The Conquering Dark

by Clay Griffith

  “No, miss.” Hogarth’s stoic expression fell a little. “He told me nothing. My only duty was the welfare of you and your sister. I would very much regret having to report my failures to your father now.”

  “Failures?” Kate spun around in shock, almost angry. “How dare you think that? You have done more than any man could. Any failure relating to Imogen is mine. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, miss.” Hogarth nodded slightly. There was no reading his emotions. It was impossible to tell if he was grateful for the words or unconvinced. But there was no more to be said about it.

  Kate returned her attention to Simon and Penny. “I think my father stole the Stone of Scone and hid it, apparently in India. He must have discovered that Gaios needed it.”

  Simon looked dubious. “Why would he hide it there? He knew India was the home ground of Baroness Conrad.”

  “It does seem like a bold choice of a hiding spot, right in the enemy’s backyard. Not atypical of my father.”

  “I like it,” Penny said. “Why would the bad guys bother to look there?”

  “So,” Kate began, “we need to go to India, find Ishwar, and remove the Stone to a safer spot. I’ll gather everyone. We should leave by tonight.”

  Simon held up his hand. “We need to consider this move carefully.”

  “Consider what? You heard Ishwar. There are people being killed in the search for the Stone. I’m tired of hiding in this dark house while Gaios moves with impunity.”

  “I’m not saying we aren’t going. But I want to know more about what Gaios plans for the Stone.”

  “Why does that matter, Simon? We must act. Gaios has thrown wave after wave of attacks at us. He’s mutilated my sister. He’s destroyed my home. And we’ve done nothing in return!”

  Simon ran his thumb over the key and re-placed it on the chain. He could sense that Kate was edging toward a ferocious anger. There was no point in disputing her. He chose his words carefully. “I agree with you, Kate. We have taken enormous damage. But we are marshaling our forces to strike back. It’s imperative that we don’t play into Gaios’s hands by being instinctive in our reactions. I know you’re eager to strike at him. I am too. However, we don’t want to do something that could unleash power that Gaios could use to his advantage. If we don’t know how the Stone will be used, we could easily stumble into a catastrophe.”

  “Fine.” Kate took a deep breath that held little patience. “What do you suggest?”

  —

  “This seems a dirty play, Simon.” Nick rolled a small bottle between his fingers and glanced nervously at the steel door to the makeshift cell where Ferghus was held.

  “I know.” Simon rapped his fingers nervously against the wall.

  “There’s no choice.” Kate paced outside the door. “We need information now.”

  Nick exhaled and continued to fidget with the vial.

  Malcolm stepped closer and sneered. “What exactly is the problem, Barker? The man is a murderer many times over. He would’ve killed any of us, and almost did for Charlotte and Imogen. You’re worried about him?”

  Nick snorted in derision. “I don’t expect any remorse from the one who nearly beat him to death.”

  “I wish I had finished it.” Malcolm’s voice was cold.

  Nick glared at the Scotsman, but said, “Simon, Ferghus wasn’t always the man you see. He couldn’t control his power. He drank too much to hide from it. It drove him mad. That’s something that could happen to any one of us.”

  Simon pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  Nick gestured toward the cell door. “Now he hardly knows who or where he is. I don’t relish the idea of being the last man to talk to him and lying to him on top of it.”

  “I appreciate that, Nick.” Simon struggled to keep his tone even. He felt the fierce gaze of Kate on his back, and he understood her impatience. However, he sensed shame in Nick’s voice that he’d never heard before. Simon’s flexing hands betrayed his doubts, but he still knew which way they had to go. “It does you credit, but the man is an unrepentant villain. As Malcolm said, he’s killed innocents and would again.”

  “Fine.” Nick took a deep breath. “The Simon I knew a year ago wouldn’t have countenanced this.”

  “Perhaps not. The Nick I knew wouldn’t have been so hesitant, I think. This past year has done a lot to all of us. We are in a war for our survival and, like it or not, Ferghus is the enemy. We need to know what he knows. And we need it now. So I’m asking you to use the glamour spell to appear as Gaios and talk to him. Draw out whatever you can.”

