The Harry Ferguson Chronicles Box Set

by William David Ellis

  Lizzy tried to stand but slipped in the blood spilling from the shredded body of her would-be captor. A flash of movement caught her eyes; the man’s body was twitching. The dark smell of fresh blood and the reek of bowels curdled her stomach. Screaming, she crawled away in a crablike frenzy from the huge eagle. Slamming into a yard fence, she stopped and began to whimper.

  The noise caught the great bird’s attention. Its head tilted in a twitching motion, bringing one enormous eye to bear; another jerky twitch and both eyes stared at her. The bird’s hard look changed to confusion and it began to coo. The soft trill had an immediate effect. The scream forming in her mouth stopped as she realized the eagle was not threatening her. Its dark eyes were compassionate, questioning, predatory but toward her protective. As she looked at it her heart began to relax. The magnificent animal was striking. Its white crown layered above feathers so black they blended with the night. It stopped ripping at the body of her kidnapper and slowly, cautiously stepped toward her. She was caught between wanting to run and being unable to tear her gaze from the soulful eyes of the bird. The eyes seemed familiar. Before she had time to think more, the sound of an ever-increasing siren caused the bird to scan the streets, then bend and launch itself into the sky, quickly disappearing into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Berlin, Belle Rodum’s apartment

  Belle sat in the leather chair covered by a blanket she had ripped off her bed. A wrought iron lamp covered by an opaque lampshade cast a dim light futilely holding back the dark. The ancient wall clock that had lined her family’s halls for two hundred years had passed its midnight apex and was now striking two.

  Belle loved the sound of the hammer striking the gong. Usually, it meant something was about to happen. As a supernatural creature, she understood seasons and times, so expectations accompanied the sound of the clock’s strike. But the witching hours passed, and nothing happened. She had been expecting something. Some kind of sign. A vision, a messenger. Nothing happened and that was disturbing. She could not remember feeling so empty. She had accomplished her mission. Another one of Hitler’s distractions had been removed. But at what cost? The dragon rider had mauled her. She had him down and was about to crush him; then the light erupted. It had blinded and bent her; then it felt like her lungs had been torn loose, giant claws scraping her insides. She had hoped it would only be temporary. But the emptiness had not left her. A sucking vacuum had seated itself in her soul. No one had ever warned her about this. There was no frame of reference to anchor, no historical precedent bringing clarity.

  She felt utterly alone, and that was something she had never faced. Since her childhood, she had heard the voices. Wicked, self-indulgent, demanding. Now they were gone. She had never known her own mind; she had never been left to her own thoughts. The dragon rider had stripped her of… of what? Is this how humans lived? No eternal guides? No mentors? Just alone. No wonder they were so fragile, so easily manipulated. Belle shook her head and stood. It was too early for breakfast and too late for anything else.

  But there was more. Not only did she feel a terrible solitude, she also had to struggle with what she had read in Harry’s body language. It had struck her like a hammer, knocking her into confusion. Then the light had stolen her voices. Harry Ferguson, a dragon rider, had fathered—was going to father? Was supposed to father? She did not know the tense. But she despised the idea. No man would dominate her! No male would ravish her and leave her with a child. That product of conception would not survive her becoming aware of its existence.

  Yet she could still see it in his face. They had conceived a daughter! And lie as much as she wanted about how no man would force himself on her, she knew that if any man could, it would be the dragon rider, and she also knew that he never would. He was not that kind of man. He would rip his heart out of his chest if that kind of darkness invaded it! She hated him for it but also knew that she was in awe of him. A daughter! She would have, or had had, in some time, some place, a baby. Belle Rodum was used to evil and knew every form of corrupted emotion there was. But this time she was ignorant. She had never known joy and didn’t recognize it when it visited her.

  She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until the rattle of the mail slot on the door awakened her. The post had arrived. Surely it wasn’t that late? She turned to the clock; it was still very early. Her body tensed, every cell alert. Unexpected mail was not a good thing. Cautiously she moved toward the envelope that had fallen through the slot and landed on the floor. Before she touched it she noted that it was a gold-embossed invitation card. Monogrammed with two letters, HF. Belle Rodum frowned. Who did she know with the initials HF? She had no idea. Then a stray thought ambushed her. “That is ridiculous,” she growled softly but hurried to grab the stationery and tear it open.

  To Belle Rodum

  An invitation to dine with Harry Ferguson

  At the Champ de Mars restaurant

  17 Rue de Beaujolais

  Paris, France

  August 18, 1937

  8:00 p.m.

  We need to talk, Belle.

  I mean, just because you are trying to kill me doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.

  A truce is requested. From midnight of August 17, 1937, till midnight August 19, 1937.

  Sincerely,

  Your humble adversary,

  Harry

  Belle leaned in, hovering over the envelope, one eyebrow stiffly arched, her mouth unconsciously open. She read the invitation, then blinked and read it again out loud. At the sound of her voice, she stopped and looked cautiously around, hoping nothing that could hear her had.

