The Conquering Dark: Crown (4 page)

Simon passed through the columns of the Resurrection Gate and pulled his sword from his walking stick. “Here! Leave off!”

A face turned from the mob. It was grey and flaking with teeth bared. More cold stares rose as the cadaverous group stopped flailing and froze.

Penny's steps faltered slightly at the sight, covering her nose at the horrific stench. Her eyes widened and her breath panted faster. No doubt she was remembering the night her undead mother paid her a visit. Kate's eyes darted to Penny, and the engineer nodded her resolve after a moment.

“Oh for God's sake,” Malcolm muttered. “More undead. I thought they were all at rest.”

“Careful,” Kate cautioned Simon, reaching into her bag for useful alchemical vials. “You don't have Penny's gauntlets.”

Penny dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. She hefted her rucksack. “I could have easily fit them in here.”

Malcolm snorted.

There were nearly twenty of the dead things; several had their clawlike hands on a man lost from sight among their bony legs and ragged grave clothes. Most of the cadavers moved toward Simon and his companions while a few dragged their insensible victim toward the steps leading down to the crypt under the church.

Malcolm immediately moved in front of Simon with annoying protectiveness and opened fire with his pistol. Each careful shot smashed into a walking corpse, shattering leg bones, caving in rib cages, and splattering heads. He drew a second Lancaster. Penny drew a pistol and fired too.

Kate put a shoulder ahead of Simon and lobbed a vial toward the undead. It shattered on the ground and a black substance began to spread around the shuffling feet. The creatures were soon held fast in the treacle.

“If you two don't mind.” Simon pushed past his colleagues with an exasperated sigh. He started around the trapped cadavers who grasped for him, but they fell forward, dropping awkwardly into the pool of black tar. He approached the three undead who were busy hauling an unconscious man down the worn steps into the crypt. When one looked up, it received Simon's sword through its cheek. He ripped the blade free, breaking off a good portion of the thing's head. A quick counterswipe lopped off its head completely. Simon used his foot to hold a second cadaver back. It seemed very desiccated, so he kicked hard through its face and pushed it down the steps where it lay flopping at the crypt door. The last undead seized Simon's calf and he felt sharp fingernails tearing his flesh. He fell back onto the ground. Teeth gnashed close to Simon's face.

He drew the length of the sword through the undead's mouth, slicing off the lower jaw. The thing paused in confusion, allowing Simon to slash straight down through its skull. It fell back with its arms still scrabbling for prey. Then a blast from Malcolm's Lancaster blew the body into pieces.

“Well, thank you, Malcolm.” Simon reached for the battered man lying on the steps.

Kate had deterred the crowd that followed from the pub, shouting something about plague and leprosy. Even the angry drunks of the Devil's Loom paled at the mention of those dreaded maladies. Most covered their mouths and retreated.

Simon felt along the neck of the fallen man, finding a strong pulse. There was an odd familiarity to the victim. He looked up. “Malcolm, help Penny disable those last undead. I'll bring this fellow.”

Simon slid his hands under the man's arms, dragging him back up the steps. Kate joined him, kicking flailing directionless limbs out of their way. Simon heard a deep groan of returning consciousness. He knelt and tilted the fellow's face upward.

“Nick?” Simon gasped and fell back on his haunches in amazement.

Kate shouted, “Jesus Christ!”

“Not quite, but close.” Nick Barker smiled up at them with lips and teeth bloody. “It's about time you saved
me
for once.”

Nick Barker was ensconced in his old spot in the sitting room at Gaunt Lane with his head on one upholstered arm of the sofa and his feet on the other. He was cleaned up and wore fresh clothes. His face had swollen purple in the two hours since they had left the St. Giles churchyard. He clutched a glass of whiskey, his third. “You're keeping the place tidier, Simon. Must be Miss Anstruther's influence.”

Simon's chair was close by Nick. Malcolm lurked in a shadowed corner.

Nick groaned. “That crypt trash took me by surprise. Hit me with a brick or something, then beat me stupid. Didn't have time to do anything.”

“Lucky we were in the area,” Simon said.

Kate sat at a table, pretending to study a grimoire. “Or was it luck?”

