The Magician

by Michael Scott

  “Eat, eat,” Saint-Germain said, grabbing a plate in one hand and a thick croissant in the other. He bit into the pastry, spilling wafer-thin flakes onto the tiled floor. “You must be famished.”

  Sophie leaned in close to her brother. “Could you get me something to eat? I want to talk to Joan. I need to ask her something.”

  Josh glanced quickly at the young-looking woman who was pulling cups from the dishwasher. Her short haircut made it impossible to guess her age. “Do you really think she’s Joan of Arc?”

  Sophie squeezed her brother’s arm. “After all we’ve seen, what do you think?” She nodded toward the table. “I just want fruit and cereal.”

  “No sausage, no eggs?” he asked, surprised. His sister was the only person he knew who could eat more sausages than he could.

  “No.” She frowned, blue eyes clouding. “It’s funny, but even the thought of eating meat is making me feel sick.” She grabbed a scone and turned away before he could comment, and approached Joan, who was pouring coffee into a tall glass cup. Sophie’s nostrils flared. “Hawaiian Kona coffee?” she asked.

  Joan’s gray eyes blinked in surprise and she inclined her head. “I’m impressed.”

  Sophie grinned and shrugged. “I worked in a coffee shop. I’d know the smell of Kona anywhere.”

  “I fell in love with it when we were in Hawaii,” Joan said. She spoke English with the merest hint of an American accent. “I keep it for a special treat.”

  “I love the smell; hate the taste. Too bitter.”

  Joan sipped a little more coffee. “I’ll bet you didn’t come here to talk about coffee?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I just…” She stopped. She had just met this woman, yet she was about to ask her an incredibly personal question. “Can I ask you something?” she said quickly.

  “Anything,” Joan said sincerely, and Sophie believed her. She took a deep breath and her words tumbled out in a rush.

  “Scathach once told me you were the last person to have a pure silver aura.”

  “That’s why yours reacted to mine,” Joan said, wrapping both hands around the cup and staring at the girl over the rim. “I do apologize. My aura overloaded yours. I can teach you how to prevent that from happening.” She smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Though the chances of meeting another pure silver aura in your lifetime are incredibly slim.”

  Sophie nibbled nervously on the blueberry scone. “Please excuse me for asking, but are you really…really Joan of Arc, the Joan of Arc?”

  “Yes, I really am Jeanne d’Arc.” The woman gave a short bow. “La Pucelle, the Maid of Orléans, at your service.”

  “But I thought…I mean, I always read that you died….”

  Joan dipped her head and smiled. “Scathach rescued me.” She reached out and touched Sophie’s arm, and immediately, flickering images of Scathach on a huge black horse, wearing white and jet armor and wielding two blazing swords, danced behind her eyes.

  “The Shadow single-handedly fought her way through the huge crowd who had gathered to watch my execution. No one could stand against her. In the panic, chaos and confusion, she snatched me right out from under the noses of my executioners.”

  The images flashed in Sophie’s head: Joan, wearing ragged and scorched clothing, clinging to Scathach as the Warrior maneuvered her armored black horse through the panicking crowd, the blazing swords in either hand clearing their path.

  “Of course, everyone had to say they saw Joan die,” Scatty said, joining them, carefully slicing a pineapple into neat chunks with a curved knife. “No one—neither English nor French—was going to admit that the Maid of Orléans had been snatched out from under the noses of perhaps five hundred heavily armed knights, rescued by a single female warrior.”

  Joan reached out and took a cube of pineapple from Scathach’s fingers and popped it into her mouth. “Scatty took me to Nicholas and Perenelle,” she continued. “They gave me shelter, looked after me. I’d been injured in the escape and was weakened from months of captivity. But despite Nicholas’s best attention, I would have died if it had not been for Scatty.” She reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand again, not seeming to notice the tears on her cheeks.

  “Joan had lost a lot of blood,” Scathach said. “No matter what Nicholas or Perenelle did, she was not getting any better. So Nicholas performed one of the first-ever blood transfusions.”

  “Whose blood—” Sophie started to ask, until she suddenly realized she knew the answer. “Your blood?”

  “Scathach’s vampire blood saved me. And kept me alive, too—made me immortal.” Joan grinned. Sophie noted that her teeth were normal, not pointed like Scatty’s. “Luckily, it has none of the vampire side effects. Though I am vegetarian,” she added. “Have been for the last few centuries.”

  “And you’re married,” Scathach said accusingly. “When did that happen, and how, and why wasn’t I invited?” she demanded, all in one breath.

  “We got married four years ago on Sunset Beach in Hawaii, at sunset, of course. We looked everywhere for you when we decided,” Joan said quickly. “I really wanted you there; I wanted you to be my maid of honor.”

  Scathach’s green eyes narrowed, remembering. “Four years ago…I think I was in Nepal chasing down a rogue Nee-gued. An abominable snowman,” she added, seeing Sophie’s and Joan’s blank looks.

  “We’d no way of contacting you. Your cell wasn’t working, and e-mails bounced back saying your mailbox was full.” Joan caught Scathach’s hand. “Come, I have photos I can show you.” The woman turned back to Sophie. “You should eat now. You need to replace the energy you’ve burned up. Drink plenty of liquids. Water, fruit juices, but no caffeine—no tea and no coffee, nothing that’s going to keep you awake. Once you’ve eaten, Francis will show you to your rooms, where you can shower and rest.” She slowly looked Sophie up and down. “I’ll get you some clothes. You’re about my size. And then later we’ll talk about your aura.” Joan held up her left hand and spread her fingers. An articulated metal glove sparkled into existence over her flesh. “I’ll show you how to control it, how to shape it, make it into anything you wish.” The glove turned into a metal raptor’s claw complete with curved talons before it faded back to Joan’s tanned flesh. Only her fingernails remained silver. She leaned in and kissed Sophie quickly on each cheek. “But first you must rest. Now,” she said, looking at Scathach, “let me show you the photos.”

