She heard the desperate screams of her babies and cursed. In seconds, flame formed on the ends of her hands. She watched, horrified. “What the heck!” she shrieked, then realized it was a good thing. She reared back, summoning her years as a high school softball pitcher, and slung a handful of flame in an underhand pitch. The ball of fire left her palm at a hundred miles an hour and then bounced off a tree limb, ricocheted, and almost hit Grandpa Brady in the butt, who turned fangs bared to see her sheepishly staring in shock at him. He glared, disgusted, and spun back to hurling tree limbs and rocks at the screaming, clawing beasts.
The kids were holding their own. Lizzy knew they had gradually been developing the ability to transform into little dragons, but she was not expecting to see three small streams of fire jetting out of the treehouse and bouncing off the screeching creatures’ scales.
Brian was halfway up the great tree and Shani right behind him when one of the creatures let out a roar as he ripped out a burning branch and hammered both Brian and Shani out of the tree. They landed with heavy thuds, and Lizzy swore she could hear bones breaking.
Raleigh was not made for climbing trees but was doing his best to bite any claws that came near his little charges. Grandpa Brady was swinging a sling that held a small bowling ball. Lizzy didn’t have time to wonder where he got it but was amazed by how he used it. In seconds, he was twirling the sling so fast she could barely see it; then with a fierce cry he unleashed it. The ball flew through the air and slammed into one of the beasts, whose side caved in a fashion nature never intended. It screamed and then its heads bent, its whole body withering beneath the blow. Faltering, it crashed into the top branches of the blazing tree. Lizzy was about to shout praises when the beast shook its heads. The broken bones knit at an incredible rate; the serpent inflated like a balloon, then flew back into the fray.
Neither the heroic children nor Raleigh nor the battered parents could hold off the creatures much longer. Lizzy felt a ferocious heat start in her stomach and race toward her head. At first, she thought she had caught on fire from the serpents’ spray. Red-hot anger forced its way from her heart to her lips. A banshee-like cry barreled out her mouth. Shrill and piercing it surged from her, a strong wind whipping the fire the creatures had started into a storm. “Damn!” Terror gripped her as an adrenaline surge shook her so hard she had to swallow bile. Her rage had only made things worse. Helpless, she looked on. The flames had covered the treehouse, burying her babes in a tornado of flame. Branches were breaking and still the griffins screamed and clawed at someone within the treetop furnace.
Seconds after the roar left her lips, it was answered, and this time the tree limbs broke. There was a loud clash of thunder, a shriek that caused her to grab her ears and cry out. Suddenly a large eagle, the same one that had rescued her from her kidnappers, was among the griffins ripping with its claws and tearing with its beak. One double-headed monster went down quick. It had not seen the giant eagle coming, and the great bird’s mind-numbing shriek had paralyzed the beast just long enough for the white-crowned eagle to rip one of its heads off. The dark creature screamed, blood spurting from its neck that swung like a loose fire hose, covering everything within range of the crimson spray.
The other dragon like creature had time to react and sank both claws into the bird, blood and feathers tearing free. One of the dragon’s mouths was wide open, its fangs dripping with the eagle’s blood. The warring bird desperately tried to break the dark beast’s hold.
Two things happened at once. Grandpa Brady found another projectile to sling—croquet balls from the lawn game set up in the backyard—and Lizzy formed another fireball. Both landed at the same instant. Brady’s lawn ball slammed into the griffin, the violence of the impact doubling the beast over. Lizzy’s fireball smashed into its spine, breaking its back. The eagle broke free from the griffin’s grasp and raked its neck, ripping out ragged strips of flesh. The ancient serpent’s death scream tore through the air and then it was over. Its body slammed into the burning tree.
Brian and Shani had recovered enough to catch the children as they jumped out of the treehouse. Lizzy slowly and fearfully looked to see who would not get up. When she saw everyone was safe, she fell to her knees. They backed away from the flaming branches. The children were crying and the adults panting. Brian held a broken arm and Shani sat on the ground with her arms crossed, enfolding her bruised ribs as Bradley hovered protectively over her.
