The Pendragon Codex
The Dragon’s Dream Saga, Book 3
by
D.C. Fergerson
© 2019 D.C. Fergerson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
To Cat and Leanna, my girls.
To Catherine, for giving me my light. We miss you.
Table of Contents
The Scout
At Night in Dreams
Harbinger
Welcoming Party
Roll Call
Past Tense
War of Words
Crossed Wires
The Depths
Preamble
Beautification
Scientific Progress
A Growing Family
The Pendragon Codex
Suicide Plan
Declaration of War
Sweep and Clear
The Skies Above
Long Way Down
Darkest Dreams
Borrowed Time
Emergency Measures
The Road Ahead
About the Author
The Scout
So intent on bringing his day to an end, Michael hadn’t noticed the same raven had followed him for the last ninety miles. He pulled his rental car into the parking lot at The Horseman’s Haunt, a quaint diner across the street from his motel. The day had been a total wash, due in large part to his every target deciding to spend all day inside their house. He had checked GNN; there were no major stories to keep anyone glued to their holovids. Unless there was some binge-worthy series that came out over NeuralNet today, he couldn’t fathom why no one left their house. Perhaps it was some Native holiday he wasn’t aware of, but he was certain his intelligence wouldn’t have missed something like that.
Every day, he went through the same ritual to end his day. He stepped out of the car, went around to the passenger side, and retrieved his antique bow. Beside it, he picked up the far more modern auto-loading quiver. Once he set them both over his shoulder, Michael walked to the front door. He rubbed the stubble at the back of his head as he made his way, still lost in thought. His brow sank as he pulled on the door. He was used to the sparse population of Sleepy Hollow, South Dakota leaving him with a decent number of booths to choose from, but he’d never seen it so empty. He glanced back to the lot. He found a van, two cars and a motorcycle, all likely belonging to the staff. He shook his head and wondered what news he missed that caused everyone to stay in for the day.
The same brunette waitress he’d gotten used to seeing rested her elbow on the counter, propping her head up as she fought off a nap. The bell on the door jingled as it shut, snapping her to attention. She smiled wide and scurried over to greet him. As plain a woman as the day was long, she was typical of the local fare - at least partly Native, sandy to caramel-skinned, and conservative in her clothing. There was also a 23% chance any one of them would have some innate magical ability, so he tread lightly. The waitress was smitten with him, or at least impressed by his accent. She made mention of it every time she took his order.
“Mister Michael, back from a long day?” she asked, motioning him to take a seat anywhere he liked.
He nodded. “Indeed, and quite a long day it was.”
The air was caramelized onion and beef, coffee and pie. All of that sounded lovely after the miserable day. He set down his equipment beside him in the booth and checked the waitress’ nametag - Millie. A week of eating dinner while she fawned over him, and he still hadn’t committed it to memory. He offered a weak, polite smile as she brought over a cup in one hand and a steaming pot of coffee in the other. He held the mug as she poured.
“You know, I could listen to your accent all day,” she giggled. “You said you was from England, huh? Like London?”
Michael bowed his head. “Lincolnshire, a much smaller town, but yes. England.”
“Were you hunting today?” she asked, motioning to his olive-drab camouflage clothing and the bow at his side.
“Not quite,” he replied, reflexively placing his hand on the smooth, ancient wood. “If I were, it certainly wasn’t a good day for it. Say, do you know where everyone is?”
Millie stared at the ceiling as she fished out an antique of her own, a tablet computer. If that was to take his order, then it was about as ancient as everything else in the diner.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said. “Why? Is the traffic dead out there?”
“You’re the first soul I’ve seen in hours,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “It’s not a Native holiday or anything, is it?”
Millie shook her head. “No, sure isn’t. You know, Sleepy Hollow don’t have much in the way of people. Where were you working again?”
Michael shrugged. “About ninety miles west of here. An even smaller town, if you could believe that.”
“Heaven’s Crest?” she asked, holding up the tablet at eye level with him.
