The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  “And that means?” Josh asked.

  Flamel’s grin was savage. “The living cannot touch the waters of the Styx. The shock overloads their systems and knocks them unconscious.”

  “For how long?” Sophie asked, glancing back at what looked like a bundle of cloth in the middle of the alleyway.

  “According to the legends—a year and a day.”

  he enormous dining room shimmered in the late-afternoon sunshine. Slanting sunbeams ran golden on polished wood panels and bounced off the waxed floor, sparking highlights from a full suit of armor standing in the corner and picking out spots of color from display cases of coins that traced more than two millennia of human history. One wall was entirely covered with masks and helmets from every age and continent, their empty eye sockets looking down over the room. The masks surrounded an oil painting by Santi di Tito that had been stolen from the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence centuries earlier. The painting that now hung in Florence was a perfect forgery. The center of the room was dominated by a huge scarred table that had once belonged to the Borgia family. Eighteen high-backed antique chairs were arranged around the time-stained table. Only two were occupied, and the table was bare except for a large black phone, which looked out of place in the antique-filled room.

  Dr. John Dee sat on one side of the table. Dee was a small neat Englishman, pale-skinned and gray-eyed. He was wearing his customary charcoal three-piece suit, the only touch of color in the pattern of tiny gold crowns on his gray bow tie. He usually wore his iron gray hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, but it now hung loose around his shoulders, curling down to touch his triangular goatee. His dark-gloved hands rested lightly on the wooden table.

  Niccolò Machiavelli sat facing John Dee. The physical difference between the two men was startling. While Dee was short and pale, Machiavelli was tall, his complexion deeply tanned, emphasizing the one trait both men shared: cold gray eyes. Machiavelli kept his snow-white hair short and had always been clean-shaven, and his tastes tended toward a more elegant style. His black suit and white silk shirt were clearly custom-made, and his deep crimson tie was woven through with threads of pure gold. It was his portrait on the wall behind him and he looked little older now than he had when it had been painted, more than five hundred years before. Niccolò Machiavelli had been born in 1469; technically he was fifty-eight years older than the Englishman. He had actually died the year Dee was born, in 1527. Both men were immortal, and they were two of the most powerful figures on the planet. Over the centuries of their long lives, the immortals had learned to detest one another, though now circumstances required them to be uneasy allies.

  The two men had been sitting in the dining room of Machiavelli’s grand town house off the Place du Canada in Paris for the past thirty minutes. In that time neither had spoken a word. They had each received the same summons on their cell phones: the image of a worm swallowing its own tail—the Ouroborus—one of the oldest symbols of the Dark Elders. In the center of the circle was the number thirty. A few years ago they would have received such summonses by fax or mail, decades ago by telegram and messenger, and earlier still on scraps of paper and parchment, and they would have been given hours or days to prepare for a meeting. Now the summons came by phone and the response was measured in minutes.

  Although they were expecting the call, each jumped when the speakerphone in the center of the table buzzed. Machiavelli reached out to spin the phone around and check the caller ID before answering. An unusually long number beginning with 31415—he recognized it as a portion of pi—scrolled off the screen. When he hit the Answer button, static howled and crackled before dying away to a soft breezelike whisper.

  “We are disappointed.” The voice on the phone spoke an archaic form of Latin that had last been used centuries before the time of Julius Caesar. “Very disappointed.” It was impossible to tell whether the voice was male or female, and at times it even sounded as if two people could be talking together.

  Machiavelli was surprised; he had been expecting to hear his own Dark Elder master’s scratchy voice—he’d never heard this speaker before. But Dee had. Although Dee’s face remained impassive, the Italian watched as the muscles tightened in the English Magician’s jaw and he straightened almost imperceptibly. So, here was Dee’s mysterious Dark Elder master.

  “We were assured that all was in readiness … we were assured that Flamel would be captured and slain … we were assured that Perenelle would be disposed of and that the twins would be apprehended and delivered into our hands ….”

  The voice trailed away into static.