The great eagle soared overhead screaming a victory cry. Lizzy’s eyes riveted on it. Brady grabbed a croquet ball and slowly stuffed it in his makeshift sling. Even the children stopped sniffling and watched. The huge bird made a tight circle, screeching. It flew low over the huddled children and anxious parents, cawed loudly, and then soared away.
Shani watched the huge black eagle’s form disappear into the horizon. She was bleeding from a dozen small cuts where branches and falling pieces of treehouse had struck her. She had already checked on her brood; they were giggling and bragging, burning off their nervous energy.
She looked at her husband, who grinned back, shaking his head, and lastly at her father-in-law and Lizzy. Then she said, “I only have two things to say. First, if anyone dares to quote some old black and white TV movie and say, ‘Who was that masked eagle?’ I’m going to slap him.” Her eyes deliberately focused on her father-in-law as she made her declaration. “And second,” again she looked directly at her husband’s sire, tilted her head, and pointed at the makeshift sling still dangling from his long hairy arm, “Dad, what in the hell are you doing with my best pair of pantyhose?”
The kids gasped and turned toward the aged Bigfoot. Gracie’s and Maggie’s hands covered their mouths, their eyes big as Whataburgers. Brian and Lizzy also turned to see the old man’s hairy black face turn a rich purple. Lizzy couldn’t help herself; she giggled. Shani’s cold expression cracked like ice in a spring thaw. Brian hooted and bent over laughing, then groaned as his arm reminded him it was still broken.
Brady smirked down at his ferocious little daughter-in-law like a Rottweiler hovering over a Pomeranian. “Well dang, Shaneee… I needed a weapon and they were hanging on the clothesline, so I grabbed ’em up and, well, you saw what they could do. And now Lizzy can write all this down and record for generations to come how the great Sasquatch Brady Huslu…” eight pairs of eyes fastened on him, so he paused and added, “along with the help of his grandkids and children and one heck of a fireball-pitching witch?” He looked at Lizzy for permission to use the word; she shrugged an I guess so shrug, accepting the label. “Killed two fierce griffins with an extra-large pair,” he saw Shani’s body stiffen and started again, “large…” her dark eyebrows rose in warning. “small and delicate pantyhose belonging to his beautiful daughter-in-law,” her body relaxed and he finished his sentence, “Shani Huslu.”
Easton, Ryan, and Bradley puffed up proudly at the thought of their deeds going down in an official record of the dragon riders, but then deflated a little as Gracie and Maggie looked over at the burning heap of their wonderful perch in the sky. “But… at what… cost?” Gracie asked, starting to sob.
“Yeah, burned the muffins, didn’t he?” Easton griped, then stared at his companions, whose faces had turned red. Bradley looked at Easton, turned to Ryan and nodded, then looked back at Gracie and Maggie and winked. Easton didn’t see it coming and was slugged by both girls and jumped on by his two brothers. Soon they were all howling in a big pile of punching and poking children. Adults began yelling and pulling them apart.
“Just being kids.” Brady smiled, holding Bradley by the cuff of his neck two feet off the ground, then whispered, “But it still doesn’t answer the question, who was that eagle?”
Chapter 13
Harry, Sherlock Brady Huslu, and Raleigh slipped into the cabin assigned them. John Timothy had told them not to worry about money and to get accommodations that ensured they get some rest. So, Harry had obliged. He booked passage from the French port of Dieppe to th
e German city of Cologne on one of the famous Orient Expresses, the world’s first international luxury express trains. Operated by the International Wagons-Lits, the company ran railway routes all over Europe from as far west as London boarding passengers from the English Channel ferries—to Istanbul, thus the name Orient.