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
Millie peeked her face around the display and smirked. “That’s where that standoff was with the UNS Army a couple of months back. You don’t think you’re the first white man to be sitting here since then, do you?”
“I suppose not,” he replied, his words drawn out.
“Most of them have been dark suits and sunglasses, stuck out like a sore thumb,” she laughed to herself. “You’re dressed like a hunter, though. Are you a defense contractor, too?”
Michael tensed and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I can’t really discuss my work, though. What’s good tonight?”
Millie rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mister Michael! Look at me, just prattling on. The special tonight is steak tips with onion and potatoes.”
“Sounds wonderful. Let’s have that, then,” Michael nodded hurriedly.
“You betcha,” she replied, tapping away at the screen.
Suspicious and tense, Michael surveyed the empty diner. Checking over his shoulder, the shimmer of light hitting a raven’s eyes beckoned his attention to the corner of the room. The bird perched near the ceiling, staring down at him. It couldn’t be the same bird from Heaven’s Crest, but Michael couldn’t remember a time on his way back that he didn’t see a black bird in the sky. He turned around, eyes shifted to Millie. Her back was to him, tapping away on the tablet. The air around him grew thick and hot.
Grabbing up his bow, he jumped from his seat, an arrow drawn and nocked before he stood erect. Millie wasn’t sending any order to the kitchen on that tablet, and she damn sure heard him pull back the bowstring.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, his voice stern and commanding.
Millie set the tablet on the counter and raised her hands in surrender. When she turned around, it wasn’t Millie at all. Her face was breathtaking and flawless, with an olive complexion. The darkness of her brown eyes obscured the servos moving inside them. Her hair was jet black and straight. Michael startled, his thigh butting into the table behind him. A woman’s voice called out from the kitchen behind her.
“You don’t belong here,” she said, emerging from the back. She was Native, with intense sienna eyes. In her early twenties, she projected confidence well beyond her years, even as Michael turned his bow on her.
The raven on the far corner of the diner cawed and flew to her shoulder. Michael clenched his jaw. He’d gotten used to seeing Cora from a distance, dressed in retro jeans and wearing a beat-up leather bomber jacket. In truth, this was the closest he’d ever been to her.
“Cora Blake,” he sighed. “I should warn you, I don’t miss.”
“Why does everyone ha
ve to say my full name when they meet me?” Cora huffed. “Fine. I should warn you, as well.” With a cautious, deliberate move of her finger, she tapped the comm button on her earpiece. “Fox, educate our new friend.”
Michael kept his eyes fixed on Cora while mindful of his periphery, waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one walked through the door. Instead, a red dot appeared on his hand, tracing its way up his arm. Michael relaxed his bowstring, defeated.
“He doesn’t miss, either,” Cora explained. “So, let’s have a talk.”
“I should have taken a closer look at that motorcycle in the lot,” Michael sighed, shaking his head. He lowered his bow and set the arrow back in his quiver.
Cora shrugged and came out of the doorway. She motioned to the Italian woman dressed as a waitress. “Giovanna, pat him down and cuff him, please,” she said. She returned her attention to Michael. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. It wouldn’t have mattered if you did. You spent all day in Heaven’s Crest trying to find us. We’ve been here, waiting for you. The only one doing any spying today was Vincent here.”
She fished a small handful of treats out of the pocket of her bomber jacket and fed the bird on her shoulder. Michael cooperated, at least for the time being. He allowed the waitress-turned-supermodel to pat him down. He only protested as she took the bow from his hand.
“Please, be careful with that,” he pleaded. “It’s...a family heirloom.”
Cora locked his gaze. With a blink, her eyes were black from corner to corner, a horrifying sight. Any doubts of her magical power ran away with the ease she changed herself. She turned her head to the bow in Giovanna’s hand.
