The Last Knight (Pendragon Book 1)

by Nicola S. Dorrington

  “It’s good.”

  I shrugged. Art was something I’d always been good at, but I didn’t have the drive I’d once had.

  It was only when I felt Lance’s warm breath on my cheek that I realised he had stepped up behind me to take a closer look. He leant forward and his chest brushed against my back. I suppressed a shiver.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to the faintest pattern in the grey I’d used to give the snow depth.

  A little tingle raced down my spine, but this time it had nothing to do with Lance’s proximity, even though it was hard to ignore. I’d never noticed before, but the shadows traced out the odd Celtic symbol I doodled all the time. What scared me was I hadn’t consciously put it there.

  “Just the shadows,” I said a little too quickly. My fingertips were tingling, unease rippling through me.

  “It looks like – “

  The rest of Lance’s sentence was cut off by Miss Fairfax telling us to pack away in time for the bell.

  Lance lingered for a minute, still looking at the painting, but just as I was about to ask him what was wrong he shrugged it off. By the time we’d reached the lunch room I’d forgotten why it seemed so important.

  I headed straight for the table in the corner, pleased when Lance followed me there.

  “So what did you do last night?” he asked once we were sat down.

  “Just watched a couple of films with Dad,” I replied with a shrug. Films were our thing. We didn’t watch a lot of television but we loved films. Particularly Dad’s old favourites. “Die Hard II.”

  Lance made a strange face.

  “You don’t like Die Hard?”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Never seen it?” I repeated in disbelief. “What about Pirates of the Caribbean?” That was the other film Dad and I had watched. It was a little newer. He watched it for Kiera Knightly – even though he never admitted that to me – and I watched it for Johnny Depp.

  “The Pirates of the what?”

  I faked a look of intense suspicion. “Are you sure you’re not from another planet?”

  He laughed, but it sounded a little forced. “I’m definitely from this planet. But I suppose I led a fairly sheltered childhood.”

  “Did you grow up at the bottom of a deep well?”

  He laughed as though I’d said the funniest thing in the world. The problem was I knew I wasn’t that amusing.

  “Something like that.”

  I regarded him for a long moment. “It is even worth me asking about music?”

  Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head. “Probably not. Although I do like classical music.”

  “How old are you again?” I teased.

  He smiled. “Eighteen. Older than you.”

  “Cara!”

  My name was accompanied by pounding on my bedroom door so loud the sound reverberated in my head. I opened bleary eyes. My room was still dark, the morning sunlight blocked by the heavy, red curtains on my window.

  “Cara, it’s nearly midday. Time to get up.”

  I groaned. I’d barely slept that night. I’d woken from another dream, and the images still haunted me. My dreams were getting stranger, so I didn’t know if they were still real or not. This time I had been in a long, dark tunnel, a glimmer of light at the far end. But I was falling backward, falling deeper and deeper into the darkness. It wasn’t much, but it had still scared me. I hadn’t managed to fall back to sleep until around six in the morning. Luckily it was the weekend. Dad had issues about me sleeping late though; he thought it was a waste.

  Knowing I wouldn’t get any peace until I showed my face, I rolled out of bed.

  Downstairs Dad was digging in the fridge. He looked over his shoulder at the sound of my footsteps. “Good, you’re dressed. We need milk.”

  I made a face. “You could drive to the shop. It would only take you two minutes.”

  “And you could walk. It would be good for you, Fresh air and exercise.”

  “I walk to school everyday,” I said, but I was already shoving my feet into my trainers. I snatched my keys off the hook just inside the door and stepped back into the kitchen, holding out my hand.

  Dad grinned and pulled out his wallet. He handed me a twenty pound note. “Get yourself a magazine or something, one of those art ones you love. You know, the ones that normally decorate your bedroom floor.”

  I stuffed the note into my back pocket, ignoring the hint about the state of my room, and waggled my fingers in a wave before heading out the door into a grey, overcast day.

