The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  The Shadow’s bright red hair swam into view. “London.”

  “I know that. I spoke to him earlier.” Perenelle had picked up on the slightest hesitation in the Warrior’s voice. “But …?”

  “Well, we think they are still in London.”

  “Think!” The Sorceress drew in a deep breath and bit back a wave of anger. A tremor of white light curled across the surface of the water and the image rippled and fragmented. She was forced to wait until the image re-formed. “What’s happened? Tell me everything you know.”

  “There have been some reports on the news channels of odd disturbances in the city last night ….”

  “Last night?” Perenelle asked, confused. “What time is it? What day?”

  “It’s Tuesday here in Paris. A little after two in the morning.”

  Perenelle did the calculation, working out the time difference: it was still Monday on the West Coast, and now around five p.m. “What sort of odd disturbances?” she continued.

  “Sky News reported a thunderstorm and torrential downpour over one tiny section of North London. Then euronews and France24 carried a story about a huge fire in a derelict car yard, also in North London.”

  “That could be nothing,” Perenelle said, though she instinctively knew it was somehow connected to Nicholas and the twins.

  On the other side of the Atlantic, Scatty shook her head. “Flint arrowheads, bronze spears and crossbow bolts were found all around the burning yard. One of the news reporters showed a handful of the arrowheads to the camera. They looked brand-new. Some local historian dated them back to the Neolithic Period, but said the bronze spears were Roman and the crossbow bolts were Medieval. He claimed they were all genuine.”

  “There was a fight,” Perenelle said curtly. “Who was involved?”

  “Impossible to say, but you know what lives in and around that city.”

  Perenelle knew only too well. Scores of creatures had settled on the British Isles, drawn there by the abundance of ley lines and the Shadowrealms. And most were loyal to the Dark Elders.

  “Were there any bodies found at this car yard?” she asked grimly. If anything had happened to Nicholas or the twins, she would tear the city apart looking for Dee. The hunter would discover what it was like to be hunted. And she had more than six hundred years of sorcerous knowledge to draw upon.

  “The car yard was deserted. What looked like a moat of oil had been set alight, and everything was covered in a thick layer of gray ash.”

  “Ash?” Perenelle frowned. “Have you any idea what left it?”

  “There are several creatures who turn to ash when they are killed,” Scatty said slowly.

  “Including immortal humans,” Perenelle added.

  “I do not believe Nicholas was killed,” Scatty said quickly.

  “Nor do I,” the Sorceress whispered. She would know if anything had happened to him, she would feel it.

  “Could you try to contact him?” Scatty asked.

  “I could try, but if he’s on the run …”

  “You found me.” The Warrior smiled. “Though you did give me quite a start.” The Warrior had been standing before a bathroom mirror, rubbing antiseptic cream on her cuts, when the glass had fogged over, then cleared to reveal Perenelle Flamel. Scatty had almost stuck her finger in her eye.

  Perenelle had got the idea to try scrying from the immortal human with the Anasazi bowl she’d caught spying on her earlier. She’d chosen the warmest spot on the island, where the white stones of the lighthouse were baked by the sun. Filling a shallow plate with water, she’d sat down and allowed the afternoon sun to charge her aura. Then she’d asked de Ayala to keep the rest of the ghosts of Alcatraz away from her as she lowered her defenses. She’d also asked him to warn her if the Crow Goddess approached. Perenelle didn’t entirely trust the creature.

  Creating the link with the Shadow had proven to be surprisingly easy. Perenelle had known Scathach for generations. She could clearly visualize everything about her: her bright red hair and brilliant green eyes, her round face and the dusting of freckles across her straight nose. Her fingernails were always ragged and chewed. She looked to be a girl around seventeen years old; in truth she was more than two thousand five hundred years old and was the finest martial artist in the world. She had trained most of the great warriors and heroes of legend and had saved the Flamels’ lives on more than one occasion. They had returned the favor. Even though the Shadow was more than eighteen hundred years her senior, Perenelle had come to think of her if not as a daughter, then certainly as a niece. “Tell me what happened, Scatty,” Perenelle demanded.

