The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set

by William David Ellis

  “Easton?” Bradley had a soft, slow drawl to his incredibly low-pitched voice. He was very bright but talked like he had all day to finish a sentence and barely got two words together if Easton was in one of his tornadic word surges.

  Easton stopped trying to provoke the girls and looked back at his friend. “What is it, Bradley?”

  Bradley began slowly but firmly. “Easton, why don’t you want Maggie and Gracie to come to our treehouse? I like them; they’re nice. They’re not like other girls I met before. They know I am a Bigfoot and it doesn’t bother them a bit. So why can’t they play in our treehouse?”

  Easton scratched his head and scrunched up his eyebrows, his face furrowed in a befuddled frown, bringing every synapse he could spare to ponder the problem. “Well, Bradley, I don’t want them to rearrange it. We worked hard fixing it up with a card table and Jedi posters and our treasure chest. It took us all day to figure out where to put stuff. And if they come up they aren’t going to like it and they’ll want to throw stuff out and sweep stuff up and we won’t be able to”—his voice fizzled down to a whisper that every single supernatural dragonette could hear perfectly with their enhanced hearing—“sneak my mom’s cookies and your mom’s brownies up there.” And with that last piece of profound logic he crossed his arms over his chest, his case laid to rest before his friend.

  Bradley looked back at Easton, then at the girls, who by this time had quit pretending they weren’t listening and actually stepped closer to the conversation. Bradley stared toward the ceiling a few seconds like he was savoring every word Easton had served up, and then he said, “Easton, we didn’t fix the treehouse up by ourselves. Your mom and my mom brought us those things. And when we couldn’t figure out where to put them, my mom climbed up in the tree and gave us some ideas. So girls have already been in the treehouse.”

  “Hmmm.” Easton squeezed his lips together and puzzled over the matter. He said “hmmm…” again like he couldn’t find his way around his friend’s simple reasoning.

  And then Bradley continued, “But, I do think that since you and me and our moms put all the work in it, Maggie and Gracie ought to have to contribute a little something too.”

  The idea seemed to sit right with Easton. He broke into a huge grin. “Oh yeah! What you got in mind?”

  The girls had been drawn closer into the discussion and were about to object strenuously when Bradley raised his hand and shushed them. Since they didn’t know him well and were just a little bit afraid of the big boy, they hushed. “You know, Easton, I been thinking about that and I heard… and it might just be a rumor… but I heard that Gracie’s mom made the best-tasting brown bread in Moab, and just maybe Gracie has figured out how to copy that too or at least bring a nice fresh hot loaf with her.” Gracie’s head started bobbing like a cork and her snaggle-toothed smile beamed. But Bradley wasn’t through. “And I also heard that Maggie’s mom had a secret ice cream recipe handed down from her great-gramma. Isn’t that so, Maggie?” Maggie’s eyes lit up, answering the question for Bradley. “So, I think we ought to have ’em over, don’t you?”

  Easton was not a skinny little boy, and he had tasted both Grace’s mom’s bread and Maggie’s mom’s ice cream at the church potluck. He tried to make it look like it was a hard decision for him. He scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes; he sighed and then looked back at Bradley and the girls and said, “Okay, if we have to.” But he did it with such a big smile that both Gracie and Maggie acted like they wanted to hug him. He pretended to be choking and hacking up a furball, so they replaced their wide grins with expressions of disgust and hugged Bradley, who seemed to enjoy it.

  Finally, the day ended and parents started to show up. Lizzy groaned nervously as the last little crayon cruncher walked out the door hand in hand with their mom. She closed the door behind them and rushed out the back door headed for home and a change. It was going to be a great evening at the Huslus’.

  ****

  Lizzy walked up the pine-board steps to the great old house of the Huslus. The house was new to the Huslu family but not to the little community of Moab, Texas. For years it had been abandoned. Some people thought it was haunted. It was south of Highway 64, then a right at FM 279, straight down the gravel road, then across the cattle guard and up the hill. It was at least two miles off the farm-to-market road, and that was back in the woods even for the people of Moab. Lizzy had had to call Shani twice for directions. Seemed like the GPS had no idea there was a road this far back in the woods. The last time she had heard from her GPS, it told her she had arrived and there was nothing but a big cedar tree.