  It was raining. Not lightly either, but a steady downpour coming down so hard it looked like a solid sheet of water outside the newsagent’s door. It had been threatening to rain the whole walk down to the shop, but now the heavens had finally opened.

  “Now, why exactly did I volunteer to get milk?” I muttered to myself as I hovered in the doorway.

  The street was awash with water and I watched as an empty burger wrapper, from the take-away next door, sailed past like a little ship in the gutter.

  “You coming or going?” Mrs. Hemel snapped from behind her counter. “You’re letting all the cold in.”

  I shot her a fake cheerful smile and stepped out into the rain. Only planning to be out ten minutes I hadn’t bothered with a coat and the old sweater I wore with my jeans didn’t have a hood.

  Ten metres down the road I was already drenched. My hair turned into a snarled mess of dripping dreadlocks, and the more I shoved it back off my face the worse it got.

  I kept my head down, trying to stop the rain getting in my eyes. Luckily I knew the route home well enough to walk it blindfolded.

  Half way home cold fingers closed around one of my wrists and someone yanked me backwards. I staggered and nearly fell, catching myself against a warm, solid body.

  “Planning on swimming the rest of the way?”

  I tipped my head back and met a pair of amused blue eyes.

  “Lance?”

  He grinned crookedly, and I took a second to orientate myself. We were crammed into a doorway, the rain sheeting past inches away. Lance’s hair was barely damp and he was wearing the same cracked leather jacket he always wore, over a pale blue t-shirt. The reason his hands felt cold was because he was wearing thick, leather gloves.

  “I ducked in here just as it started raining,” he said, glancing over my head at the rain. “I didn’t think it would last that long.”

  I grimaced. The sky was black, the clouds hanging low, and there was no sign of it growing any lighter. “It doesn’t look like it’s about to let up. And I need to get home.” I shook the bag with the milk by way of explanation.

  “You don’t even have a jacket,” he said. His eyes raked me from the top of my drenched hair to the bottom of my soaked jeans. “You look like a drowned rat.”

  I flushed with embarrassment. For some reason I didn’t like him seeing me looking a mess. “It wasn’t raining when I left the house.”

  With a smooth shrug of his shoulders he removed his jacket and handed it to me. “Take this.”

  My fingers closed around the leather instinctively, and I had to push down the girlish shiver of excitement that raced up my spine. “But when would I give it back to you?”

  “Give it to me at school on Monday.”

  “You’ll get awful wet between now and then.”

  He grinned. “Are you always this difficult?”

  The smile was infectious and I found myself returning it. “Only sometimes.”

  His grin widened and I got the feeling he liked the idea of a challenge. “How about this? You take my jacket, I walk you home and you give it back to me when we get there?”

  “Then you’ll get soaked.” I pointed out.

  “A little water won’t kill me.”

  “It won’t kill me either.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Damn, Cara, would you just let me do the gentlemanly thing?”

  It was my turn to smirk, but I shrugged into the jacket.
The sleeves covered my hands, and it reached practically to mid-thigh. I tugged it almost double across my chest and looked up at Lance. I knew I must look ridiculous.

  He had an odd sort of smile on his face, but rather than saying anything he pushed back the sleeve of the jacket, grabbed my hand and we dashed out into the rain.

  We half walked, half jogged the five minute trip back to my house, and I struggled a little to keep up with his long stride. He didn’t release my hand until we drew to a halt at the end of my drive. By then I was more than a little breathless.

  Lance didn’t seem to notice, he was looking up at the house with idle curiosity.

  “Just you and your dad then?”

  I nodded. Whatever he was thinking he didn’t share with me, he simply smiled down at me, and my stomach gave a little flutter.

  Stop it Cara, I told myself. I recognised the butterfly feeling in my stomach, and falling for this guy was not a wise move. For a start I barely knew him, but more than that my life was complicated enough without throwing relationship drama into the mix.

