Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) by Patrick LeClerc Page A

There was a lot of phony medievalism in the Victorian era. Maybe some gentleman wanted to make it look like there was a pre-Roman society living on his estate and commissioned the weapon. Any smith could have put these mysterious symbols on it.’
    ‘It’s possible,’ I conceded. ‘I didn’t recognize the writing, so I thought I’d look into it.’
    ‘Sorry.’ She looked like she meant it. ‘I wish I could be more help. I mean, you can check the stacks if you want, but if there were anything close to that here in this library, I should at least have a clue. I spend enough time here.’
    ‘Not at all.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks for saving me an hour of poking around to not find anything.’
    ‘Well, I’m happy I could do that, at least. See you around?’ It really seemed sincere.
    ‘I’ll make a point of it,’ I replied, bowing my head as I made to leave.
    She rolled her head again, working out the kink in her neck and pushing my buttons. I hesitated in the doorway. She looked burned out on research. And she had sounded sincere about seeing me around. And for whatever reason, she had me snorting and pawing the ground.
    ‘Actually, I have that hour you saved me, and you look like you could use a break. You want to grab a cup of coffee or something?’
    She looked a bit surprised, but not unpleasantly. ‘In all honesty, I could really use a bite to eat and a beer. I wouldn’t mind the company, if you don’t have anything you’d rather do.’
    ‘My car’s in the student lot,’ I offered.
    ‘Mine’s closer,’ she replied, ‘but I think a walk would do me good. Let’s take yours.’
    ‘Alright, but I’ll warn you. You may feel the need to throw yourself at me when you check out my sweet set of wheels.’
    ‘I will try to restrain myself,’ she said, smiling, ‘emotional creature though I am.’
    We arrived at my car. It was a ten-year-old Chevy Impala, which I bought second-hand, and while the registration said it was green, in January the color was really grey beneath a fine patina of road salt. I haven’t ever been much of a car guy. They get me around and they are generally less fragile than a horse, but you can’t eat them when they break down on a long journey in the wilderness.
    ‘Your chariot, my Lady.’ I opened the passenger door and brushed some crumbs from the seat, noting happily that the interior was less cluttered than usual. No woman wants to rest her shoes among a pile of empty Styrofoam coffee cups and crumpled paper takeout bags.
    I tossed my fencing bag in the trunk and came around to the driver’s seat.
    ‘So what does this car say about you?’ she asked.
    ‘That I’m cheap, but low maintenance and reliable, I hope.’ My car responded by starting readily despite the cold. ‘I call him Vlad, by the way.’
    She looked at me quizzically for a moment before laughing. ‘Vlad the Impala?’
    ‘Fewer people get that than I hoped,’ I admitted, pulling out of the space.
    * * * *
    We ate at a small brew pub a mile from the campus. I’d driven past it and been intrigued, but hadn’t been inside before. It was a nice, quiet place in a converted mill building, all age-blackened wood and exposed brick. Part of the nascent American Foodie movement, they had a small selection of beers brewed on the premises and simple, dressed up bar food. Sandwiches, soup and salads, but all fresh and well seasoned. What Europeans have been doing all along while America had its love affair with fast food.
    We ordered pints and sandwiches and started the usual get-to-know-one-another conversation. I already knew that she had an unusual affinity for epic poetry and good beer. Made me happy I got to her before Malory; all that courtly-love drivel he put into Le Morte d’Arthur was just a ruse to help him get into as many skirts as he could. One of the great brawlers, lechers and convicts of the fifteenth century, revered by professors in tweed and dreaded by schoolchildren everywhere. But I mostly