And how was she going to defeat a plague of flies?
Looking out over the island, she saw yet another curling thread of insects coming in on the breeze. Once they reached Alcatraz, it would all be over. The wind carried the faintest hum, like the sound of a distant chain saw.
Wind.
Wind had carried the insects onto the island … could Perenelle also use it to drive them away?
But even as the thought crossed her mind, Perenelle realized that she didn’t know enough of wind lore to control the element with precision. Perhaps if she’d had time to prepare and her aura were fully charged, she would have attempted to raise some type of wind—a typhoon, maybe, or a small tornado—in the heart of the island and sweep it clean of flies, and probably spiders, too. But she couldn’t risk it now. She needed to do something simple … and she needed to do it quickly. All the spiders had stopped moving. Millions of flies had died, but millions more remained, and they were swarming over Areop-Enap.
So if she couldn’t drive the flies off the island, could she lure them away? Someone was controlling the insects—a Dark Elder or immortal, who must have first poisoned them, then set the tiny mindless insects on the island. Something had drawn them here. Perenelle’s eyes snapped wide in realization. So something would have to draw them away. What would attract millions of flies?
What did flies like?
Behind the gauze web, Perenelle smiled. For her five hundredth birthday on the thirteenth of October in 1820, Scathach had presented her with a spectacular pendant, a single piece of jade carved into the shape of a scarab beetle. More than three thousand years previously, the Shadow had brought it back from Japan for the boy king Tutankhamen, but he’d died a day after she’d presented it to him. Scathach had despised Tutankhamen’s wife, Ankhesenamen, and hadn’t wanted her to have it, so she’d broken in to the royal palace late one night just before the boy king was embalmed and taken it back. When Scathach had given her the jade, Perenelle had joked, “You’re giving me a dung beetle.”
Scathach had nodded seriously. “Dung is more valuable than any precious metal. You cannot grow food in gold.”
And flies were attracted to dung.
But there was no dung pile on the island, and to catch the flies’ attention, she would have to create an exceptionally strong odor. Perenelle immediately thought of the beautiful plants of the arum family. Some of them stank abominably of dung. There was the cactuslike desert herb the carrion flower: beautiful to look at, but it reeked of something long dead. And there was skunk cabbage, and the world’s largest flower, the giant rafflesia, the stinking corpse lily, with its putrid odor of rotting meat. If she could replicate that scent, she might be able to lure the flies away.
Perenelle knew that at the heart of all magic and sorcery was imagination. It was this gift for intense concentration that characterized the most powerful magicians; before attempting any great piece of magic, they had to clearly see the end result. So before she concentrated on creating the smell, she needed to think about a location that she could see in every detail. Places flickered at the edges of Perenelle’s consciousness. Places she had lived, places she knew. In her long life she’d had the opportunity to visit so much of the world. But what she needed now was someplace reasonably close, a location she knew well, and one where there was not a huge human population.
The San Francisco Dump.
She’d only been to the dump on one previous occasion. Months ago, she’d helped one of the bookshop’s employees move to a new apartment. Afterward, they’d driven south toward Monster Park and the dump on Recycle Road. Always sensitive to smells, Perenelle had caught the distinctively acrid—though not entirely unpleasant—smell of the dump when they’d turned onto Tunnel Avenue. As they’d got closer, the stink had become eye-watering and the air had filled with the sound of countless seabirds calling.
Perenelle drew upon that memory now. Fixing the dump clearly in her imagination, she visualized a huge clump of stinking, corpse-smelling flowers in the very heart of the refuse and then she imagined a wind carrying the foul stink northward toward Alcatraz.
The stench of something long rotten wafted over the island and a rippling wave coursed through the massed flies.
Perenelle focused her will. She visualized the sprawling dump scattered with blooms: calla and carrion flowers poking through the rubbish, giant red and white spotted rafflesia thriving amid the junk, and the air filling with the noxious scents, mingling with the dump’s own fetid odor. Then she imagined a wind pushing the scent north.