  “I’ll do it, but not as Gaios. There’s only one man Ferghus would want to see.” Nick popped the cork off the bottle and drank the elixir in a single swallow. As he wiped the back of his hand across his lips, he whispered a word and suddenly a new man stood in the hallway. He wore a long leather jerkin and knee boots from the seventeenth century. His hair was dark and fell in ringlets.

  Simon’s pulse jumped. He recognized the face from the background of a painting he had seen in the Medici Palace. “Pendragon.”

  “Yes.” Nick’s voice was now deep and authoritative, without its usual sneering petulance.

  “Amazing. Is that how Pendragon sounded?”

  “Close enough to fool that crazy bastard in there.” Nick shook Pendragon’s head sadly. “Damn me.”

  Simon pulled the bolt and swung the door open. He watched the uncanny figure walk into the room. Nick’s step faltered. Despite the liberal use of carbolic cleansers and frequent changes of linen, the cell had the familiar scent of a death room. The once-vigorous fire elemental lay frail and weak on the bed. Covered by a sheet and simple blanket, his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. His mouth gaped open, dry and cracked.

  Nick made his way to the bedside. He steadied himself. A lamp stood on the table, glowing with the faint light of a single brownie. “Ferghus. Ferghus, wake up.”

  The elemental moved his mouth.

  Nick bent over the yellowish face. “Ferghus! Open your eyes. Do you hear me? Open your eyes!” The Irishman’s gasping mouth closed briefly and facial muscles ticked. Nick reached out and put his hand against the waxy cheek. “Ferghus! Open your bloody eyes!”

  Crusty eyelids slitted. Ferghus stared at nothing. He snorted and choked, arching his back while desperately trying to draw breath. Then he took a wet gasp and settled back onto the mattress where he resumed his shallow breathing.

  “Still with us?” Nick studied the quivering figure on the bed.

  Ferghus actually shifted his watery gaze toward the man standing over him. After a second, his fishlike mouth curved into something like a painful smirk. He mouthed the word, “Byron.”

  Nick smoothed red hair from the elemental’s forehead, which glistened with gel. “How do you feel?”

  Ferghus worked his dry mouth, but couldn’t make a sound. Nick turned to a pitcher and poured water onto a cloth. He folded it and put the towel to the elemental’s lips. Ferghus gratefully leaned forward into the moisture, closing his mouth around the wet cloth. Then he nodded slightly and turned his face toward Nick, who held the towel ready.

  “Thanks,” Ferghus whispered.

  “You’re welcome. I’m happy to see you again.”

  The Irishman closed his eyes briefly. “How did you find me? Where am I?”

  “You’re safe.”

  Ferghus struggled to pull his hand out from under the tangled bedclothes, fighting against the simple sheet as if it was a ponderous weight. Nick drew the sheet away so the Irishman could hold out his stiff hand. Nick hesitated, almost looked back at Simon, but then took the thin fingers with uncommon delicacy. Ferghus sighed and sank into his pillow.

  “You’re cold,” Nick said. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes, but it’s helping me focus. I’ve not been this clearheaded in centuries.”

  “You’re sober,” Nick chided softly.

  Ferghus managed a weak grin. “The drink only lessened the pain, quieted th
e voices.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  Ferghus tried to shrug.

  Nick looked at the wall rather than the elemental. “I need to ask you something.”

  Ferghus didn’t react; he simply waited.

  Nick said, “Tell me about Gaios.”

  “He’s sorry he killed you, Byron. He says it all the time.”

  “That’s a comfort.”

  “He wants to hurt Ash.”

  “He’s going to destroy Britain, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. Because Ash loves it.” Ferghus choked on a strangled laugh. “She’s not even English. She’s German. She only loves England because you love it. But he’s going to take it all.”

  Nick’s posture changed to reveal more of himself. He lost the imperious Pendragon carriage, and slipped into his usual casual stance. “You think he can manage it?”

  Ferghus breathed quietly for a moment and tried to lick his lips. Nick wiped them again with the wet cloth. The Irishman tried to swallow. His voice was still a hoarse whisper. “He’s using the Stone of Scone. It’s bound to Britain.”