He was pretty sure that the fare of 150 pounds per compartment would ruffle John Timothy’s feathers considerably, but he was also fairly sure that he wouldn’t be alive to hear it. Harry pushed the morbid thought aside, frowning when he saw the extremely expensive cabin didn’t even have its own toilet and he’d have to get off the train to shower. There was no air conditioning, but if he got hot, he could always roll down the compartment window. At any rate their meals would be served in the cabin, so there would be less exposure to prying eyes. A snobbish French steward escorted them to their compartment and took their tickets, turning up his Gallic nose at Raleigh’s presence, but deferred when Brady stuck a five-pound note in his pocket.
As soon as they had settled, Harry turned to Brady. “I’m sure we are being watched. So, I am going to stroll down the corridor and look around. I’d ask you to go with me, but you might say yes and I have to use the bathroom.”
Brady chuckled, shaking his head. “Why don’t you just pee in one of these pitchers they got here?” He pointed at a beautiful hand-painted porcelain pitcher that must have been a hundred years old.
Harry squinted at Brady, then raised his eyebrows to where they almost met the top of his hairline. A sick smile lit briefly on his lips. “You’re teasing, right? I mean I know you didn’t have the best rearing and all, and you’ve spent more time pissing on a tree or pooping off a big rock than most people, but we are in public now. We’re on a fancy French train and that, my dear Dr. Huslu,” he pointed toward the vessel in question, “is a hand-painted antique pitcher.” He picked it up and observed it closely. “It has a grape harvest motif and is actually signed by somebody named Erhardt Sidl or something like that. It is trimmed in real gold, Brady! And I am not going to pee in it.”
“Hummph, well, I didn’t intend for you to leave it sitting there for somebody else to have to haul off. I was thinking once you were done you could roll down the window and pitch it out… so there.”
“Brady, I love you dearly, but have you thought that through? I mean really? The train is stirring up quite a wind, and if I were to pitch pee from the pitcher out this window, where do you think it would wind up?”
Brady paused a minute, his eyes looking off to the side and then refocusing. He laughed and Raleigh, who had been quietly listening to his two friends fuss, joined in. Brady peered down at the huge white dog, listening to his yaps like they were the queen’s English spoken every day on the streets of London. “Raleigh agrees with me, he thinks a good pee smell would do wonders for the harsh cigar smoke he thinks permeates the train.”
Harry shook his head. “Not happening. Be my luck some stuffy French matron would be in the process of rolling down her window when she was suddenly…” He raised his hands and rolled his eyes.
“Surprised?” Brady offered, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Not quite the word I was thinking, but it will do… by a warm spray of peculiarly scented yellow water! Now leave me alone. I’m going down the hall to the bathroom, and if the mood strikes me, I might just take a tour of this elegant train and stop in the lounge.” With that, he opened the door and walked out.
Brady turned to Raleigh, who was growling under his breath. “I know, I know. It does stink like bad cigars. But just because Harry is too uppity to use a fancy pot, doesn’t mean you and I can’t, now does it?”
Harry walked down the swaying corridor of the Orient Express. The movement took a little getting used to but would probably aid him in sleep, kinda like getting rocked in an adult-sized cradle. He came to the end of the corridor, opened the door that connected the cars, and stepped through the small air lock, entering the lounge. He quickly observed the guests seated at the various booths, made eye contact with one, and smiled. I should have known she would show up. I just wasn’t expecting her so soon. Well, looks like we might dine together… again. He laughed to himself and then added, Hope she doesn’t poison my food.
After noting Harry’s nod toward her, Belle Rodum’s golden feral eyes never left his. Harry had a hard time maintaining concentration. From the top of her copper-colored hair to the bottom of her feet, Belle Rodum was dazzling. She wore the same dress she had worn when they met in Paris, a simple midi-length black dress with long sleeves subtly gathered at the shoulder and round, pleated neckline, crowned by a trendy headband made of gunmetal crystals with a black ostrich feather on the side. Harry thought, Something looks familiar about her, but I can’t place it.
Belle Rodum thought, He probably thinks this is the only dress I own. It’s not. It’s just the only dress warded against witchcraft and gunfire.