  She cursed, throwing previous cautions to the wind as she stared at the gilded print. “‘Just because you’re trying to kill me doesn’t mean we can’t be friends’? What in Hell’s twelve gates?” she bellowed. “It has to be some kind of sick joke. One of Hitler’s little pranks I bet…” She squinted as she thought through the possible culprits. The ones with the sense of humor didn’t know her well enough to do this, and the ones who knew her well enough to pull this off had absolutely no humor. A wave of cold struck her as a simple but irrefutable thought cut through her search for the letter writer. Who knew about Harry Ferguson? She was not in the habit of giving an account of her mission details. She had told no one about the dragon rider, and the only individuals who knew were dead!

  Once again, she read the gold invitation, glaring at every word. She touched the envelope paper and noted its high quality. She put the paper against the light of the antique lamp next to her chair and saw the watermark of the paper was from an English papermaker. Finally, she raised the paper to her nose, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Every sense in her body closed off except her sense of smell. She had encountered the dragon rider twice. Both times had been intense; they had been physically close and touched. They had bled while in each other’s company. Belle Rodum had been taught from earliest childhood to use all her senses, to reach out and catalog sounds and smells, everything from the scents of smoke and honey bees to people. It had saved her life many times. She was like a she-wolf sniffing for the faintest marker of prey or pack. It did not take long to sense it. Once she recognized the marker, she was sure. Harry Ferguson had sent the letter. There was no doubt. A hundred other questions swept through immediately. It was a trap. But why? Could she trust him to keep his word? She could trust him more than she could trust anybody else, she knew that for certain, and that was… incredible!

  There was no RSVP. Ha! Well, if he could find her address, she would show him. She would find his. And if she couldn’t she would just show up anyway.

  Belle’s eyes narrowed as she thought, He didn’t leave a return address because he knew I would go… the audacity of that arrogant… man! He can’t just call and I come, or whistle and I priss over, wagging my tail like some lovesick puppy. I will not. I cannot. I am not going to do that! Then she settled back in her chair and took a deep breath. What am I going to wear? />
  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sarah followed Kusaila’s servant to the simply adorned tent of the Berber king. Sarah had lived in a castle a thousand years ago, and in Moab, Texas, for five years afterward; her idea of a desert king’s tent was something from an old Ben Hur movie her grandparents had liked and she was not far wrong. Kusaila’s quarters were everything they should be but not one refinement more. Spacious, comfortable, open, but not opulent. It served the purpose of setting a kingly stage without overbearing extravagance. The occupant of this tent didn’t have anything to prove; the tent reflected the man who was a king and that was enough. Events had occurred so quickly and so intensely: Sarah had been knocked from the sky, slept on the grassy plain, woke to be haunted by memories she had tried to bury, and then wept her broken heart out. She had seen Kusaila as a dark dragon and compassionate counselor, but now through different lenses, she was noticing again.

  When Sarah walked into the tent, Kusaila smiled at her. As his eyebrows rose in welcome, any awkwardness she might have felt scurried away. He was taller than most of his people, with a warrior frame surrounding high cheekbones and dark brown eyes. His skin was dark caramel baked by an eternal desert sun. His hair was long, black, and braided with gold ringlets attached. He reminded her of the North American Indian peoples she had met in Texas. As she appraised him she began to see other things with a different part of her senses. Being a dragon person, she could pick up on people; the only reason she had not done so on Kusaila was how quickly and intensely she had been ushered into training.

  As she settled into place, she was immediately grateful that the Berbers had moved away from the Middle Eastern custom of reclining on pillows before a shallow table, eating with one hand and propping with the other. An actual table was set before her, and an appreciative sigh escaped.

  Kusaila caught it and laughed. “Did you think we were going to make you lie on the floor and shovel food in your face, all the while trying not to fall over?”

  Sarah had been expecting exactly that and her embarrassed face reflected it. Kusaila continued teasing her, “No, my Sarah, we even cook our food here, and it isn’t so heavily spiced that it all tastes the same.”

  Kusaila saw the blush burn across Sarah’s face and pushed through the awkward moment. She was introduced to his chieftains and was surprised to see that many had brought their wives, and a few even had children tucked away in the far reaches of the tent, huddled together laughing, getting loud, and being shushed by their ever-watchful mothers.

  She realized because of the way his people reacted to him that Kusaila was a king who led from the front regardless of personal cost. He was a king who did not need a crown, a man who could have everything, who lusted for nothing. He loved the people he led and they delighted in him. He was a champion, a protector, and as such was surrounded by champions and protectors. When one of his servants brought out a dish of apples and cinnamon, everyone at the table lit up, and Kusaila had the cook come out. He stood before her, bowed, and clapped. The round little woman’s cheeks turned pink as she curtsied to her king, obviously delighted in the appreciation of everyone at the table. The joy in the house was contagious and Sarah found herself caught up in it and thankful for it. If she had to be separated from Harry, if she had to endure hard training, then there were certainly worse places to do it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harry walked to the base of the great tower that had rebranded Paris from the first day its footings were dug. He took the Eiffel Tower’s elevator to the restaurant overlooking the Champ de Mars. He wanted to be early for two reasons: one, to scout out possible places for ambush, and two, to look over the menu and ask questions.