Penny walked about the outskirts of the room, fascinated by the numerous artifacts on the shelves. She stopped by a window and cooed at a large marmalade cat strolling past in the untended garden outside. The cat glared back at her.

Nick drank and held out his glass. “I wouldn't make eye contact with that cat if I was you. He's bad.”

Penny scoffed but turned away from the window anyway.

Kate sounded dubious. “So you weren't in the parish to keep an eye on Simon? As you were at Warden Abbey last winter?”

Nick made a dismissive noise. “I was just having an ale in the Devil's Loom when I saw you walk in. Thought I'd take my leave, as I know I'm not your favorite fellow.”

“The barmaid said you hadn't been around in ages.”

He shifted stiffly, hissing in pain. “I used a glamour spell if you must know.”

Kate continued, “And you just happened to pass St. Giles when the dead were rising? And they just happened to decide to lob a brick at you? I understand their decision, but it's awfully coincidental.”

Nick glared at her.

“She makes a good point,” Simon said.

“Thank you.” Kate flipped a page. “I thought so.”

“You're welcome. Well, Nick?”

“Why so odd? Undead were all the rage around London a few months ago.”

“That outbreak is over. Once Pendragon's resurrection spell ended, the undead plague stopped. There've been no living dead for six months. Why tonight? Why you?”

“Simon,” Nick wheezed, “I'm too beaten and drunk for the Star Chamber. I need a bit of sleep, old boy. Is my room still free?”

Simon stared at his old friend, not relenting.

Nick laughed, which turned into a dry cough. When he brought the hacking under control, he saw that Simon wasn't hovering with concern. Nick gave him a pleading look and held out the glass.

Simon set the bottle on the floor. He felt like a bastard. He wanted to do anything he could to make his friend welcome and comfortable, but he couldn't do it. The others weren't so enamored of Nick Barker although they didn't know him like Simon did. But their suspicions were valid.

“Oh, have a heart,” Nick breathed.

“I'm trying, Nick. Give me a reason. A good reason.”

Nick threw his forearm over his eyes. “I was going to tell you everything tomorrow, but if I have to talk before you'll let me sleep, fine. I have fallen afoul of a magician. Those undead were her way of saying
I'd rather have you dead, Nick Barker.
”

“So,” Simon said, “you've made a powerful enemy?”

“Shocking,” Kate mumbled.

Simon kept his eyes glued to Nick. “Who is this perturbed magician? Perhaps I can intercede on your behalf.”

“I don't think so,” Nick replied. “I just need a bit of a hiding spot for a while, until I can disappear proper-like.”

Simon noted a tremor of fear in Nick's voice. “Who is it?”

“What is wrong with you, Simon?” Nick fell back against the sofa. “Why can't you accept me at my word and just move on?”

“Who is it?” Simon demanded loudly.

“Ash,” Nick said with such simplicity that it seemed he hadn't said what everyone heard.

“Ash!” Simon sat up like a bolt. The necromancer's name sent a wave of hate through him so strong it made him nauseous. He immediately thought of his mother, who had not even been safe in her grave from Ash's abuse. The necromancer had tried to uncover the secret of Simon's parentage, seeking the roots of his scribing abilities. His mother, who had no reason to be attacked other than to have fallen in love with a magician and borne his son, had refused to bow to Ash's power. “What have you to do with Ash?”

“We go way back.” Nick actually smiled that he had surprised his old friend and the entire group. “Bit of a misunderstanding. I just need to vanish for a few years … or centuries. She has a long memory and carries a grudge like a Borgia.”

Simon stared at Nick. “You never told me that you knew Ash. Even when I spoke of her, my suspicions of her, and my doubts about the Order of the Oak, you never said a word. You looked me in the eye, and you never said a word. Why?”

“Right.” Nick took an angry breath and nodded spitefully, as if he had been forced into a decision that everyone would regret. He swung his feet onto the floor. When he sat up, he put a hand to his head with a sick groan. He froze as if the room was spinning. His voice was weak. “Simon, old boy, I've always wanted to tell you something. And I always hoped I'd never have to.”

A chill seeped into Simon. He sat forward, watching the creases of pain deepen on Nick's face. He heard the others shifting restlessly in the background.