  “Nicholas and the children escaped to London. He was taking the twins to see Gilgamesh.”

  Perenelle nodded. “I know that. Nicholas told me. He also said that both twins have been Awakened,” she added.

  “Both,” Scatty agreed. “The girl has been trained in two of the elemental magics, but the boy has no training. However, he has Clarent.”

  “Clarent,” Perenelle murmured. She’d watched her husband sink the ancient blade into the lintel over the window of their home on the Rue du Montmorency. She’d wanted to destroy it; he’d refused. He’d argued that it was older than a score of civilizations and they had no right to break it; he’d also argued that it was probably impossible to harm the blade anyway.

  “So where are you?” Perenelle asked.

  “Paris.” Scathach’s face swam in and out of focus. “It’s a very long story. Parts of it are quite boring. Especially the bit where I was dragged into the Seine by Dagon …”

  “You were dragged into the Seine!” Nicholas hadn’t told her that.

  Scatty nodded. “That happened just after I’d been rescued from the Nidhogg, which had rampaged through the streets of Paris.”

  Perenelle stared at her openmouthed. Finally, she said, “And where were Nicholas and the twins while all this was happening?”

  “They were the ones who chased the Nidhogg through the streets and rescued me.”

  The Sorceress blinked in surprise. “That does not sound like my Nicholas.”

  “I think it was more the twins’ doing,” Scathach said. “Especially the boy, Josh. He saved my life. I think he slew the dragon.”

  “And then you fell into the river,” Perenelle said.

  “I was pulled,” Scathach corrected her immediately. “Dagon came up like a crocodile and grabbed me.”

  “Did you not once fight him and a school of Potamoi fishmen on the Isle of Capri?”

  Scatty’s savage vampire teeth flashed again. “Now, that was a good day.” Then her smile vanished. “Anyway, he turned up working with Machiavelli in Paris.”

  “I’d heard the Italian was in Paris.” Perenelle nodded.

  “Head of the secret service or something. I was only semiconscious when Dagon pulled me into the water. But the Seine was so cold that the shock brought me wide awake. We fought for hours while the currents dragged us downriver. It wasn’t the toughest battle I’ve ever fought, but Dagon was in his element and the water took a lot of the force out of my blows.”

  “I see he managed to scratch you.”

  “Lucky hits,” Scatty snorted, dismissing them. “I lost him somewhere around Les Damps, and it took me two days to get back to the city.”

  “Are you safe now?”

  “I’m with Joan.” The Shadow smiled. “And Saint-Germain, too.” Her smile broadened. “They got married!”

  She pulled her head back and a second face swam into view in the water, huge gray eyes dominating a small boyish face. “Madame Flamel.”

  “Joan!” Perenelle smiled. If she considered Scatty to be a niece, then Joan was the daughter she never had. “You finally married Francis?”

  “Well, we have been seeing one another for centuries. It was time.”

  “It was. Joan, it is good to see you,” Perenelle continued. “I just wish it were in better circumstances.”

  “I agree,” Joan of Arc said. “Thes
e are indeed desperate times. Especially for Nicholas and the children.”

  “Are they the twins of legend?” Perenelle asked, curious to hear what her friend thought.

  “I am convinced of it,” Joan of Arc said immediately. “The girl’s aura is stronger and purer than mine.”

  “Can you get to London?” the Sorceress asked.

  The tiny face in the water blurred as the woman on the other side of the world shook her head. “Impossible. Machiavelli controls Paris, and he has locked this city down tightly, claiming a matter of national security. The borders are closed. All flights, ferry sailings and trains are being carefully monitored, and I’m sure they have our descriptions—Scatty’s certainly. There are police everywhere; they’re stopping people on the streets, demanding to see identification, and there is a nine o’clock curfew in effect. The police have released grainy security-camera video of Nicholas, the twins, Scatty and me taken from in front of Notre Dame.”

