Fawkes blinked. His eyes opened wide for an instant. “I hope that is true” was their secret phrase. The red giant forgot to breathe for a moment and noticed that even with his eyes open he was still seeing the vision. Boian continued.
“My kidnappers have left me to think on their requests. I don’t have anything to think about; my course is set. I will not give them what they want. But Peter, I am concerned for you. You are my brother, we have fought and bled together.” The dragon began to cough, a dry hacking sound that went on for several minutes. Finally he spit, and then with blood on his lips continued, “Sorry about that. One of my lungs seems to have been pierced and has a tendency to fill up.”
He laughed and ended in another round of coughing. “I know, I know, you have told me a thousand times I am an uncouth beast that hardly chews its bloody food and if it does it’s too burnt to taste… and you are right… I am a beast… that loves you, Peter Fawkes. And fears for you! They will try and turn you, Peter… they will lie and say they will free me if you do as they want. But they can’t free me, I am already dead. Too much damage, too much blood, too little time. Peter, you are a good friend to me and good friends tell the truth. Your anger, your passion, the fuel that makes you a great warrior, is also a great vulnerability. It takes strength to be a warrior, to storm gates and face horrible enemies, but now you are going to have to do something that requires more strength than you have ever called upon. You are going to have to find the strength to do nothing…”
Boian groaned, the pain of his wounds causing him to bend. Finally, he pulled himself back into standing position and whispered, “Do not let their lies cause bitterness. Do not give in to them and betray your friends. Dragon riders pay a great price and it appears you are being called on to make a payment. Pay it joyfully! They cannot hurt me anymore. But you can. I will know how you respond. I will watch through a thin curtain most cannot see through. Find the strength, honor our brotherhood, our partnership, by not giving way to my captors’ demands. They have nothing on me. Do not let them get anything on you. Pay the hard price, Peter… because if you don’t, you will have lost me in vain.”
A loud creak, a door opening in the dungeon where Boian was chained, interrupted the dragon. Peter Fawkes saw him look up toward the person who had entered and then heard his dragon partner laugh, “I should have known it would be you…”
The image faded and Fawkes was back in his dimly lit room. His hand throbbed and his cheeks were wet. The end of the chair arm was wet with blood from his burnt hand where he had gripped it in an iron grasp. He sighed, desperately trying to cut off his cries. Gently he slipped to his knees and bowed his head.
“I have been such a fool, a stupid man believing lies and condemning friends. Oh, Boian, can you forgive me?” Sobs racked the giant’s huge frame, and then as quickly as the flood had come it ceased and a peace like the tranquil, rocking waves of the sea replaced it. Fawkes felt a crushing weight lift, and then another gentle one descend, as something like a giant dragon’s claw touched his shoulder. He could not see past the veil, but had he been able to he would have been filled with joy. A giant dragon healed of all his wounds and radiating an aura of glory covered the man with his great wings.
Chapter 30
Belle sat on the thin mattress in the corner of her dark cell. Her back was against the icy stone. The only window in her freezing prison was ten feet above her head, and snow occasionally blew through the bars. Her teeth chattered as she hugged her knees, trying to find some protection from the cold. Between bouts of shaking she tried to concentrate on warm thoughts. It was not working.
Her questions rained down in freezing torrents. What had happened to Cadish and the thorn? The guards had broken into her room, Laden Long confronted her, but Cadish was gone. He had to be a supernatural. Did he take the thorn? He must have… Another wave of cold shook her body so hard it hurt. She didn’t know even with her enhanced strength and endurance how much longer she could last.
“This might help.” Suddenly Marc Cadish was in the room with her. Belle jumped and yelled, then bit her lips, hoping a guard had not heard her cry out.
Stuttering from the cold she hissed, “Whhho are you, wwwwhat are you?” Before he answered, the man handed her a dark blanket. It was warm like it had been toasted in an oven for just long enough to absorb the heat but not to burn.
“Does it really matter who I am?” he answered, his eyebrows rising slightly. “And if I told you, would you believe me or would it just make matters more confusing? I’ve come to loose the thorn.”