  “I know, but even the Stone can’t drop Britain into the sea.”

  Ferghus winced. “He’s Gaios. Once he puts his gnarled old hands on the Stone, he’s going to saturate it. He can open the way to the aether and seize all he wishes.”

  “How?”

  “Lightning.” Ferghus looked annoyed. “Lightning slits the barrier between our world and the aether. All elementals can do it, but lightning is stronger. I could’ve done it with fire, but he found a spark that would rip it wide open.”

  “A spark? A true lightning elemental?”

  “Aye. Some mousy girl. Hardly has any sense. Dumb as a post. Always reading the Bible. Gaios says she’ll be more powerful once he’s trained her.” The Irishman shook his head and let out a long breath. He let his cheek press into his pillow. “I don’t care.”

  Nick leaned close to the elemental’s face. He heard only faint breath. “Ferghus. Stay here.”

  “Thank you for coming, Byron.” The Irishman squeezed Nick’s hand but it was feeble like an old man. “I’m dying, ain’t I?”

  “Afraid so.”

  The Irishman shook his head slowly. “No less than I deserve. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Everything. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I tried. I know you had to put me away. An addle-minded man like me should’ve never been given so much power.”

  “Don’t fret that.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Do you understand? I’m sorry.” Ferghus could barely be heard now. “I’m sorry.”

  The lordly Pendragon vanished and Nick Barker slumped in his shabby coat, holding the dying man’s hand. “I know, Ferghus. We’re all sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nick Barker?” The light in the Irishman’s eyes was nearly faded.

  “How are you, lad?”

  Ferghus gave an exhausted smile. “Where’s Byron?”

  “He stepped away.”

  “It’s cold.” Ferghus looked up at Nick with grimacing effort. “Are you cold?”

  “Freezing.”

  “I don’t want to die cold. I need to be warm. Just one last time. Help a mate out.”

  “Right you are.” Nick used the wet towel to gently wipe Ferghus’s palm clean of the gel. A gentle flame rose from the center of Nick’s hand.

  Ferghus smiled and his weak fingers fumbled for the tiny flicker of fire. He drew it into the palm of his hand and sighed. Nick rose to his feet and backed away. Ferghus placed the ember in his mouth. Simon yelled from the door. He started toward the bed, but Nick held him back, shaking his head. Ferghus erupted into flame, his body lost in the blaze. This was no controlled elemental fire; it was a white-hot consuming rush of light and heat. Simon fell back, throwing his arms before his face.

  After a moment, Nick stepped up to the flames and took hold of Ferghus’s charred hand. He drew the fire up onto his own arm and extinguished it. He stood, still holding the blackened smoking hand of Ferghus.

  Kate jabbed a finger at him, livid. “What did you do? You murdered him!”

  Nick ignored her, staring at the smoldering body.

  “God damn it, Barker!” Malcolm towered over Nick. “We needed more than that! He could’ve told us where Gaios is.”

  “His choice,” Nick muttered. The man dropped to his knees beside the bed, hanging his head in exhaustion. “He wanted to go. I only helped him.”

  “Easy, Malcolm.” Simon stepped between Nick and the Scotsman as if protecting his old friend from the group’s accusations. “I’ve got an idea what Gaios is about. I’m not sure what he meant about the lightning elemental, but even so, we can move forward.”

  “I know what he meant.” Malcolm leaned against the wall. He looked stricken, as if he had just gotten unexpected tragic news. “I have something I need to tell you about a woman I met in London last year.”

  It was the night after Ferghus’s death and Malcolm stared out the window of a carriage as it rumbled through London. It had been a difficult discussion with Simon about his encounter with Jane Somerset last year, and his decision to keep her a secret. It had been Jane’s wish, and he had to honor it. In the end, Simon understood, and refused to accuse Malcolm of endangering either Jane or their own group. Simon didn’t have to reprimand him because Malcolm knew well enough the peril he had unleashed by his silence. This was particularly true because they now had two pressing goals, and Simon was forced to split the group. While Kate, Nick, Hogarth, and Simon went through a portal to northern India in search of the Stone, Malcolm was tasked to find Jane Somerset.