  When she finally pulled in the stately drive, she was stunned. It was an alley a hundred yards long, lined with grizzled old oak trees bearded with low-draping Spanish moss, standing like guards escorting the commoner into the royal palace. It was a scene straight from an old movie. Lizzy half expected to see horses and English servants waiting to receive her. She parked her car in front and slowly walked up the steps. The house hosted a wraparound porch and rockers in the front waiting for a warm spring night or early summer morning. She was about to knock on the door when five of her library munchkins ran around from the back of the house yelling, “Miss Lizzy! Miss Lizzy, come see our treehouse!”

  “Easton! Gracie! Maggie! Ryan! and Bradley,” Lizzy huffed. “Give me a minute, will you? I came to meet the adults that live here, not climb up trees with you guys!”

  With poked-out lips and sad little frowns, disappointment moved across their faces. Lizzy rolled her eyes, shook her head in defeat, and grabbed the outstretched hands of the youngsters. But as she turned the corner of the porch, she halted, speechless. She was standing toe to paw and looking into the big brown eyes of the largest dog she had ever seen. She gulped. He was laughing at her.

  Lizzy pulled back. Her hand covered her mouth; the children watched, delighted. In a soft voice Lizzy said, “I know who you look like, but there is no way you can be him. What’s your name?”

  Bradley stepped forward, hugging the huge dog who stood eyeball to eyeball with him. “It’s Raleigh, Miss Lizzy, it really is.”

  Lizzy gasped, her eyebrows reaching for the top of her head. She could hear her heart beating a hundred miles an hour. She tried to speak and only squeaked out a soft “How?”

  She stood gaping at the large dog, his gaze never leaving hers. She could see the intelligence in the creature’s eyes. He bowed his head and nuzzled in close. Instinctively, her arms flew around him, holding him tight, all the time whispering, “How? How can this be?”

  The screen door opened and Shani and her husband, Brian, stepped out to meet her. Behind them, filling the entire frame of the huge old porch door, stood Brady Huslu, companion and best friend of her dad. An eight-foot-tall slightly stooped grey-streaked Sasquatch.

  Lizzy’s eyes brimmed with tears. She tried to wipe them off with the back of her hand but there were too many. The big man reached out to her and she fell into his embrace, weeping. Gently he stroked her hair and, in a voice that seemed to be a cross between a gravel truck and a forty-year chain smoker, said, “Welcome home, Lizzy, welcome home.”

  Chapter 9

  Long’s dark office walls closed in on Belle. She felt his serpentine eyes and the dark tentacles of his even darker soul probing her, raking over her body attempting to find a vulnerable crack in her armor. Suddenly a sharp stabbing pain pierced her chest. She bent over struggling to breathe. The dark shepherd saw her reaction and increased the pressure. A prickling burning moved across her body. Stings like hornet’s needles sliced her skin in a dozen places. She forced herself to stand aright, stepped back into the refuge of an ancient pocket of her heart, and released power, the power of her bloodlines that stretched back to the time of Noah. A time when her ancestors had worked with the boat builder and hewn the ark from gopher wood. Her body vibrated gently, gaining strength. A faint hum could be heard.

  Laden Long heard the hum. His eyes narrowed. He pulled away from Belle, sh
uddering, his hands moving unconsciously to scratch his neck. The humming grew louder. Long’s face paled, his mouth opening and shutting involuntarily. He blinked rapidly. What had begun as a simple shiver now became a series of jerks and spasms.

  Belle leaned into him, a concerned expression glued on her face. “Anything wrong, Laden?” Then she grinned. “You know, Laden, there is a reason men fear the witch. I woke up today in a puddle of blood, and now I’m kinda thinking I may end my day the same way. Only this time the blood will be yours.”

