The Grail Quest (The Avalon Book 1) Read online

  THE GRAIL QUEST

  A Tale of Magic

  by

  J.R. RAIN

  Acclaim for the novels of J.R. Rain:

  “Be prepared to lose sleep!”

  —James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Eye of God

  “I love this!”

  —Piers Anthony, international bestselling author of A Spell for Chameleon

  “J.R. Rain delivers a blend of action and wit that always entertains. Quick with the one-liners, but his characters are fully fleshed out (even the undead ones) and you’ll come back again and again.”

  —Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of Liquid Fear

  “Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

  —Gemma Halliday, bestselling author of Spying in High Heels

  “Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”

  —Eve Paludan, bestselling author of Witchy Business

  “Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”

  —April Vine, author of The Midnight Rose

  Other Books by J.R. Rain

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  The Lost Ark

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  The Grail Quest

  The Body Departed

  Silent Echo

  Winter Wind

  VAMPIRE FOR HIRE

  Moon Dance

  Vampire Moon

  American Vampire

  Moon Child

  Christmas Moon

  Vampire Dawn

  Vampire Games

  Moon Island

  Moon River

  Vampire Sun

  Moon Dragon

  Moon Shadow

  JIM KNIGHTHORSE

  Dark Horse

  The Mummy Case

  Hail Mary

  Clean Slate

  Night Run

  THE WITCHES SERIES

  The Witch and the Gentleman

  The Witch and the Englishman

  The Witch and the Huntsman

  The Witch and the Wolfman

  THE SPINOZA TRILOGY

  The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

  The Vampire Who Played Dead

  The Vampire in the Iron Mask

  THE VAMPIRE DIARIES

  Bound By Blood

  SAMANTHA MOON SHORT STORIES

  Teeth

  Vampire Nights

  Vampires Blues

  Vampire Dreams

  Halloween Moon

  Vampire Gold

  Blue Moon

  Dark Side of the Moon

  JIM KNIGHTHORSE SHORT STORIES

  Easy Rider

  SHORT STORY SINGLES

  The Bleeder

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Bleeder and Other Stories

  Vampire Rain and Other Stories

  The Santa Call and Other Stories

  Co-Authored Books

  COLLABORATIONS

  Cursed (with Scott Nicholson)

  Ghost College (with Scott Nicholson)

  The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)

  Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)

  Dolfin Tayle (with Piers Anthony)

  Jack and the Giants (with Piers Anthony)

  Judas Silver (with Elizabeth Basque)

  Lost Eden (with Elizabeth Basque)

  Glimmer (with Eve Paludan)

  The Black Fang Betrayal (with Multiple Authors)

  The Indestructibles (with Rod Kierkegaard)

  THE OPEN HEART SERIES

  with Rod Kierkegaard

  The Dead Detective

  NICK CAINE ADVENTURES

  with Aiden James

  Temple of the Jaguar

  Treasure of the Deep

  Pyramid of the Gods

  THE ALADDIN TRILOGY

  with Piers Anthony

  Aladdin Relighted

  Aladdin Sins Bad

  Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman

  THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY

  with Elizabeth Basque

  Zombie Patrol

  Zombie Rage

  Zombie Mountain

  THE SPIDER TRILOGY

  with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night

  Bad Blood

  Spider Web

  Spider Bite

  THE PSI TRILOGY

  with A.K. Alexander

  Hear No Evil

  See No Evil

  Speak No Evil

  THE WOLF PACK TRILOGY

  with H.T. Night

  Hungry Like the Werewolf

  Running With the Werewolf

  The Big, Bad Werewolf

  The Grail Quest

  Published by J.R. Rain

  Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To H.T. Night, a bard in his own right.

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to Sandy Johnston and Eve Paludan. Thanks a ton for all your hard work.

  The Grail Quest

  “But Merlin warned the king covertly that Guinevere was not wholesome for him to take to wife, for he warned him that Lancelot should love her, and she him again; and so Arthur turned his tale to the adventures of the Holy Grail.”

  —Le Morte D’Arthur

  Chapter One

  The dream is always the same.

  I’m standing at the base of a cross. High above, jagged bolts of lightning crisscross the starless night sky. Rain angles down like slashing silver daggers. The crowd behind me is cheering, roaring, surging. A living animal. An enraged animal.

  Lightning flashes again, and I see that there are actually three crosses rising straight out of the earth. They stand side by side along the crest of a steep hill.

  Three crosses. And three broken figures hanging upon them.

  In my dream, I’m standing before the middle cross, looking up into the rain, up toward what had once been a man. I can see that his hands have been hammered to either side of the cross, the rusted nail jutting from his bloodied palms. His shoulders sag in such a way as to suggest his arms have been torn from his shoulder sockets. A third nail protrudes from his feet, which have been hammered together on the lower center beam. He’s wearing a crown of thorns, which had been thrust cruelly low on his face. Blood from his many wounds, lash marks that reach from behind his back and legs, pours down along the center beam, pooling briefly at the base of the cross.

