Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

A KNIGHT IN DRAGON ARMOR

JOHNNY

Where the hell was I?

Was I dead?

Was this heaven?

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the golden light of my surroundings. In the distance, a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion loomed, its warm honey-colored stone walls gleaming under the soft glow of the sun. It was nestled between lush, well-kept gardens that seemed to stretch on forever, with perfectly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds bursting with vibrant color. A winding gravel path cut cleanly through the greenery, leading straight up to the grand front doors of the mansion, dividing the garden into two neat halves like the entrance to some kind of fairy-tale estate.

Everything felt surreal, almost dreamlike, but the soft breeze on my skin was too real. I could hear birds chirping somewhere off in the distance, and the scent of blooming flowers hung heavy in the air. For a moment, I wondered if I was in some kind of idyllic paradise.

But before I could fully absorb it, I felt a sudden, sharp pain as something cracked off my shin, pulling me out of my daze. A low grunt escaped my lips before I could stop it. The sting was real, and I scowled down at the source of my newfound discomfort, annoyance flaring up inside me.

"Who are you?" a high, innocent voice reached my ears—curious, but with a hint of mischief in its tone.

Startled, I glanced down and there he was—a small, blond-haired lad, no more than six years old, standing before me as if he owned the place. His unruly hair caught the sunlight, giving him an almost angelic glow, but there was nothing angelic about the cheeky glint in his eyes. He was dressed like something out of a medieval storybook—a pair of tight leather trousers clinging awkwardly to his skinny legs, paired with a loose, flowing white shirt that looked like it belonged on a miniature prince. Clutched in his tiny hand was a wooden sword, held with the kind of fierce determination you'd expect from someone about to defend their castle from invading armies.

His posture was bold, his chin raised as he glared up at me with a fierceness that caught me off guard. The kid was nowhere half my height, but the way he stood there, so sure of himself, you'd think he could take on the world.

I narrowed my eyes at him, more from the lingering pain in my shin than anything else. "You hurt me, kiddo," I said, my voice coming out harder than I'd intended. "Who are you?"

Who did this little punk think he was, smacking me in the leg like that?

The boy didn't flinch. If anything, his smirk only deepened, like he'd already decided he had the upper hand. "I asked first," the little troublemaker shot back, his little lips curling up into a smirk.

The cheek of him. He actually had the nerve to fucking smirk at me—at me—like he had me all figured out. He looked at me like he was daring me to challenge him, like he'd already won whatever battle we were about to have.

I blinked, baffled. Was I seriously squaring off with a six-year-old right now?

Shaking my head at the absurdity of it all, I sighed. "Johnny," I finally said, my voice heavy with disbelief. "Name's Johnny."

The boy cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing as if he were sizing me up. "Jonathan," he said firmly, correcting me like he was laying down the law. "Your name's Jonathan."

I let out a slow, measured breath, trying to keep my irritation in check. "My name is Johnny," I repeated, dragging out the syllables as if speaking slower would get the point across. "Johnny."

But the little brat only raised an eyebrow, looking all too pleased with himself. "Johnny is short for Jonathan," he declared, like he was enlightening me to a fact I hadn't known my entire life.