“It glows,” Cora said, her mouth partly opened. She tried to hide her surprise. “That’s an artifact?”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “It’s my artifact,” he replied. He grunted as Giovanna yanked an arm behind him and slapped a cuff over his wrist. “You can’t hold me. I have diplomatic permission to be in the Native Lands.”
Cora smiled, the black in her eyes fading away as she took a seat atop the lunch counter. She picked up the tablet beside her and tapped her comm button.
“Control, how fake is that ident-chip we scanned?” she asked, swiping along the tablet screen. Whatever response she got prompted her to nod a few times before returning her attention to Michael.
Giovanna stepped to Michael’s side. With a tug at his elbow, she pulled him into the seat at his booth. She walked back to the counter and joined Cora.
“My computer expert already determined your creds are fakes. Really expensive ones, but fakes nonetheless,” Cora said, kicking her dangling feet off the edge of the counter like a playful child. “That means you’re trespassing the Native Free Lands in Sioux territory. The penalty for that is a long stay in one of our finest prisons. Unless you’d like to start talking.”
“My name is Michael Robinson,” he started.
Cora raised a hand, silencing him. “Sergeant Michael Robinson, currently wanted in the UK for dereliction of duty and possible connection to the recent heist at Buckingham Palace. We already knew that much about you before you started creeping around my home. What are you doing here?”
Michael’s face soured. He dropped his head and took a deep breath. “Your computer expert is Gideon Parker, known in UnderNet as the famed hacker Xero. His claim to fame was breaking into the Pentagon’s NeuralNet server when he was 17. Giovanna over there would be the former Italian secret agent with nanotechnology in her skin cells allowing her to shapeshift. I’m guessing that the Fox keeping a sniper rifle on me is Johnny Clean, a fixer and former CIA operative during the Second Civil War. That leaves you, Cora Blake, former NSA operative, Arcane Unit, specializing in magical infiltration.”
The corner of Cora’s mouth turned up. “Impressive. You can read a case file. That doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”
“Look,” Michael said, turning his head to the side. “Other than Parker, the amount of intelligence available on the four of you fits on one sheet of paper. You’re ghosts. I needed to check the lot of you out.”
Cora hopped down from the counter. “Who sent you? Staff Sergeant Julian Penel?”
Michael lowered his eyes to the ground and pursed his lips. He was done talking.
Cora glanced sideways to Giovanna. She shrugged.
“I just want out of this waitress uniform, patatina. It smells,” she said, her voice returned to a thick Italian accent.
“Alright,” Cora sighed. “Let’s load him up in the van.”
Michael’s head perked up. “Load me up? You can’t load me up, we’re on the same damn side.”
Cora put her hands on her hips. “Prove it.”
Turning his eyes skyward, Michael wracked his brain for an answer. He set his eyes back on Cora, excited. “The bow!”
“Giovanna already scanned it when she was taking your order,” Cora replied. She gave him a dismissive wave. “We couldn’t find it in any museum records. Other than the fact that it’s old and I can see that it’s an artifact, I have no idea whose side you’re on.”
“Robin Hood!” he blurted. “It belonged to Robin Hood. You can’t find it in any museum record because it’s never left my family.”
Cora cocked an eyebrow, holding back a laugh. “Robin Hood? Steal from the rich and give to the poor, that Robin Hood? You’re going to have to try harder, he was definitely a myth.”
Michael leaned forward and shook his head. “Actually, he was a bit of a jerk. Romanticized thug, really. But he was very real. I know, because I’ve had his memories and experiences rattling around in my brain for almost a decade.”
Crossing her arms, Cora stared at Michael. He kept his expression one of extreme sincerity, willing her to believe with his eyes. She tapped the comm button on her ear piece.
“Control, is there even a possible shred of truth to what he’s saying?” she asked.
Michael huffed and waited. She raised an eyebrow and paced the weathered tile floor. She nodded, glanced at him a moment, then walked to the door. With a wave, Cora signaled to Giovanna.
“Grab him, let’s go,” Cora said.
“Wait a damn minute!” Michael protested, wriggling as the Italian pulled him up. “What did he say?”