“I figured you had it.” But then she paused. “But you said right before Laden and his thugs broke into my room that it was too late for me to give it to you. What did that mean?”
The briefest whisper of a smile settled on the man’s handsome face, then he answered, “Belle, I did not take the thorn from you. You still have it.”
She looked back at him, skeptical.
“Stretch out your hand.”
Reluctant to move her hand out from under the warm blanket, Belle cautiously inched it forward. Suspecting a trick, she was ready to spring. Marc gently grasped her hand between his and rubbed. There was a quick bite of pain; Belle jerked back. But not before she saw the thorn, lying in her palm that was bleeding from a small cut made across it. A sharp breath caught in her throat as she realized the thorn had been embedded in her hand. She started to tremble uncontrollably as she closed her eyes, waiting for the fire to burn her and the demons to seize her, dragging her into torment.
The young man gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Belle, I coated it with a special substance so it wouldn’t hurt you.”
Gradually her tremors subsided. When she found her voice, she asked, “What substance was that?”
“It’s called grace. It covers a multitude of things. But you should not take it for granted. It’s irrevocable, but until you decide whose side you’re ultimately on… well, just be very, very careful.”
Belle gulped and whispered, “Impressive,” as she carefully picked it up. “If you can do things like this, why don’t you just break me and Harry and his friends out of this place?”
“Too much depends on what you are about to do here. There is much more going on than you know, and besides, you don’t need my help; you have your own, and he should be here momentarily.”
“Huh? What do you mean I have my own help?” But Cadish was gone. Belle scowled and knew better than to look around in the pitifully small cell, but couldn’t help it. “Not much for small talk, is he?” she murmured. Settling back against the wall with the blanket wrapped around her, she was almost comfortable.
She was also exhausted; even witches could grow weary. The cold had taken its toll, and the blanket must have had something special about it because as its warmth spread through her, she drifted off to an uneasy sleep. As her heavy eyelids closed, she heard a buzzing and the room began to spin. She felt like the first moments of skydiving or jumping off a high dive into a frigid pool of water. It wasn’t scary, but neither was it particularly comfortable. Belle had shifted from one timeline to another before, so the transition was familiar. Occasionally when she accessed another time, she didn’t go materially but only as an incorporeal being. Sometimes she would inhabit the body of another and live out scenes from their perspective. Something like that was happening now.
Belle smelled… flowers? Fragrant flowers! She heard the slow rolling notes of a pipe organ filling the air. It was Wagner’s bridal chorus; someone was getting married.
For some strange reason she had always liked the bridal march. It was elegant, classical, and declared that the bride was, for a unique and very precious moment, celebrated and worthy. As her vision cleared Belle realized she was the one walking down the aisle. As her thoughts focused, her attention was drawn to the end of the aisle. There, waiting for her dressed in the tuxedo she had seen on him in Paris, was Harry. He was beaming! She laughed as she thought of what he would say. “Grinning
like a jackass eatin’ briars” was the expression she had heard him use, and now she saw it firsthand. The feelings it extracted from her were powerful. She knew joy… pure, unadulterated joy. Her eyes shone as she impatiently waited for the unhurried bridal march to end. Had it been up to her she would have run to that altar. Finally, she arrived and looked up into his big brown eyes and…
The scene changed. It was a dream; part of her was extremely aware, but still she groaned with disappointment. As images coalesced around her, she was aware of being in a hospital room with a nurse and a doctor gathered at the foot of her bed. Her legs were underneath a sheet, but they were also raised up and spread. She gasped as she realized she was giving birth! Suddenly a hard contraction, a spasm of pain, and then she heard a cry… a baby’s first breath. She watched as the nurse wrapped the newborn in a warm blanket and handed it to her. Belle was overwhelmed. The child was beautiful and hungry. Her girl child, held in her arms and nursing at her breast.
As Belle looked down on the baby, her eyes lost their focus and once again the scene changed. She was in a park. Large trees shaded the area. A little girl was swinging and laughing, shouting, “Higher, Mommy, higher!” Belle joined the child’s laughter as she pushed a little harder and the swing flew higher.