The smell that washed over the island was eye-wateringly foul. A wave pulsed through the thick carpet of flies. Some rose buzzing into the air, circled aimlessly but then dropped back onto Areop-Enap.
Perenelle was tiring, and she knew that the effort was aging her. Drawing in a deep breath, she made one final effort. She had to move the flies before the second swarm joined them. She concentrated so hard on the foul stench that her normally odorless ice white aura shimmered and took on the hint of putrefaction.
The sickening stink that flowed over the island was a nauseating mixture of fresh dung mixed with long-spoiled meat and the rancid odor of sour milk.
The flies rose from Alcatraz in a solid black blanket. They hummed and buzzed like a power station and then, as one, set off heading south toward the source of the stench. The departing insects encountered the second huge swarm as it was just about to descend on the island and both groups mingled in an enormous solid black ball; then the entire mass turned and flowed south, following the rich soupy scent.
Within moments, there was not a living fly left on the island.
Areop-Enap shook itself free of tiny carcasses and then slowly and stiffly climbed the wall, sliced the web holding Perenelle in place and lowered her gently to the ground on a narrow spiral of thread. Perenelle allowed her aura to flare for a millisecond and the cocoon of spiderweb, now dotted and speckled with trapped flies, crisped to dust. She threw back her head, pushed her damp hair back off her forehead and neck and breathed deeply. It had been suffocatingly warm in the web.
“Are you all right?” she asked, reaching out to stroke one of the Elder’s huge legs.
Areop-Enap swayed to and fro. Only one of its eyes was open, and when it spoke, its normally lisping speech was slurred almost beyond comprehension. “Poison?” it asked.
Perenelle nodded. She looked around. The ruins were thick with the husks of flies and spiders. She suddenly realized she was standing ankle-deep in the tiny corpses. When all this was over, she’d have to burn her shoes, she decided. “The flies were deadly. Your spiders died when they bit into them. They were sent here to kill your army.”
“And they succeeded,” Areop-Enap said sadly. “So many dead, so many …”
“The flies that attacked you also carried poison,” Perenelle continued. “Individually, their bites were unnoticeable, but Old Spider, you have been bitten millions—perhaps even billions—of times.”
Areop-Enap’s single open eye blinked slowly closed. “Madame Perenelle, I must heal. Which means I must sleep.”
Perenelle stepped closer to the huge spider and brushed the husks of dead flies from its purple hair. They crackled to dust at her touch. “Sleep, Old Spider,” she said gently. “I will watch over you.”
Areop-Enap staggered awkwardly into the corner of the room. Two huge legs swept a section of the floor clean of dead spiders and flies, and then it attempted to spin a web. But the silk was thin, threadlike and slightly discolored. “What did you do with the flies?” Areop-Enap asked, struggling to create more web.
“Sent them south on a wild-scent chase.” Perenelle smiled. Her right hand flashed out, her aura flared and Areop-Enap’s thin spider web suddenly grew and thickened. The Old Spider settled itself into the corner of the room in its nest and began again to spin a web around itself.
“Where?” Areop-Enap asked suddenly. Its single open eye was almost closed, and Perenelle could see where incalculab
le numbers of weeping sores had appeared on the creature’s body from the poisonous bites.
“The San Francisco Dump.”
“Few will make it there …,” Areop-Enap mumbled, “and those who do will find plenty to distract them. You saved my life, Madame Perenelle.”
“And you saved mine, Old Spider.” The huge ball of web was almost complete. The silk had already started to turn rocklike, and only a small hole at the top remained. “Sleep now,” Perenelle commanded, “sleep and grow strong. We are going to need your strength and wisdom in the days to come.”
With a tremendous effort, Areop-Enap opened all its eyes. “I am sorry to leave you alone and defenseless.”
Perenelle sealed the spider Elder into the huge cocoon of web, then turned and strode across the room. The tiniest breeze swept the floor clean before her. “I am Perenelle Flamel, the Sorceress,” she said aloud, unsure whether Areop-Enap could hear her. “And I am never defenseless.”