“Inconclusive,” Cora replied. “It doesn’t matter anyway, there was never a chance we weren’t arresting you. These are my lands. Maybe after a few days in a cell, you’ll feel like talking.”
Michael stepped ahead of Giovanna, moving with a swift step across the diner to Cora. A red dot illuminated on his chest. He froze in place at the sniper’s reminder to mind his manners. “We’ve been looking for you. I have to make my report or they’re going to get the wrong impression, or send more men! You have to let me go!”
Cora crossed the remaining distance between them, wagging a finger in his face. “Last chance: Who sent you? Where are they now? Are you ready to give me names and locations?”
Michael’s head dropped. Whether he wanted to or not, he shook his head. “I...can’t, Miss Blake. I’m sorry. I’ve given you no reason to trust me, but-”
“I’ll stop you right there,” Cora snapped. “You haven’t, and that’s all I care about. Last time military guys came sniffing around Heaven’s Crest, seventy of my people died. Until I know what you’ve been up to, why, and with whom, you can rot in a cell. My days taking chances on strangers are long behind me.”
He wouldn’t do anything different in her place, and found it difficult to begrudge her. As an exemplary officer with high commendations, the thought of being caged in a foreign land gave him shivers. It was doubtful he’d hidden that fact from Cora, but she had the upper hand. Somewhere along the line, she intercepted him and watched him as he spied on her people, probably with powers he didn’t know she had. The raven was quite the trick.
With a sigh, he shuffled his feet along the beaten floor, following Cora to a van and sitting where he was told. Inside, it smelled like a hospital and the rear was loaded with co
mputer rigs and holographic screens. Resigned to his fate, he sat up straight and salvaged what he could of his dignity. He’d have plenty of time to consider what other powers Cora Blake had on the long drive back to her home in Heaven’s Crest.
At Night in Dreams
The darkness surrounding Cora was a noose around her neck. Struggling for air, her hands clawed against the weight bearing down on her. Every motion met resistance, as though she were trapped underwater. The pressure was against every inch of her, but the weight around her mouth terrified her. If it went on much longer, she’d have to inhale out of reflex, and let whatever surrounded her into her lungs.
Her fingers pushed through the mass, the cool, moist pile that weighed her down. The tips of her fingers broke through, feeling air for the first time. Pushing forward until every muscle in her arm screamed for relief, her hand burst forth to the open air and grabbed purchase on the other side. Spiky, soft points, like blades of grass, tickled her palms. The ground was solid and real, something to hold onto. Only moments remained, her chest heavy and fighting against her to breathe. Cora used her handhold and pulled with everything left in her. Her head broke the surface, the blinding light of the cruel sun forcing her eyes shut as she gasped for air.
Sightless and weak, she gulped at the air, the unnerving cascade of earth she’d broken from rolling down her skin. Still buried to her hips, Cora lurched forward and crawled her way out of the soft dirt onto the solid ground ahead. She winced, struggling to open her eyes and look back at the horror she’d escaped from. Behind her, a stone marked the spot, engraved with her name.
Cora Blake. July 12, 2058 - April 8, 2082. Beloved daughter. Gone, but never forgotten.
Painful, ragged groans filled her ears, the sound coming in from all sides as her senses returned. A dozen voices moaned from all around her, invading her ears as she tried to orient herself. She looked left, finding others like her, emerging from their graves. Others shuffled and struggled to flee, walking with plodding, tired gaits. She slammed her eyes shut, digging deep within, to the dark and cold magic that gave her Spirit Sight. Cora brought the magic to her with a thought, opening her black eyes to the space between life and death. The light and color of the world faded and washed out. She surveyed the cemetery for spirits, but found nothing. Thousand of ribbons of blue light, like tendrils, wound around the world around her. It connected the trees to the earth, to the worms underground, to everything but the dead walking around her. Only one tether connected to each of them.
The Pendragon Codex Page 1