  Immediately the humming stopped and Long’s body ceased jerking. Seconds later he sprang to his feet, his yellow eyes glowing, only now they shifted into serpent eyes with narrow slits. Smoke began to curl around his head, and this time it was Belle’s turn to step back. Flame swirled around the man’s body, growing larger, and stronger gusts began to rip books from the shelves in the room and papers from his large oak desk. Belle reached inside the cloak she wore, and before the reverend could wonder where it had come from, a dark sword glowing orange and blood-red struck through the tornadic winds surrounding him. The winds quieted and the evil imitation of godliness stood neck stretched, head tilted back, eyes focused on the sword at his throat.

  “Are we done yet?” Belle asked calmly.

  Long’s eyes shifted back to human and he nodded very slowly.

  “Okay then, reverend,” she spit the last word out like a large nasty hock of phlegm. She drew the sword back, pausing a few times to reinforce the notion that it was readily available. Finally, she slipped it back into its hiding place in her cloak and sat back down. “Shouldn’t we be discussing our plan on how to trap the dragon rider?”

  Laden Long sat back in his chair, steam rising from his flesh. His lip curled, bitterness lancing down his stare. He was not accustomed to being beaten. Finally, he ground out, “Witch, you were very, very lucky. It is not wise to provoke a dragon in its lair.”

  Belle retorted, “So I’ve heard, Reverend Long. Harry Ferguson mentioned that fact over dinner, but as I remember the conversation, the dragon’s provocation didn’t last long.”

  Long stiffened and the back of his neck, which bore a scar, began to tingle. “Yet here we are again preparing for another—what do the pugilists call it? A round, perhaps; yes, that’s it. Yes, round two. Only this time the dragon will not be recovering from a cowardly ambush and will have help.” Having said that, the dragon clergy stood up and pushed a hidden button on the bookshelf behind him. A concealed door slid open. He motioned to Belle. “Follow me.”

  Together they walked down an ancient stone stairway. After several yards into the dark reaches of the building, the stairs halted. The air chilled significantly. They turned down a long tunnel lit by dimly flickering gas lights and finally, after walking several minutes, came to a rusty iron door. A heavy chain wrapped around the door like a bizarre ribbon holding some type of strange package. Water beaded along the corroded frame. Long took a large iron key stained with patina and pushed it into the padlock that held the chain to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled. The old metal screamed and Belle was suddenly acutely aware that whatever was behind that door had awakened.

  A moldy odor greeted Belle’s fine-tuned sense of smell. The stench was mixed with the overpowering scent of rotted blood. Small light bulbs hung at the opening of three cells. Laden Long walked to the first cell, looked back at Belle, and pointed at the occupant of the large chamber.

  Belle’s eyes riveted on the tenant. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she was pretty sure it had not been a forty-foot-long four-headed cobra. Her mind did a quick search as her eyes took in the monster, known as a naga. A naga was a creature from Indonesia. It was a shifter, its monster form being a huge cobra with human features. The number of heads revealed the gender—even-headed nagas were female, odd-numbered heads males. Its four heads moved slowly toward the bars that held it, four tongues licking the air, tasting Belle’s fragrance. The heads wiggled on the large neck that slowly, hypnotically swung side to side.

  The dark clergy barked a quick word to the naga. “Change! Manifest your human side, Shyama!”

  Instantly a veil of flame hid the huge figure coiled in the large chamber. A heartbeat later a naked woman of Indian heritage stood staring back from behind the bars. Belle chuckled. A naked woman will trouble Harry more than a forty-foot four-headed cobra.

  “Do not mock me, witch!” the naga shrieked, slamming her body against the cold bars, her hands reaching for Belle’s throat.

  Belle jumped back. A sharp dagger was out, its point pressed just hard enough against the snake woman’s throat to draw a small drop of blood. In a cold tone Belle said, “You mistake my laughter, Shyama, I was not mocking you. I was thinking your human body would cause our mutual enemy more problems than your serpent one.” Belle moved back and turned toward Laden Long. “Why is she behind these bars caged up like an animal?”

  It was the reverend’s time to laugh. “Ha! Seriously, Belle Rodum? She is an animal, as are all those imprisoned here. If we gave her liberty to move about, half of the city would die beneath her coils before the day was over. Wouldn’t they, Shyama?” He looked back at the naga, whose tongue licked the air, smelling the words and intent of her captor.