  “I better get in,” I said abruptly. I wondered what the neighbours would think of me, standing in the pouring rain with a guy like Lance. The downpour had flattened his normally curly hair, and it hung down into his eyes. His t-shirt was soaked, almost see-through, and clinging to the muscles of his chest.

  The butterflies became full grown birds, beating away in my stomach. I took half a step towards the house, but he caught my fingers and I turned back towards him.

  “I’ll see you at school on Monday?” he asked. There was something odd about the way he said it. Like there was some doubt in the matter.

  “Of course. Where else would I be?”

  A brand new, black 4x4 rolled slowly passed the house. I barely noticed it, but Lance watched it till it was gone, still holding my fingers in a tight grip. Once it turned the corner he looked back at me.

  “Where else would you be,” he repeated slowly. Squeezing my fingers, he backed down the path. With a final grin he turned and jogged off into the rain.

  Chapter Three

  Clouds rolled and churned on the horizon, an unnaturally coloured mass of yellow and orange shot through with ribbons of blood red. It looked as though the sky itself was on fire.

  I stood on a hilltop, beside a grey stone that towered twenty feet over me, casting its long shadow across blackened grass. As my eyes took in the scene around me I realised the stone was just one of a circle. Some still stood whilst others had fallen and lay sunk into the grass. The place looked familiar to me, though I knew I’d never been there before.

  A figure lay prone in the centre of the circle, in a pool of blood that turned the grass black. I wanted to do something, anything, to help, but I was frozen in place, some unknown force holding me rooted to the spot. The world was going dark around me, the sun was going out, its glare faltering and fading. An icy wind whipped up around me, tangling my hair around my face.

  The dark clouds on the horizon suddenly funnelled down to touch a distant hill top and when they lifted a figure stood there, clothed in a cloak so black it looked like a hole in the sky. The figure didn’t speak or move. I couldn’t see its face, but I didn’t want to. Evil emanated from it like a solid presence - a living thing.

  I shuddered violently.

  You must fight, Cara.

  A voice rang in my head like a bell. A man’s voice, deep and rich.

  Don’t let the darkness overwhelm you.

  Somehow my dream self knew exactly what the voice was talking about, but it didn’t help. I knew I was powerless against such terrible evil.

  “I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t do this. I’m not the one.”

  You are, Cara. It is your fate, and not even the strongest of us can fight our destiny.

  The voice gave me hope, but it wasn’t enough. The figure on the hill top lifted a long wooden staff and a scream was ripped from my throat.

  The screams continued even as I started to wake up, screams that left my throat raw, but I couldn’t seem to stop them. At last I managed to draw in a long, shuddering breath and opened my eyes. Cold sweat drenched my skin and my sheets were snarled around my legs. My bedroom light was on, and I struggled to remember if I’d fallen asleep with it on until I saw Dad sitting on the end of my bed. He was in his pyjamas, his hair standing on end.

  “Dad?”

  He grimaced. “You wouldn’t wake up. I tried, but you just kept screaming.”

  The pain in his voice cut me to the core. I hated putting him through this so often.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He dismissed it with a shake of his head. “That’s the fourth time in as many days. They’re getting more common. This isn’t good.”

  Looking up into his dark eyes I could see what he wasn’t saying. Dreams had been one of the symptoms of Mum’s illness. She’d never confided in her then twelve year old daughter, so I didn’t know for certain if they’d come true like so many of mine did, but I believed they had. In fact I was fairly sure it was what had made her so ill. Staring up into Dad’s face, I knew he was terrified I was going the same way. I was terrified too, but I couldn’t admit it to him, it would only make him worry more.

  “I think…I think you need help, Cara.”

  “I am not seeing a therapist!” I snapped. We’d tried that before, but it didn’t help. I couldn’t tell them the truth after all. If I admitted I thought I saw the future in my dreams they’d think I was crazy for sure.