  “And yet Flamel remains free …. Perenelle is no longer imprisoned in a cell, though she is trapped on the island. The twins have escaped. And we still do not have the complete Codex. We are disappointed,” the disembodied voice repeated.

  Dee and Machiavelli looked at one another. People who disappointed the Dark Elders tended to disappear. An Elder master had the power to grant human subjects immortality, but it was a gift that could be withdrawn with a single touch. Depending on how long the human had been immortal, sudden and often catastrophic old age raced through the body, centuries of time aging and destroying flesh and organs. In a matter of heartbeats, a healthy-looking human could be reduced to a pile of leathery skin and powdered bones.

  “You have failed us,” the voices whispered.

  Neither man broke the silence that followed, fully aware that their very long lives were now hanging by a thread. They were both powerful and important, but neither was irreplaceable. The Dark Elders had other human agents they could send after Flamel and the twins. Many others.

  Static crackled and popped on the line, and then a new voice spoke. “And yet, let me suggest that all is not lost.”

  Centuries of practice kept Machiavelli’s face expressionless. Here was the voice he’d been expecting, the voice of his Elder master, a figure who had briefly ruled Egypt more than three thousand years ago.

  “Let me suggest that we are closer now than we have ever been. We have cause for hope. We have confirmed, that the humani children are indeed the twins of legend; we have even seen some demonstration of their powers. The cursed Alchemyst and his Sorceress wife are trapped and dying. All we have to do is to wait, and time, our greatest friend, will take care of them for us. Scathach is lost and Hekate destroyed. And we have the Codex.”

  “But not all of it,” the male-female voice whispered. “We still lack the final two pages.”

  “Agreed. But it is more than we have ever had. Certainly enough to begin the process of calling back the Elders from the most distant Shadowrealms.”

  Machiavelli frowned, concentrating hard. Dee’s Elder master was reputedly the most powerful of all the Elders, and yet here was his own master arguing and debating with him or her. The line crackled, and the male-female voice sounded almost petulant.

  “But we lack the Final Summoning. Without it, our brothers and sisters will not be able to take that last step from their Shadowrealms into this world.”

  Machiavelli’s master responded evenly. “We should still be gathering our armies. Some of our brethren have ventured far from this earth; they have even gone beyond the Shadowrealms into the Otherworlds. It will take them many days to return. We need to call them back now, draw them into the Shadowrealms that border this earth, so that when the time is right, a single step will take them into this world and we can move as one to reclaim the planet.”

  Machiavelli looked at Dee. The English Magician’s head had titled slightly to one side, eyes half closed as he listened to the Elders. Almost as if he felt Machiavelli’s gaze on him, Dee opened his eyes and raised his brows in a silent question. The Italian shook his head slightly; he had no idea what was happening.

  “This is the time foreseen by Abraham when he first created the Codex,” Machiavelli’s master continued. “He had the Sight, he could see the curling strands of time. He foretold that this age would come—he called it the Time of the Turning, when order wou
ld be returned to the world. We have discovered the twins, we know the whereabouts of Flamel and the last two pages from the Codex. Once we have the pages we can use the twins’ powers to fuel the Final Summoning.”

  The line crackled with static, and in the background Machiavelli clearly heard a murmur of assent. He realized that there were others listening in on the line, and he wondered how many of the Dark Elders had gathered. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling at the image of the Elders, in their assorted guises and aspects—human and inhuman, beast and monster—listening intently on cell phones. Machiavelli chose his moment when there was a break in the murmuring voices and spoke carefully, stripping all emotion from his voice, keeping it neutral and professional.

  “Then can I suggest that you allow us to complete our tasks. Let us find Flamel and the twins.” He knew he was playing a dangerous game now, but it was clear that there was dissension in the ranks of the Elders, and Machiavelli had always been expert at manipulating such situations. He had clearly heard the need in his master’s voice. The Elders desperately wanted the twins and the Codex: without them, the rest of the Dark Elders would not be able to return to the earth. And at that instant he recognized that both he and Dee were still valuable assets. “The doctor and I have formulated a plan,” he said, and then fell silent, waiting to see if they would take the bait.

