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?”