But even as she was saying the words, she clearly heard the note of doubt creep into her own voice.
n the western shore of Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, a young-looking man sat on the hood of a bright red 1960 Thunderbird convertible. Short and slight, he was wearing blue jeans with the ends ragged and frayed and both knees worn to threads. The wolf’s-head graphic on his T-shirt was faded to little more than a ghostly pattern, and his cowboy boots were scuffed and needed new soles and heels. His unkempt appearance, long hair and stubbly beard were in stark contrast to the gleaming car he was sitting on, which looked as if it had just been driven out of the showroom. The young man had twenty-nine dollars and change in his wallet; the car was worth at least one thousand times that.
Next to him on the hood of the car was an ancient antique Anasazi pottery bowl, decorated in elegant black-and-white angular geometric patterns. A thick liquid filled the bowl, a mixture of honey, flaxseed oil and water, and reflected in the liquid was the figure of Perenelle Flamel striding across Alcatraz, the black blanket of spider and fly corpses opening up before her in a wave.
So this was the legendary Perenelle Flamel. The young man moved his finger clockwise over the liquid and his bright blue eyes sparkled, turning briefly crimson, the hint of cayenne filling the air. The image of Perenelle zoomed in. He watched her stop and frown, the lines in her forehead deepening, and she looked around quickly, almost as if she knew that someone was watching her. He waved his hand and the liquid trembled, the image dissolving. Folding his arms across his thin chest, the man turned his face to the west, where Alcatraz was hidden in the gloom. It seemed as if everything he had heard about the woman was true: Perenelle was that most lethal of combinations, both beautiful and deadly.
He was momentarily at a loss. Should he attack again, or should he wait? Lifting his hand to his face, he breathed deeply and his aura glowed a deep purple-red, a shade darker than the Thunderbird, and the salt sea air was tainted with the odor of red pepper. He still had enough power left to do … what?
Calling the flies had been relatively easy; an Indian shaman had taught him that trick, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Poisoning the flies had been his Elder master’s suggestion, and his master had even supplied the pool of poisoned water in Solano County, north of the city. The plan was to destroy Areop-Enap’s army of spiders and murder the Elder. And it had almost succeeded. The mass of spiders were dead, and the Old Spider was very close to death. But at the last minute something had drawn the flies away from Alcatraz in a great pulsing cloud. In the oily liquid in the scrying bowl, the young man had seen the silver-white flicker of Perenelle’s aura, and knew she’d been responsible. His thin face twisted in a grimace and he bit nervously into his bottom lip. He’d been assured that she was weakened, incapable of any display of her powers. Obviously, that information had been incorrect.
The thick liquid began to bubble and cloud, then to hiss and steam away; the scrying spell had a limited life span. Slipping off the hood of the car, the young man tossed the sticky remnants onto the ground, then carefully washed out the bowl with a bottle of water and dried it with a chamois cloth before putting it in the trunk of the car, nestling it in a small foam-filled metal suitcase. The bowl was one of the most precious objects he owned, and even when he’d been desperately poor, he’d never thought about selling it.
Sitting in the red leather interior of the car, he opened a manila envelope and read through the file he’d been sent by encrypted e-mail. A severe-looking white-haired man glared out of a black-and-white photograph. He’d been caught mid-stride as he crossed a street. The Eiffel Tower loomed over the rooftops in the background, and the date stamp on the bottom of the photograph revealed that it had been taken on Christmas Eve, six months ago. Idly, the young man wondered why the Dark Elders were watching one of their most trusted agents. This was the man they were sending to work with him: the European immortal Niccolò Machiavelli. The Elders’ instructions had been unambiguous—he was to offer Machiavelli every assistance. He wondered if the Italian was anything like John Dee. He’d met Dee briefly and didn’t like him; he was one of those arrogant European immortals who thought they were better than anyone else, just because they were older than the United States. But reading through Machiavelli’s file, he found himself liking the man more and more. Ruthless, cunning and scheming, he was described as the most dangerous man in Europe.