  The heavy stink of London crowding his nostrils always reminded him why he detested cities. Even the smell of the burnt Hartley Hall was preferable. Across from him, Charlotte fidgeted, shifting from side to side. Her hand rubbed furiously at her leg.

  “Stop scratching,” Malcolm told her.

  “I can’t! Everything itches!” She wore a petite green frock that boasted lace at the collar and sleeves.

  “Because your skin is healing. But not if you keep scratching at it.”

  Imogen, who sat next to her, grabbed Charlotte’s hand with boneless fingers. Sighing, Charlotte conceded, slumping back in her seat. Smoothing a ruffle on Imogen’s black dress, she leaned against her friend.

  Penny glanced away from the lanky Scotsman, trying to hide a chuckle and failing.

  Malcolm afforded her a cantankerous glance. “What?”

  She bit her lip to still the smile and failed again. “You remind me of my mum.”

  Malcolm slouched back in his seat and sighed. “I was aiming for something a bit more masculine than your mother.”

  “What do you mean?” Charlotte stopped fidgeting to regard them across the seat.

  “I mean I’m yelling at you like I was your da,” Malcolm muttered.

  Charlotte’s jaw opened and her eyes widened. She sat back, exchanging an elated grin at Imogen. They both beamed at Malcolm, their faces full of wonder and delight. He felt flushed and glanced away.

  Penny propped a foot up on the coach’s door frame. “So what’s the story with this Jane woman?”

  “Jane Somerset. I saved her from a cook.”

  Penny fought the muscles in her lips. “A cook?”

  “Aye, a dead one.” Malcolm practically growled at her. “An undead one.”

  Penny nodded, but then remarked candidly, “I’m not surprised.”

  “What does that mean?” Malcolm scowled at her, expecting her to make some sort of jest like Simon would.

  “You risk your life for everyone. You like to play loner, but you’re just a decent bloke with a great huge heart. So tell me about her.”

  Malcolm studied the grey city outside. He took a deep breath and shifted uncomfortably. “She’s a God-fearing woman. Believes her elementalism is a curse. I should’ve protected her, even from herself. She needed help with her mag
ic. I should’ve brought her to Hartley Hall. That would’ve solved everything. Now she’s with Gaios and Lord knows what he’s done to her.” He had said more than he wished, exactly as he’d feared.

  Penny leaned on her arm, watching him through the flicking bands of light from passing gas lamps. “So why didn’t you?”

  “She asked me to keep her secret. And I said I would.”

  The engineer shrugged with acceptance. “Oh. There you are then.”

  Malcolm shook his head, tamping down the anger at himself. “It’s not so simple. It should be, but it isn’t. I knew she needed a great deal of help even after she saved my life.”

  “Wait, she saved your life? I thought you said—”

  “It was a bit of both.”

  Penny laughed. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Malcolm realized Penny harbored no blame for his actions with Jane. He valued her straightforward support. For Penny, everything was about solving the problem as it existed, not worrying about how it might have been a different problem. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I spoke with her the night before the row at St. Mary Woolnoth. A few weeks after that, I went by the soup kitchen and her home, but she wasn’t there.” Malcolm pulled a grey wool scarf from his coat pocket. “She made this and gave it to me the first time she saw me at her soup kitchen. Thought I was a bedraggled thing needing care.”

  Penny raised an eyebrow, allowing herself a winsome huff of laughter.

  Malcolm folded the scarf and slipped it back in his pocket. “Her housekeeper said she had taken her sick father to a spa for treatment and wouldn’t likely be back for a year or more. I checked on the soup kitchen a few times after. Never thought much of it because the kitchen kept running. If something had happened to Jane, I assumed it would close up.”

  “Do you think the housekeeper was lying?”

  Malcolm looked grim. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

  The carriage pulled up in a neighborhood that was in a state of decay that would be long and agonizing. Malcolm led the way to a door of a row house and knocked loudly on the brass plate. After several attempts, no one answered the summons. Malcolm’s brow furrowed deeper. He stepped back and studied the house. It seemed normal enough. The windows were unbroken. Glancing down the quiet street, Malcolm pulled out a small set of slim tools and bent at the lock.