  “Speak, humani,” the male-female voice rumbled.

  Machiavelli folded his hands and said nothing. Dee’s eyebrows shot up and he pointed at the phone. Speak, he mouthed.

  “Speak!” the voice snarled, static howling and popping.

  “You are not my master,” Machiavelli said very quietly. “You cannot command me.”

  There was a long hissing sound, like steam escaping. Machiavelli turned his head slightly, trying to identify the noise. Then he nodded: it was laughter. The other Elders were amused by his response. He had been correct; there was dissension in the ranks of the Elders, and though Dee’s master might be all-powerful, that did not mean he was liked. Here was a weakness Machiavelli could exploit to his advantage.

  Dee was staring at him, gray eyes wide with horror and maybe even admiration.

  The line clicked, the ambient background noise changed and then Machiavelli’s master spoke, amusement clearly audible in his gravelly voice. “What do you propose? And be careful, humani,” he added. “You too have failed us. We were assured that Flamel and the twins would not leave Paris.”

  The Italian leaned toward the phone, his smile triumphant. “Master. I was instructed to do nothing until the English Magician arrived. Valuable time was lost. Flamel was able to contact allies, find shelter and rest.” Machiavelli was watching Dee carefully as he spoke. He knew the Englishman had contacted his Elder master, and that master in turn had ordered Machiavelli’s master to tell the Italian to do nothing until Dee arrived. “However,” he pressed, having made his point, “this delay worked to our advantage. The boy was Awakened by an Elder loyal to us. We have some idea of the twins’ powers and we know where they’ve gone.” He could barely keep the smugness out of his voice. He looked at Dee sitting across the table and nodded quickly. The English Magician took the hint.

  “They are in London,” John Dee continued. “And Britain, more than any other land on this earth, is our country,” he stressed. “Unlike in Paris, we have allies there: Elders, Next Generation, immortals and humani servants who will aid us. And in England there are others, loyal to none but themselves, whose services can be bought. All of these resources can be directed to finding Flamel and the twins.” He finished and leaned forward, staring intently at the phone, waiting for an answer.

  The line clicked and went dead. Then an irritating busy signal filled the room.

  Dee stared at the phone with a mixture of shock and anger. “Have we lost the connection or have they just hung up on us?”

  Machiavelli hit the Speaker button, silencing the noise. “Now you know how I feel when you hang up on me,” he said quietly.

  “What do we do now?” Dee demanded.

  “We wait. I would imagine they are discussing our futures.”

  Dee folded his arms over his narrow chest. “They need us,” he said, trying—and failing—to sound confident.

  Machiavelli’s smile was bitter. “They use us. But they do not need us. I know of at least a dozen immortals in Paris alone who could do what I do.”

  “Well, yes, you are replaceable,” Dee said with a self-satisfied shrug. “But I have spent a lifetime chasing Nicholas and Perenelle.”

  “You mean you’ve spent a lifetime failing to catch them,” Machiavelli said, his voice neutral, and then added with a sly smile, “So close, and yet always so far.”

  But any reply Dee was about to make was cut off when the phone rang.

  “This is our decision.” It was Dee’s Elder master speaking, the male-female voices blending together into one slightly discordant voice. “The Magician will follow the Alchemyst and the twins to England. Your instructions are explicit: destroy Flamel, capture the twins and retrieve the two missing pages. Use whatever means necessary to achieve this objective; we have associates in England who are indebted to us. We will call in those debts. And Doctor … if you fail us this time, then we will temporarily remove the gift of immortality and allow your humani body to age to its very limit … and then, at the moment before your death, we will make you immortal again.” There was a rasp that might have been a chuckle or an indrawn breath. “Think about how that will feel: your brilliant mind trapped in an ancient and feeble body, unable to see or hear clearly, unable to walk or move, in constant pain from a score of ailments. You will be forever ancient and yet undying. Fail us and this will be your destiny. We will trap you in this aged fleshy shell for an eternity.”