Once again the scene changed and this time she was on the front porch of a Victorian home. She was seated in an old-fashioned porch swing with someone. She turned to look and saw the features of Harry Ferguson. He was old, his hair white with the passing of time. He wore glasses that failed to hide the twinkle of his eyes as he returned her gaze. He held her hand. Two old hands, his and hers, wrinkled with age and the spots time leaves behind, intertwined in a tender hold.
A noise caught Belle’s attention, snatching her from the sweetness of her dream. She heard a muffled cry, and then a thump like a body hitting the ground. It didn’t bother Belle that she knew what a body hitting a concrete floor sounded like. She was wide awake, the cold forgotten and the blanket thrown back on the bed. The stealthy footsteps of a large man slipped down the hall. She backed away from the bars, hiding as best she could in the shadows of her dark cell. Then she heard, “Belle? Belle Rodum? It’s me, Peter Fawkes, come to rescue you, witch. Why are you hiding?”
Chapter 31
As she walked up the steps to her house, Lizzy thought, I almost feel guilty, almost. What I really feel is relief—the pedicure and the massage combined with a day off knowing my tots were in good hands. Then she giggled. Jude might not have survived my enhanced little dragon shifters, a Bigfoot in the making, and various and sundry munchkins representing a variety of yet undiscovered supernatural giftings, but I am confident the kids had a wonderful day.
She dropped the Walmart grocery sacks on her kitchen counter and kept the inner dialogue going. They are all very special and I am blessed to mentor and love and even swat every one of them… all, that is, but Ryan. Her eyes narrowed as a puzzled frown took its usual place on her face when she thought of Ryan. He is an enigma. Brilliant, brave, a sense of right and wrong that doesn’t waver. He has no visible powers, but when the griffins attacked, he stood right with his friends in the middle of the flames… What is he? Lizzy shook her head. That answer would have to wait. Too many large and definitely more pressing problems were at the top of her list. She started to flip the light switch.
“I would prefer you not turn that light on… Please.”
“Ahhh!” Lizzy screeched, and then just as quickly small balls of flame formed in her hands, scorching the Walmart bags.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Elizabeth Ferguson. Do not be alarmed.”
Lizzy stared into the gloom of her den. Seated in her dad’s old rocker was a woman. German, by her obvious accent. Older but definitely not frail. The flames in Lizzy’s hands settled but did not completely diminish.
“What do you want? Who are you?” Lizzy growled.
“I have information that might resolve many of the questions you have been asking recently. Would you like to hear it?”
“First, I want to know… who are you?”
“I didn’t really expect you to remember me. That would have been too much to ask. You were only an infant at the time, not even able to walk. But I was there during your first days and weeks; I held you and I fed you.”
Lizzy’s eyes widened and her heart raced. The words she had wanted to shout came out in a broken whisper. “Are you my mother?”
The woman rose from the chair and slowly walked toward Lizzy. The light from the kitchen cast a faint glow on her. Lizzy noticed immediately that she was not the same woman who had spoken to her before and then fled the scene when her guard had been killed by Jude.
A faint smile settled like a spider’s web across the woman’s lips. Then she said, “No, Elizabeth Ferguson, I am not your mother.”
Lizzy’s expression changed. Disappointment rose, followed immediately by curiosity.
“I am not your mother, Elizabeth, I am your creator. You see… you didn’t have a mother.”
Chapter 32
The dragon dropped Harry like a ragged duffle in front of the timeworn church. Harry rolled with the fall and swiftly stood. Long shifted as Harry watched. The flames surrounding him diminished, and the human formed. The evil reverend in his cassock robe trimmed with red piping and red buttons stood staring back at him.
Long chuckled, pointing to his clothes. “I see you noticed my robe. Nice touch, isn’t it? Not quite what you’re used to, but it will do. I think the red really sets it off, gives it a—how shall I say it? Diabolical look?”