  Behind me, the crowd is chanting.

  I do not understand their language, but I know what they want. They want these three men to die. In particular, the center man.

  Rain drives hard into my face. Lightning pierces the churning sky. There’s something happening here. Something supernatural.

  Something slams into my shoulder. It feels like a punch, but it’s not. A fist-sized rock settles near the base of the cross. I’m about to turn around to see who threw the rock when another hits me. And another.

  The last rock hits me in the kidney and I stumble forward, gasping, and fall forward against the cross, which I hold onto for dear life. Why it’s so important that I hold onto the cross, I do not know. But I refuse to let go.

  And while I hold it, wrapping my arms tig
ht around the wooden base, I realize a pair of bloody feet are now just inches from my face. The head of a rusted nail projects from them. I watch with fascination and horror as the toes curl in obvious pain. Blood seeps from around the protruding spike.

  I’m still being pelted with rocks. Some ricochet off me harmlessly. Others hit me with greater force. I’m certain that it’s only a matter of time before one of them kills me.

  But it’s the man on the cross who takes the brunt of the rock throwing, and that’s when I realize the crowd isn’t throwing rocks at me. Indeed, they’re throwing rocks at him. As if he hasn’t suffered enough pain, now he must helplessly endure projectile after projectile, many of which hit home, plunking solidly into his chest and thighs.

  He winces with each impact.

  As rocks continue to hail down around me, I look up into the falling rain. I want to see the face of the man on the cross. Perhaps there’s something I can do for him. Perhaps there’s some way I can help him or ease his pain. But his face, I see, is hidden in the late evening shadows.

  More rocks, more shouting from behind. I can feel palpable waves of hate emanating from the crowd. Their anger and fear is a living thing.

  Lightning suddenly explodes across the heavens, illuminating everything, including the man.

  The broken man; the badly beaten man.

  I think at one time he had been handsome, but that’s nearly impossible to tell now. His jaw is clearly broken, and the bones in his face appear pulverized. Blood drips from his many open wounds, most obviously from wounds caused by the vicious-looking crown of thorns. His body hangs grotesquely upon the cross. But perhaps most shocking of all is that he’s returning my gaze.

  I gasp and step back. I realize then that he’d been watching me this entire time.

  He holds my gaze, and then smiles. As he does so, more blood bubbles out from his broken mouth. How much blood can a body hold? A single drop of it falls free from his swollen lips, and I watch in fascination as it twists and turns in the driving wind.

  Falling toward me.

  Now I see I’m holding an ancient silver chalice in one hand and a glowing sword in the other. With the chalice, I catch the falling drop of blood, and with the sword, I turn and face the angry crowd. And as they charge, I hold my ground.

  And that’s usually when I wake up.

  Weeping...

  Chapter Two

  Glastonbury, UK

  Present Day

  It was coming on evening when my taxi arrived at the Number Three Hotel in Glastonbury, England, legendary location of King Arthur’s Camelot. At least, that’s what my travel guide told me, the signs along the way told me, and even my taxi driver told me. Hell, I was practically expecting a knight or two on horseback to escort us.

  But no knight appeared and soon the cab pulled up in front of an ivy-covered doorway that led to an ivy-covered courtyard. Beyond was a large Georgian townhouse that doubled as a bed and breakfast.

  The driver hopped out and ran around to the trunk and removed my bags, which he energetically stacked on the curb. I gave him a tip. Perhaps too big, because he suddenly smiled brightly, tipped his hat and I could practically hear him thinking, “Stupid American,” and quickly drove away, perhaps before I realized how many pounds I had given him.

  Pounds or money was the least of my problems these days. Now, my sanity was another story entirely.

  I briefly watched the vehicle’s tires bounce and wobble over the cobblestone road, and, with an undeniable feeling of impending doom, turned and looked up at the massive edifice that was the bed and breakfast.

  The impending doom part might be an exaggeration. Okay, it probably was an exaggeration. But say that to my damn dreams. Dreams that have been plaguing me for the past three months or so.

  Dreams that seem to be centered here, in Glastonbury.

  Dreams that seem to be centered around a goblet. A chalice.

  A grail.

  The Holy Grail, in fact.

  You’re crazy, you do realize that?

  Crazy or not, the dreams had nearly become nightmares. Interestingly, it was only when I began making actual plans to come here to Glastonbury that my nightmares finally ceased.

  Relieved, I was about to cancel the trip when the nightmares returned two-fold, stronger than ever. Rocking my world and my life. Consuming me completely with their haunting images.