  Dee nodded, swallowed hard and then said with as much confidence as he could muster, “I will not fail you.”

  “And you, Niccolò …” Machiavelli’s Elder master spoke. “You will travel to the Americas. The Sorceress is loose on Alcatraz. Do whatever you must to secure the island.”

  “But I have no contacts in San Francisco,” Machiavelli protested quickly, “no allies. Europe has always been my domain.”

  “We have agents all across the Americas. Even now they are moving westward to await your arrival. We will instruct one to guide and assist you. On Alcatraz, you will find an army of sorts sleeping in the cells, creatures the humani will recognize from their darkest nightmares and foulest myths. It was not our intention to use this army so soon, but events are moving quickly now, much faster than we anticipated. Soon it will be the Time of Litha, the summer solstice. At midsummer, the twins’ auras will be at their strongest and the barriers between this world and the myriad Shadowrealms at their weakest. It is our intention to reclaim the world of the humani on that day.”

  Even Machiavelli was unable to keep his face expressionless. He looked at Dee and found that the Magician too was wide-eyed with shock. Both men had worked for the Dark Elders for centuries and had always known that they intended to return to the world they had once ruled. Still, it was startling to discover that after years of waiting and planning, it was about to happen in just over three weeks’ time.

  Dr. John Dee leaned closer to the phone. “Masters—and I know I speak for Machiavelli when I say this—we are delighted that the Time of the Turning is almost upon us and that you will soon return.” He swallowed hard and took a quick breath. “But if you will allow me to caution you: the world you are returning to is not the world you left. The humani have technology, communications, weapons … they will resist,” he added hesitantly.

  “Indeed they will, Doctor,” Machiavelli’s master said. “So we will give the humani something to focus on, something to use up their resources and consume their attention. Niccolò,” the voice continued, “when you have retaken Alcatraz, rouse the monsters in the cells and then loose them on the city of San Francisco. The destruction and terror will be inde
scribable. And when the city is a smoking ruin, allow the creatures to wander as they will. They will ravage across America. Mankind has always been fearful of the dark: we will remind him why. There are similar caches of creatures already hidden on every continent; they will be released at the same time. The world will quickly dissolve into madness and chaos. Entire armies will be wiped out, so that there will be none to stand against us when we return. And what will be our first action? Why, we will destroy the monsters and be hailed by the humani as their saviors.”

  “And these beasts are in Alcatraz’s cells?” Machiavelli asked, appalled. “How do I rouse them?”

  “You will be given instructions when you reach the Americas. But first, you have to defeat Perenelle Flamel.”

  “How do we know she is still there? If she has escaped her cell, surely she will have fled the island?” The Italian was aware that his heart was suddenly pounding; three hundred years ago he had sworn vengeance on the Sorceress. Was he now about to be given an opportunity for revenge?

  “She is still on the island. She has released Areop-Enap, the Old Spider. It is a dangerous foe, but not invincible. We have taken steps to neutralize it and ensure that Perenelle will remain there until you arrive. And Niccolò”—the Elder’s voice turned hard and ugly—“do not repeat Dee’s mistake.”

  The Magician straightened.

  “Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or try to reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst.”

  he early-morning sky over Alcatraz was the color of dirty metal. Flecks of ice-cold rain hissed across the island, and the churning sea pounding against the rocks sent bitter salty foam high into the air.

  Perenelle Flamel ducked back into the shelter of the ruin of the Warden’s House. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, brushing away droplets of salty moisture. She was wearing a light sleeveless summer dress, now soiled with mud and rust, but the tall elegant woman wasn’t cold. Although she’d been reluctant to use her waning powers, she had adjusted her aura, bringing her body temperature up to a comfortable level. She knew if she got too cold, she wouldn’t be able to think clearly, and she had a feeling she was going to need all her resources in the hours to come.