  I pushed back my duvet and swung my legs round, pushing my feet into my fluffy slippers. Dad didn’t move as I pulled a jumper over my pj’s and crossed to the open bedroom door. I glanced back at him as I reached the hallway.

  His shoulders slumped forward, his head cradled in his hands. He was too young for the grey streaking his dark hair, but stress had aged him. He’d only just turned forty, but he looked more like fifty.

  It’s not fair, I thought. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. First Mum, and now me. I shoved the thought away. I wasn’t my mother. I wasn’t crazy.

  At least, not yet.

  I took one final sad look at Dad then slipped downstairs to the kitchen. The dark granite surface of the counter top gleamed as I flicked on the light and opened the fridge.

  The glass of milk I poured for myself shook in my hand as I leant heavily against the counter to stop the trembling of my knees.

  Alone in the kitchen, with only the ticking of the clock for company, the nightmare replayed over and over in my head. It was so clear, so vivid - the evil in the air, the powerful voice that had spoken in my mind, even the electricity crackling in my hair.

  It was so unlike any of my normal dreams. Those were mundane, everyday dreams, discounting the fact they came true. They were not apocalyptic dreams about the end of the world.

  So why did this dream seem as real as any of the others? Why did my fingertips still tingle with electricity?

  The horror of the dream, the helplessness in the face of such terrible evil hit me again and the glass nearly slipped from my fingers.

  In a desperate attempt to calm the frantic pounding of my heart I thought of my mother again, and I knew Dad was right. Things couldn’t go on like this. Perhaps if I got help they could put a stop to this before it got any worse.

  “Caronwyn?”

  I looked up just as Dad enfolded me in his arms. It was so safe and warm there in Dad’s embrace that a little of the terror of the dream slipped away. Yet I knew Dad couldn’t always be there to protect me, to give me a hug and make everything seem all right. If I wanted help, I had to help myself.

  “I promise, I won’t let them take you away from me, but we have to get you help. Please, let me help you.”

  The hopelessness in his voice, the edge of raw pain, made my heart ache. At last, feeling I had no other choice, I nodded.

  I over slept again the next morning, sleeping straight through my alarm. Dad and I had sat up until the early hours of the mo
rning talking over the different therapists he’d been recommended and, at last, agreed on one. Dad promised to call first thing in the morning, but even once I’d gone to bed I hadn’t been able to sleep.

  Denying anything was wrong with me had become such an ingrained habit that confronting it now was more terrifying than ever. I’d tossed and turned for hours and, in a way, getting out of bed was a welcome relief.

  “Why don’t I call the school and tell them you won’t be in today?” Dad said as I stumbled into the kitchen, in my uniform, but bleary eyed. “I called the therapists office at eight, they had a cancellation for this afternoon, so you could just relax at home till then.”

  I blanched. I thought I’d have longer to prepare. “Uh…no. I need to go. I’ve only got five more months before my exams, I can’t afford time off.” I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting at home all day, with nothing to do but dwell on my dreams and what I was going to say to the therapist.

  “At least let me give you a note to explain why you’re late.”

  The thought of protesting crossed my mind before I remembered Mackay’s dire warnings about detention. If I got another one it would make it four in the four weeks since the start of term. They were always for being late or not handing in homework, and I couldn’t afford any more.

  “Sure, Dad. Thanks.”

  He scribbled a hasty note, handing it to me as I headed out the door. There was no point hurrying. It was already nearly nine o’clock and with a twenty minute walk still ahead of me I was resigned to being late.

  I’d gotten halfway down my road when a car rumbled up to the curb behind me. I turned, expecting it to be Dad offering me a lift despite my protests, but instead I saw Lance leaning out of the passenger window. His dark hair was tousled, as though he hadn’t brushed it that morning, but his eyes were sparkling.

  “Cara?” He smiled when he saw my face. “I thought it was you. Do you need a lift to school?”