we heard the sound that made both of us freeze in terror.
Someone was walking up the stairs to my room. Slow, heavy footsteps that seemed to echo with artificial loudness.
And whoever it was, they were humming a tune that sounded like it came from a nightmare.