Nick stared at the floor. “It wasn't an accident us meeting years ago. I was sent to find you. Ash had heard that there was a scribe in London, but she found it hard to credit. She had thought that Pendragon and Cavendish were the last two in the known world, and they were both dead.”

“Did Ash know Edward Cavendish was my father?” Simon asked coldly.

“No. She had no idea and still doesn't, as far as I know. Hell, I didn't know until you told me last fall.”

“And you never reported it back to Ash?” Kate accused.

“No,” Nick snarled at her. “That's why she wants me dead. You see, I was charged with judging your skills, improving them as best I could, then delivering you to her if you were worthy. But I didn't steer you to Ash as I was supposed to, and she hasn't forgiven me.”

“Why didn't you? Why would you defy Ash?” Simon was nearly incapable of speaking. He watched every small twitch that Nick made, listened to the exhaustion pouring out of the man as if he no longer had the energy to lie. The words felt like a jagged piece of glass tearing Simon's stomach open.

“I couldn't do it.” Nick met Simon's gaze, but now the scribe looked away. “She didn't deserve you. You were better than that.”

The room lay silent for a moment.

“Rot,” came Malcolm's measured voice. “He's a liar.”

“You're right, Angus,” Nick said bitterly. “The entire time we were together, Simon, I was lying to you. But once I realized you deserved the truth, I couldn't tell you.”

Simon stood and walked across the room. “Why didn't you at least tell me after Bedlam? You were leaving us anyway.”

“Because I wasn't really leaving. I knew the battle was coming between Ash and Gaios, and Ash wanted you as her Galahad. I was afraid you would stumble into the fight just because you're good at heart. I hoped I could protect you.” Nick noted the skeptical glances that met his words. “Fine. Not the greatest strategy, but it was all I had. I couldn't tell you that I had been spying on you for years. Would that have pushed you to listen to me?”

“Simon, throw him out,” Malcolm said. “Let Ash hunt him down and kill him if that part of his story is even true. And I hope it is.”

Penny looked at Malcolm's ferocious glare with concern.

Simon stood behind Kate's chair, clenching and unclenching his fingers on the wood. “Ash never mentioned you to me.”

Nick stopped reaching for the whiskey bottle and looked up in alarm. “What do you mean? Have you talked to Ash? Did she approach you?”

“We've spoken. I haven't heard from her in a few months. I thought perhaps she might have fled England to escape Gaios.”

“She won't give up England without a fight, or rather without sending someone to fight for her. Jesus, Simon, don't go near her. She's the most twisted creature in the history of time. She will do nothing but corrupt and leave you for dead. She only wants you so you can win her war with Gaios.”

Simon said, “I'm choosy about whom I play Galahad to.”

“I am begging you.” Nick started to stand, but fell back onto the sofa, more from the drink than from the beating. “Please. Don't have any dealings with her.”

“Tell me who she really is,” Simon demanded.

“I have no idea. I've never talked to the real Ash, only her corpse mouthpieces. No one knows who Ash is. She's been hundreds of people over the centuries, moving from one place to another, one name to another. I heard she's been everything from the queen of France to the pope's mistress. Some say she was Empress Josephine. No one knows. Her black arts allow her to stay young and beautiful, so she moves to a new place, manufactures a past, and lives the life of someone wealthy and powerful until she has to move on for whatever reason: revolution, invasion, or just prying questions about why she's still young and pretty while her friends are old and dead. Simon, do what you will with me. I'll leave now. But, please, don't deal with Ash.”

While Nick talked, Simon strode across the sitting room, treading the worn carpet. He removed his coat and tossed it aside. He began to unfasten his cuffs out of habit. Nick watched him intently. Simon paused to open a window. The ragged orange cat strolled in past Simon, shooting him an angry glare. Penny reached out and stroked the feline, whose back arched with pleasure.

“Where are your tattoos?” Nick pointed at his former friend.

Simon looked down at his muscular forearm where he had been rolling up the sleeve of his white shirt. He quickly slid the sleeve down and refastened it.

Nick's shock seemed to have knocked the alcohol out of his system. His voice was clear and worried. “Where are your inscriptions, Simon? What happened to you?”