  I thought of this now as I stood there under gloomy skies as a light rain began to fall.

  I’m here, I thought. So now what?

  Yes, here I was in England, on what was officially a research trip for my next novel. After all, I had to justify the trip: to myself, to others, and to the tax man.

  Unofficially, it was something else. Unofficially, I was here to put an end to my dreams. Something wanted me here badly enough to invade my nights and haunt my days.

  No, not just something.

  As the rain picked up, pelting my upturned face, I thought of the Holy Grail. The silver goblet filled with Christ’s blood. I was holding it in my dreams.

  Holding it triumphantly.

  Insane, I thought. I’m going insane.

  If anything, you’re here to save your sanity, if it’s not too late.

  Granted, others didn’t need to know I was going insane. No, that honor was reserved for me and me alone; or, at least, until my insanity was so obvious I couldn’t hide it anymore. Anyway, calling this a research trip—rather than, say, a fool’s errand—seemed the safest route to take, even if it confused the hell out of my editor.

  Especially since my next novel was supposed to be a supernatural thriller about ghosts, tentatively titled Ghosts. Yeah, I know. I’m not great with titles.

  Well, I had begun the ghost story, and had gotten quite a bit into it, when something unusual happened:

  I hit a wall. I just couldn’t write it anymore. I discovered I was tired of writing about murder and mayhem. And I was tired of thinking up new and creative ways of killing people.

  So I decided to take a break from writing about murders.

  And that’s when the dreams started.

  * * *

  Yeah, you’re losing your mind, James, I thought again, looking at the old-world, bed & breakfast before me.

  And with the sun setting behind a row of gnarled elms, plunging the cobblestone street and hotel in shadows, I took hold of my two suitcases and headed for the ivy-covered courtyard door.

  What awaited me within, I didn’t know.

  But I was about to find out.

  Chapter Three

  The old hotel was haunted.

  I was sure of it. Then again, I had ghosts on the brain these days.

  Actually, the hotel looked haunted. There’s a difference. The long entry hall consisted of an ornate marble floor, wing-back chairs, antique bureaus and elaborately-designed wallpaper. Fresh-cut flowers were everywhere, and the hotel, I felt, had a decidedly turn-of-the-century feel to it. Heck, it had a decidedly turn-of-the-millennium feel to it. As in, one thousand years ago.

  Then again, I grew up in Southern California, and any building older than, say, fifty years was deemed an important historic monument.

  Anyway, an old man behind an older front desk smiled at me warmly, his teeth surprisingly straight. I gave him my name. He punched it in, found my reservation, confirmed my credit card info, and told me where to find my room.

  Following his directions and fumbling a bit with the key card, I soon found myself standing in an ornately decorated room, complete with a fireplace, loveseat and a massive, decorative curtain hanging just beyond the headboard. I wasn’t sure what the curtain was all about, but it looked nice enough. I happened to know that this was called the Winston Room. As in Winston Churchill, who had not only stayed here but had even lived here for a brief period.

  Yeah, I felt special.

  I generally don’t immediately unpack and hang my clothes on hangars. I’m on vacation, after all, right? Granted, an alleged research vacation,
but a vacation nonetheless. And when I’m on vacation, wrinkled clothing is acceptable.

  Who are you kidding? I thought. I’m here to see what the dreams are about. Plain and simple.

  And then it hit me all over again, harder than ever, perhaps because I was here. I was finally here:

  I had traveled halfway around the world because of a few crazy dreams.

  No. Not a few crazy dreams.

  Wildly incessant dreams. Persistently haunting dreams.

  Sighing, I dropped my bags and did what I had been itching to do since first touching down in England. I jacked in my laptop, went on-line, and checked my email.

  There were a few dozen Facebook notifications (someday I’ll figure out how to stop those from blasting my emails). There was an email from a publisher in Turkey interested in buying the Turkish rights to one of my vampire books. I tried to remember if the book had been published in Turkey but for the life of me, I couldn’t. I forwarded the email to my agent. He would deal with it. There was an email from an up-and-coming writer wanting to work with me on a project. I politely declined. I have more books to write than I have time.

  And there was an email from my editor, Rita, asking me if I had arrived safely. I replied that I had not, that, in fact, the plane was currently spiraling out-of-control. She would be my last email ever, and did she feel privileged?

  My editor liked me. I liked her, too. We had a nice working relationship, probably because I mostly stayed on deadline and she didn’t edit the crap out of my books. I also made my publisher a lot of money, and that reflected positively on her, even while it reflected damn positively on my bank account. Making lots of money smooths a lot of wrinkles.

  With the advent of the persistent dreams, something interesting started happening to me creatively. I started losing my taste for mystery novels. In particular, for death and destruction. So much so that it affected my writing output and I had to stop work on my ghost thriller.