  Perenelle shook her head. “Do I want to know what you were doing in front of the cathedral?”

  “Battling the gargoyles,” Joan said lightly.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have asked. I’m concerned about Nicholas and the children. Knowing Nicholas’s sense of direction, they’re probably lost. And Dee’s spies are everywhere,” Perenelle added miserably. “No doubt he knew the moment they arrived.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Francis arranged for Palamedes to pick them up. He’s protecting them. He’s good,” Joan assured her.

  Perenelle nodded in agreement. “Not as good as the Shadow.”

  “Well, no one is,” Joan declared. “Where are you now, madame?”

  “Trapped on Alcatraz. And I’m in trouble,” she admitted.

  Scatty’s face pushed in alongside her friend’s. “What sort of trouble?”

  “The cells are full of monsters, the seas are full of Nereids. Nereus guards the water and a sphinx roams the corridors. That sort of trouble.”

  Joan of Arc’s smile turned brilliant. “Why, if you are in trouble, then we must help you!”

  “That, I fear, is impossible,” Perenelle said.

  “Ah, but madame, you were the one who taught me a long time ago that the word impossible is meaningless.”

  Perenelle smiled. “I did say that. Scatty, is there anyone you know in San Francisco who could help me? I need to get off this island. I need to get to Nicholas.”

  “No one I trust. Maybe some of my students—”

  “No,” Perenelle interrupted. “I’ll not endanger any humans. I mean any Elders loyal to us, any of the Next Generation?”

  Scatty considered for a minute, then slowly shook her head. “No one I trust,” she repeated. She turned her head to listen to a conversation behind her, and when she looked back, her savage smile was brilliant. “We’ve a plan. Or rather, Francis has a plan. Can you hang on for a little while longer? We’re on our way.”

  “We? Who’s we?” Perenelle asked.

  “Joan and I. We’re coming to Alcatraz.”

  “How can you get here if you cannot even get to London?” Perenelle began, but then the water shivered and trembled and suddenly the myriad ghosts of Alcatraz rose around her, clamoring and crying out for attention. The connection was lost.

  r. John Dee stood before the huge plate-glass window on one of the topmost floors of the Canary Wharf Tower, the London headquarters of Enoch Enterprises. Sipping a steaming mug of herbal tea, he watched the first glimmers of dawn appear on the eastern horizon.

  Freshly showered, hair pulled back off his face, dressed in a tailored gray three-piece suit, he looked nothing like the filthy vagabond who had arrived at the parking-lot security booth less than an hour earlier. The Magician had taken great care to avoid the cameras, and a simple mesmerizing spell had focused the guard’s attention on the black-and-white squares of his newspaper’s crossword puzzle. Even if he’d wanted to, the man wouldn’t have been able to look away from it. Sticking to the shadows in the empty parking lot, Dee had made his way into the private elevator and used his personal security code—13071527—to go straight up to the penthouse suites.

  Dee’s Enoch Enterprises occupied an entire floor of the Canary Wharf Tower, the tallest building in Britain, right in the heart of London’s financial district. He had similar offices scattered around the world, and although he only rarely visited them, the Magician kept a luxurious private suite in every one. Built into each office was a tall safe that opened only to Dee’s handprint and retina scan. It contained clothes, cash in assorted currencies, credit cards and a variety of passports in a dozen different names. He’d been trapped without money and clothes in the past and had sworn it would never happen again.

  It was only when he was standing under the scalding shower, water running filthy and black from his body, that he’d had a moment to consider his options. He had to admit that they were extremely limited.

  He could find the Alchemyst, kill him, retrieve the missing pages and secure the twins.

  Or he could run.

  He could flee Britain on a false passport and hide in a quiet out-of-the-way place, and spend the rest of his life in fear, unable to use his aura in case it revealed his location, constantly looking over his shoulder, always waiting for one of his masters to appear to lay their hands on him. The moment they touched his bare flesh, the immortality spell would be broken and he would age and die. Or maybe they would keep their promise: render him mortal and allow his nearly five hundred years to consume his physical body … and then make him immortal again in the last moments of extreme old age. Dee shuddered. It would be a living death.