“I’d ask if this seat was taken.” He smirked. “But I’d take it anyway. Though, I might have to dispose of your escort, or two or three, but wouldn’t be the first time. So how are you, Belle?”
Belle stiffened. How does he know I have three escorts?
“Good to see you too, Harry Ferguson. And I mean that.” And wish I didn’t and do not understand why I do.
They paused a moment, neither one knowing what to say, both knowing that the future between them was going to get real bad real quick. Finally, Harry broke his gaze into her golden eyes and said in a quiet voice, “Belle, I am sure you know why I have come. The question is, are you going to try and stop me?”
A sad smile stole across Belle’s face. It was answer enough for Harry.
“I see… Not much to talk about then, is there?”
“Harry, it doesn’t have to be this way. You can back away. Let someone else do this. I don’t have a choice.” I am bound, she wanted to add but didn’t.
“What do you mean you don’t have a choice? Who can force you to do anything? You are the most powerful witch I have heard of or,” he looked her square in the eyes, naked soul to naked soul, “had the pleasure of knowing. No one can coerce you.”
Belle laughed and shook her head. “If only, Harry Ferguson. The blood of my ancestors, both dead and living, compels me to obedience. I was made for this work. Literally designed over several generations, combining the best traits of several lines. I can no more walk away from the path than…” she whispered, took his hand in hers, and kissed them.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she wiped them with the table napkin. “This is a trap. You are walking into a trap.”
Harry smirked and took a drink from his glass. He didn’t remember ordering, but the Irish red ale he sipped was delicious. Not quite sweet tea, but it works. He looked back up at her and straight through her. He was convinced now more than ever what the dragon rider King had meant when he told Harry not to hurt her. Harry didn’t know how to answer her, but he did hear some music playing in the background. A glance in that direction made him aware the train had a dance floor.
Before he could look back at her, Belle answered, “I’d love to, Harry.”
He took Belle’s hand and walked with her onto the small but elegant dance floor of the elite train. The music was familiar but also different somehow. A small banner nailed to the wall behind the band read Hy Zaret and the Freedom Melodies. He moved his hand to Belle’s back, and slowly they began to dance to the music.
It was slow melodic, and as he looked in Belle’s eyes and saw the sadness reflected there, he remembered another dance, in a place so far away he wondered if it had been any more than a heartrending dream. His head told him he was dancing with a startlingly beautiful woman who cared for him and was the mother, or would be the mother, of his child. But his heart whispered a different name. How did I get here? I am dancing with a witch who tells me I am walking into a trap but who is also the bait to the trap. And the love of my life is centuries away… and probably
dead. Dragons were long-lived, but a thousand years was a long time for any creature.
Belle had been watching Harry and reading him. She sensed his loneliness and his grief. He carried those feelings with him always. She read the questions he had about her and was about to comment when she saw it hit him. He just realized that in this time, Sarah is dead!
The idea slammed into Harry like a butcher’s knife that had been left in the freezer. It was sharp and cold, but the blood it drew was hot and the heart it stabbed labored over its last beat. Leaning into Harry, Belle placed her head against his shoulder and whispered, “It’s a trap, Harry, and you do not have to go. Please don’t go. We could run away.” She felt Harry’s back stiffen and sensed the pause as he considered her invitation. Then she felt heat sweep through him, a flash of warmth. A deep sigh escaped her lips; she knew what he was going to say before it left his mouth.
“We could, and I am flattered and honored that you would want that.” He pulled back from her as they continued dancing and peered down into her golden eyes. “We could run, but the problem is, wherever we went there we would be.”
This time she was puzzled, and she frowned at him. “You want to repeat that?”
Harry chuckled. His smile looked strange on cheeks that still held tears. “Belle,” he drawled softly, pulling her close to him. “As much as part of me would love to run away with you, another part of me would never allow it. If I do not walk into this battle, someone else must. And I think I have a better chance of surviving it than most. Knowing that, how can I in good conscience run from it?”
The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set Page 55