He’d help Machiavelli, of course. He didn’t really have any choice; going against the Dark Elders was tantamount to a death wish. Personally, he didn’t believe he needed the Italian. Tossing the file on the floor, he turned the key in the ignition, pushed hard on the accelerator and spun the wheel, and the car fishtailed into a semicircle, billowing dust and grit in its wake.
Billy the Kid had never needed anyone.
he scrap yard was a maze.
Towering alleyways of rusting metal, with barely enough space for the car to drive through, stretched from the entrance in every direction. A solid barrier of tires, hundreds deep, leaned precariously out over the narrow spaces. There was one wall composed entirely of car doors, another of hoods and trunks. Engine blocks stained with dripping oil and grease were piled in a tower next to a bank of exhaust pipes that had been driven into the ground, making them look like an abstract sculpture.
Palamedes eased the black London cab deeper into the mountainous warren of crushed cars. Sophie was completely awake now. She sat forward on the seat, looking through the window, eyes wide. In its own way, the scrap yard was as extraordinary as Hekate’s Shadowrealm. Although it looked chaotic, she instinctively knew that there was probably a pattern to it. Something fluttered to her right and she turned quickly, catching a glimpse of movement in the shadows. She was turning back when she saw a shadow shift and blink away. They were being followed, yet despite her enhanced senses, she couldn’t catch sight of the creatures, though she got the impression that they moved upright like humans. “Is this a Shadowrealm?” she asked aloud.
Beside her, Flamel stirred awake. “There are no Shadowrealms in the center of London,” he mumbled. “Shadowrealms exist on the edges of cities.”
Sophie nodded—she’d known that, of course.
Palamedes swung the car in a tight left-hand turn that led to an even narrower alleyway. The ragged metal walls were so close they almost scraped the car doors. “We’re not in the center of the city anymore, Alchemyst,” he said in his deep bass voice. “We’re in the slightly disreputable suburbs. And you’re wrong, too; I know two Elders who have small Shadow-realms situated in the heart of the city of London, and there are entrances to at least another three that I know of, including the best-known one, in the pool behind Traitor’s Gate.”
Josh craned his neck to look up at the towering walls of metal. “It’s like a …” He stopped. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the twisting layout fell into place and he abruptly realized what he was seeing. “It’s a castle,” he whispered. “A castle made of crushed metal and flattened cars.”
> Palamedes’ laugh was a loud bark that startled both twins. “Hah. I’m impressed. There’s not many alive today who would recognize it. This layout is based upon a design created by the great Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban himself.”
“That sounds like a wine,” Josh murmured, still mesmerized by what he discovered.
“I met him once,” Flamel said absently. “He was a famous French military engineer.” He twisted in the seat to look out the rear window. “Just looks like junked cars to me,” he said, almost to himself.
Sophie looked curiously at her brother—how had he known that the jumble was actually a castle? But then, looking up at the walls of cars, the pattern she’d glimpsed earlier fell into place and she could see the shape of the castle, the battlements and towers, the narrow spaces where defenders could fire down onto any attackers. A shape moved behind one of the spaces and vanished.
“Over the years we’ve built up the cars like the walls of a castle,” Palamedes continued. “The medieval castle builders knew a lot about defense, and de Vauban brought all that knowledge together to create the strongest defenses in the world. Then we took the best of all styles. There are mottes and baileys, outer wards and an inner ward, a barbican, towers and keeps. The only entrance is through this single narrow alleyway, and it is designed to be easily defensible.” His huge hand moved toward the wrecked cars. “And behind and between and within the walls there are all sorts of nasty traps waiting.”
The car vibrated as it ran onto metal. The twins both slid over to the windows and looked out to discover that they’d driven onto what looked like a bridge of narrow metal pipes suspended over a thick bubbling black liquid.
“The moat,” Josh said.
“Our modern version of a moat,” the Saracen Knight agreed. “Filled with oil instead of water. It’s deeper than it looks and is lined with spikes. If anything falls in … well, let’s just say that they’re not climbing out. And of course we can set it ablaze with the flick of a switch.”
The Sorceress Page 7