Harry eyed the man warily, not saying a word. Long gestured toward the arched entrance of the cathedral. “Come now, time is wasting, and we have much to do, you and I.”
Harry walked in the direction of the door. As he placed his hand on the ancient lock and pushed, a wave of nausea rolled over him. He looked around, stunned. Turning back, he noticed through the doors that the ground was still covered in snow and it was still nighttime. But one step across the worn threshold, time changed and an unnatural heat radiated. Sweat poured off him as he moved into the room. A fog met him, wrapping him with vaporous tentacles, thin, wet, and woven together in a flexible mesh that bent when he touched it. He wiped his eyes as sweat trickled into them, stinging.
Laden Long snarled and shoved Harry forward, further into the haze. The further he moved into the chamber, the hotter it got, and then the smells hit him. Animal smells, death, and something else—urine, feces, powerful and filthy. Then Harry remembered that once when he was camping in the woods, he had stumbled on a rattlesnake den. His armor had reacted, saving him from a dozen instant bites. But not from the odor. It took weeks to bleach the smell out of his armor, and he’d had to just burn the clothes.
The smell that assaulted him now was the same. He was walking among serpents. As he continued slowly through the fog, his eyes adapted and he noticed motion in front of him. A few more steps and the dark clergy whispered, “Halt, Ferguson.”
Harry stopped, his vision continuing to clear. Long raised his arm and pointed. The room had gradually brightened with a red glow similar to that cast by an erupting volcano or a burning city. Harry gasped. He was standing on the edge of a mountain cliff and the horizon was lit with flame. A thin spidery veil separated him from the abyss but not from clearly seeing what lay behind it. A large object appeared in the sky, and soon he could make out wings. His mouth gaped, then hurriedly shut tight.
A huge female dragon, dark and burning, flew up to the barrier and flapped its wings. Enormous eyes half as large as Harry was tall stared back. They were soulless, pitiless evil. Harry had expected to be terrified and trembling. Instead he raised his hand and simply shook his index finger in the beast’s face. The beast’s eyes narrowed and a roar broke from its rasping throat. It clawed at the veil that hardened and neither bent nor scratched. Its mighty wings slammed against the spider-thin wall separating it from the two men. Then it stopped, inhaled a long breath, and pul
led back, screeching as it withdrew.
Harry stared at the counterfeit clergy. A long awkward silence followed, and then when Laden Long grew restless Harry answered, “I am not afraid of your master, Long, but if I was you, I would consider this: I serve the one who cast her down and locked her in this place.”
Long studied him with the eyes of a snake observing a small bird. Anger swept across his face. Harry was impressed that Long’s rage had been held in check. Long responded, “That’s ancient history, dragon rider. The times have changed, the rules have changed, and truth is, you won’t notice or care by the time I am done with you. Now turn around. It’s time to leave here; we have an appointment.”
Chapter 33
Belle recognized the voice of the red-bearded giant. She faltered for a moment. Then she whispered, “Fawkes? What are you doing? Why are you here, and why are you whispering?”
“Damn it, woman, quit with the questions and get over here. I am come to get you out!”
One of Belle’s eyebrows rose sharply. She cautiously moved toward the cell door, still not sure that Peter Fawkes wasn’t trying to deceive her. Then he braced his heels firmly on the floor, placed each hand on a bar, and pulled. A terrible metallic screech echoed through the stone chamber. Belle winced at the loud wail of breaking bars. In seconds a way was open.
Fawkes’s breaths came in short gasps. “Not as strong as I used to be… need to lay off the beer and start working out again… come on, the way is clear to the other side of this dungeon. Harry needs our help. Let’s go!”
Belle slipped through the opening Fawkes had made and followed him down the dungeon’s dark corridors. She had not realized how large the facility was, but did notice that the original ancient rock had been replaced and extended by modern concrete and fortified doors. Finally, they came to a steel door at the end of the tunnel. Beyond that door was the next wing of the Nazi prison. Fawkes placed his huge paw on the handle and was about to rip it off its hinges when he stopped and took a deep breath.
The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set Page 63