  Stepping out of the shower, he ran his hand across the steamed-up mirror and stared at his reflection in the glass. Was it his imagination or were there new wrinkles on his forehead and alongside his eyes? He had spent centuries running—running from danger or chasing the Alchemyst and the others like him. He had skulked and hidden, cowered in fear of his Elder masters, done their bidding unquestioningly. Condensation ran down the mirror, making it look as if he were crying. But the Magician did not cry anymore; the last time he had shed tears was when his baby son, Nicholas, had died in 1597.

  He would run no more.

  The study of magic and sorcery had taught the Magician that the world was full of limitless possibilities, and the years spent researching alchemy with Flamel had shown him that nothing—not even matter—was fixed and unalterable. Everything could be manipulated. He’d lived his long life dedicating himself to changing the world, bettering it by returning it to the Dark Elders. On the surface it was an impossible task, the odds stacked against him, but over the centuries he had nearly succeeded, until now the Elders were poised to return to the earth.

  His situation was desperate and dangerous, but he could fix it. The key to his own survival was simple: he had to find Flamel.

  He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of clean clothes, and made himself some tea, then went to look out over the city he controlled. Standing before the window, staring across the sprawling streets, he realized the enormity of the task before him; he had no idea where the Alchemyst had taken the children.

  He did have agents—both human and inhuman—in London. Next Generation and immortal mercenaries were on the streets. They all had the latest descriptions of the Alchemyst and the children, and he would add Palamedes and the Bard to that list. He would double—no, triple—the reward. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted the little group.

  But he had no time.

  Dee’s cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, then played the opening bars of the theme to The X-Files. He made a face; suddenly that didn’t seem so funny anymore. He put the cup of tea down, fished the phone out of his inside pocket and held it clenched in his fist before looking at the screen. It was the impossibly long and ever-changing number he’d been expecting. He was surprised it had taken them until now to get to him; maybe they’d been waiting for him to make a report. His finger hovered over the green Answer
button, but he knew that the moment he hit it, the Elders would know his location. He doubted he’d live long enough to finish his tea.

  Dr. John Dee returned the phone to his pocket unanswered and picked up his cup.

  Then, a moment later, he plucked the phone back out and dialed a number from memory. His call was answered on the first ring. “I need a favor.”

  Niccolò Machiavelli shot out of his chair. “Favore?” he said, unconsciously slipping into Italian.

  “A favor,” Dee said in the same language. “No doubt you have heard about my little difficulty.”

  “I’m looking at news of a fire in London,” Machiavelli told Dee cautiously, aware that everything he said could be recorded. “I guessed you were involved.”

  “Flamel and the others fled in a car,” Dee continued. “I need to contain them.”

  “So you are still pursuing them?” Machiavelli said.

  “To my death,” the Magician said. “Which could be sooner than I wish,” he added. “But I am sworn to do my duty to my masters. You understand duty, Machiavelli, do you not?”

  The Italian nodded. “I do.” He sat back in the chair. “What do you want me to do?” He glanced at the clock. It was 5:45 a.m. in Paris. “Be aware that I’m flying to San Francisco in a few hours.”

  “I need you to make a phone call, that’s all.”

  Machiavelli remained silent, unwilling to commit. He knew that this conversation could be very dangerous. His master and Dee’s were somehow opposed, but they both wanted the same thing: the return of the Dark Elders to the earth. And Machiavelli knew he must be seen to support that in every way possible. Once the Dark Elders returned, then the real power struggle for control of the planet would take place. Naturally, he was hoping that his master and his master’s followers would be triumphant, but if Dee’s masters took control, then it might be useful to have Dee as an ally. Machiavelli grinned and rubbed his hands together; his scheming reminded him of the good old days of the Borgias.

  “As head of the French secret service,” Dee continued, “you must have contacts with your British counterparts.”