  “Yessss… I would taste the blood of this city, and then when my hunger was satiated, I would lay hundreds of eggs and release my children on this entire country!” She grabbed the bars and shook them, raging against her bonds.

  “And we can’t do that just yet, can we?” He shook his head and wagged his finger at the monster like an adult would a petulant child.

  Belle’s curiosity was roused. “Then what holds her back from destroying both her captors and her prey when the time comes?”

  “We have an agreement, if she can contain herself. She will feast on a dragon rider’s blood. To the naga there is no sweeter intoxication. A bit like candy, I’ve been told. And if she misbehaves, well, we have our own dragon now, don’t we?”

  Long walked a few feet and pointed to the next lodger. Belle followed him and stared as a seven-foot-tall giant with long red flaming hair and a fierce beard to match stood. He nodded respectfully toward her. “Belle, let me introduce you to Peter Fawkes. The only dragon rider to ever betray his sect.”

  At the word betray, the giant screamed and slammed his fist into the stone wall that made up his cell. The rock trembled but the giant’s hand wasn’t harmed. “I was wronged! He said I would lead the riders, and the reward would be great. Then the battle came and they were slaughtered, dragons and riders died side by side, by the hundreds. Then the enemy finally broke, but there were none left to pursue them. Just me and the captain, and his dragon was down, bleeding to death.”

  “Or so he says,” Long added. “Others report a different tale. They say he secretly plotted with the enemy, exposing a weakness; then when the battle was joined, he struck down his friends from behind.” The dark reverend stared back at the red-haired giant, calmly deflecting the daggers the titan’s eyes threw at him. “And now for this time he works for us. At least till our particular dragon rider, Harry Ferguson, is destroyed.”

  “And what keeps him loyal to you this time, Reverend Long? What do you hold over his head?”

  “Oh, Belle, you ask the most astute questions. What do we hold over Peter Fawkes? Well, it’s simple. Harry Ferguson was the dragon rider that promised Peter Fawkes he could lead the battle. Then when he discovered Peter’s treachery, he reported it and turned on him. Your dragon rider has made a lot of enemies in his time, Belle, and they are coming for him.”

  Belle shook her head. The Harry I know would never knowingly deceive or turn on his kind.

  Long walked away from the giant, moving down the hall to the last cell. The chamber had no bars, but Belle was experienced enough to know that steel bars were not the only, nor the strongest, barriers available to hold prisoners. Scanning the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cell before her, as expected she noticed a gold band
circling the place that would normally have held bars. The gold had a ribbon of what looked like rust but was in fact congealed blood running the length of it. Immediately she knew what the resident must be.

  As soon as Belle Rodum stood before the cell, the man rose from behind his desk. He had been writing on old parchment in what, at least from the upside-down page Belle glimpsed, seemed to be ancient Greek. His gaze settled on Belle and he gasped. He rubbed his eyes and rushed toward her. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  For one of the few times in her life, Belle froze. She recognized the man. But had no idea how she recognized him. It was like a memory passed down since her earliest years suddenly sprang to life without name or reference. He slowly reached out toward her. As his fingertips reached the invisible barrier, they began to dissolve, and his face reddened like a man enduring the agony of perdition’s flame. Sweat broke out across his forehead but he continued to press his hands into the barrier.

  Long watched, fascinated, then barked, “Stop it, Cadmus, this is not Europa!”

  The man slowly drew back his hand, which began to regenerate from darkened ash and exposed bone to the healthy flesh it had been moments before.

  Belle drew so close to the barrier she could hear its hum and smell the reek of flesh that had just burned. She stared in Cadmus’s maddened eyes and whispered, “He’s telling the truth. I am not Europa, but her blood runs in my veins and it knows you! You are a son of the Nephilim, and I am one of their daughters.”

  A bitter smile lit on Cadmus’s face. Disappointment breathed out of him. “Yes, yes, you are… and the blood carries memories.” Then he turned to Laden Long. “She will do… Indeed, she will do.”

  Chapter 10