  He had not forgotten his embarrassment when John Timothy had taken him with, of all people, Sir Winston to a famous Chinese restaurant in London. Harry had no idea what kind of food was served, so he ordered the first thing on the menu. When the waiter brought it out, Harry was surprised. It was a big noodle in a bowl of hot water. He quickly gulped it down and then mentioned to Sir Winston that it must have been some kind of noodle to cost that much and be that small. John Timothy had ducked his head and grabbed his napkin; Sir Winston had not even cracked a smile but simply said, “Harry, my boy, you don’t get out much, do you?”

  From that incident on, any time Harry was meeting anybody at an international restaurant where he was unfamiliar with the menu, he always went early and asked questions. He was thirty minutes early. He walked in the door, told the maître d’ he had reservations for two under the name Ferguson, and waited.

  The man smiled a short, confused smile and said, “Sir, I believe your guest has already arrived and has been seated. Follow me, please.”

  Harry was surprised but straightaway realized he shouldn’t have been; he had halfway expected Belle to stand him up. He had not expected her to beat him to the restaurant.

  The speaker sword said, “Do not let her touch you with blood, Harry; I want to be able to advise you in this conversation. I do not want to be blocked again.”

  Sword, even if you somehow are, you did listen to the entire transcription of my previous conversations with her. You didn’t miss a thing.

  “I know, but it is not the same. She could cast a spell and you would be reduced to a gibbering spider monkey.”

  According to you, I’m little more than that now, Sword. A long-armed, bowlegged knuckle-walker is what I think you referred to me as once.

  “She’s dangerous, Harry, and remember pride goes before a fall…”

  Yes, Mother. Now please trust me, Harry grumbled.

  “I do, Harry, I do; it’s her I don’t trust.”

  As Harry followed the maître d’ to a table near the end of the long window overlooking the breathtaking skyline of Paris, he gawked and whispered, “She sure doesn’t look like a witch now.”

  From the top of her copper-colored hair to the bottom of her feet, Belle Rodum was dazzling. It wasn’t the flashy dress, because it wasn’t flashy—just a simple midi-length black dress with long sleeves subtly gathered at the shoulder and a round, pleated neckline crowned by a trendy headband made of gunmetal crystals with a black ostrich feather on the side. Belle’s brilliant golden feral eyes stared back warily. Harry had not had time to realize what a stunningly beautiful woman his adversary was. Most of the time they had spent together she had been trying to kill him, or he to pound her into unconsciousness. As he stood there gaping, it occurred to him that he had no idea what to say.

  What Harry didn’t realize was Belle Rodum, who had been trained since childhood to control all conversations, to manipulate kings and generals, was also at a loss for words.

  He cleans up really nice, she thought as she waited for him to speak. Now he’s going to play some kind of dominance game. Should I speak first or just wait on him, see what’s he up to?

  Harry was thinking, I didn’t know she had such startling golden eyes.

  Then it occurred to both of them that somebody ought to say something, so they did. It came out something like,

  “Think we ought…”

  “Thanks for being…”

  “…to order…”

  “…willing to meet with me.”

  Harry laughed and it was so honest and heartfelt that Belle Rodum joined him. Then chastised herself for losing control of the conversation.

  Harry only had two questions, and he didn’t know how to ask either of them. So he concentrated on looking at the menu. He already knew what he wanted to eat because John Timothy had coached him carefully, inserting the word noodle after reading several descriptions of French cuisine. Harry ordered and, because he didn’t know what else to say, told Belle Rodum the story about going to the Chinese restaurant in London. He was careful not to mention the names of whom he was with, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because Belle already knew them.

  When the food arrived, Harry did what he always did without a moment’s hesitation—he prayed over his food. It was as natural f
or him as breathing and he thought nothing of it. Belle, on the other hand, was stunned. He just prayed over his food while I am with him!

  Harry noticed the pale look on her face when he raised his head, and asked, “Something wrong, Belle?”

  Her eyes narrowed but she kept her tone civil. “Harry, did it ever occur to you that not everybody worships your God?”

  “Shame, ain’t it?” he said calmly, stuffing a truffle in his mouth.

  Belle was off her game. This man did not play by the rules. And she didn’t know what he wanted, but for the first time in her life she was not concerned about an agenda or worried that the person she was eating with was going to try and harm her. It was a strange feeling.

  A few bites further in, Harry tried to introduce the questions he needed answers for. “Belle, I don’t know you. I do not know what will offend you, and I have no desire to do so. To be honest, I don’t know how to approach this subject. We haven’t even actually… what’s the word I’m looking for? We did but we didn’t, you know what I mean?”

  Belle Rodum knew exactly what Harry was trying to say, but decided to toy with him. “Let’s see, we did but we didn’t? We are spies and assassins, Harry Ferguson, so there are a lot of things we could have done and not said, and said and not done. You’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  Harry frowned all the way to his heart. The idea of being called a spy was fine, but the word assassin didn’t fit well.

  Belle read it as though he had shouted it. “Harry, you balk at the word assassin yet you have killed three of my associates.” Her face tilted and eyes arched, pounding home the point.