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?”
“We’re not discussing me.” Simon turned back to the window. “You may stay, Nick.”