  The two women hurried from the kitchen, and Sophie made her way back down the long room to where Saint-Germain was talking earnestly to her brother. Josh handed her a plate piled high with fruit and bread. His own plate was heaped with eggs and sausages. Sophie felt her stomach object at the sight and she forced herself to look away. She nibbled on the fruit, listening to the conversation.

  “No, I’m human, I cannot Awaken your powers,” Saint-Germain was saying as she joined them. “For that you need an Elder or one of the handful of Next Generation who could do it.” He smiled, showing his misshapen teeth. “Don’t worry, Nicholas will find someone to Awaken you.”

  “Is there anyone here, in Paris, who could do it?”

  Saint-Germain took a moment to consider. “Machiavelli would know someone, I’m sure. He knows everything. But I don’t.” He turned to Sophie, bowing slightly. “I understand you were lucky enough to be Awakened by the legendary Hekate and then trained in the Magic of Air by my old teacher, the Witch of Endor.” He shook his head. “How is the old witch? She never liked me,” he added.

  “Still doesn’t,” Sophie said quickly, then blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  The Count laughed. “Oh, Sophie, you didn’t say it…well, not really. The Witch did. It’s going to take some time for you to sort through her memories. I got a call from her this morning. She told me how she imbued you not only with the Magic of Air, but with her entire body of knowledge. The mummy technique hasn’t been used in living memory; it is incredibly dang
erous.”

  Sophie glanced quickly at her brother. He was watching Saint-Germain carefully, listening to every word. She noted the tension in his neck and jaw from how he was squeezing his mouth shut.

  “You should have rested for at least twenty-four hours to allow your conscious and subconscious time to sort through the sudden influx of alien memories, thoughts and ideas.”

  “There wasn’t time,” Sophie muttered.

  “Well, there is now. Eat up; then I’ll show you to your rooms. Sleep as long as you like. You’re completely safe. No one even knows you’re here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “They’re in Saint-Germain’s town house off the Champs-Elysées.” Machiavelli pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back in the black leather chair, swiveling to look through the tall window. In the distance, across the slanted tile rooftops, he could make out the tip of the Eiffel Tower. The fireworks had finally stopped, but a pall of rainbow-colored clouds still hung in the air. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we have the house under observation. Saint-Germain, Scathach and the twins are inside. There are no other occupants.”

  Machiavelli held the phone away from his ear as static rippled and crackled. Dee’s jet was just taking off from a small private airfield north of L.A. It would stop in New York to refuel, then fly transatlantic to Shannon in Ireland and refuel again before continuing on to Paris. The crackling faded and Dee’s voice, strong and clear, came through the phone.

  “And the Alchemyst?”

  “Lost in Paris. My men had him on the ground at gunpoint, but he somehow coated them in sugar and then unleashed every ant in the city onto them. They panicked; he escaped.”

  “Transmutation,” Dee remarked. “Water is composed of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen: sucrose has the same ratio. He changed the water into sugar; it’s a parlor trick—I would have expected more of him.”

  Machiavelli ran his hand across his short snow white hair. “I though it was rather clever myself,” he said mildly. “He hospitalized six police officers.”

  “He will return to the twins,” Dee snapped. “He needs them. He’s been waiting all his life to find them.”

  “We’ve all been waiting,” Machiavelli reminded the Magician quietly. “And right now, we know where they are, which means we know where Flamel will go.”

  “Do nothing until I get there,” Dee commanded.

  “And have you any idea when that might—” Machiavelli began, but the line was dead. He was unsure whether Dee had hung up or the call had dropped. Knowing Dee, he guessed he’d hung up; that was his usual style. The tall, elegant man tapped the phone against his thin lips before replacing the handset. He had no intention of following Dee’s orders; he was going to capture Flamel and the twins before Dee’s plane touched down in Paris. He would do what Dee had failed to do for centuries, and in return, the Elders would grant him anything he desired.

  Machiavelli’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. An unusually long string of numbers scrolled across it, looking like no other number he’d ever seen before. The head of the DGSE frowned. Only the president of France, a few highly placed cabinet ministers and his own personal staff had this number. He hit Answer but didn’t speak.

  “The English Magician believes you will try and capture Flamel and the twins before he arrives.” The voice on the other end spoke Greek in a dialect that had not been used in millennia.

  Niccolò Machiavelli sat bolt upright in his chair. “Master?” he said.

  “Give Dee your full support. Do not move against Flamel until he arrives.” The line went dead.

  Machiavelli carefully placed his cell phone on the bare desk and sat back. Holding both hands up before his face, he was unsurprised to find that they were shaking slightly. The last time he’d spoken to the Elder he called Master had been more than a century and a half ago. This was the Elder who had granted him immortality at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Had Dee somehow contacted him? Machiavelli shook his head. Highly unlikely; probably Dee had contacted his own master and asked him to make the request. But Machiavelli’s master was one of the most powerful of the Dark Elders…. That brought him back to a question that had troubled him down through the centuries: who was Dee’s master?

  Every human granted immortality by an Elder was bound to that Elder. An Elder who bestowed immortality could just as easily revoke it. Machiavelli had even seen it happen: he’d watched a healthy-looking young man wither and age in a matter of heartbeats, eventually collapsing into a pile of crackling bones and dusty skin.

  Machiavelli’s dossier of immortal humans was cross-linked to the Elder or Dark Elder they served. There were only a very few humani—like Flamel, Perenelle and Saint-Germain—who owed no loyalty to an Elder, because they had become immortal by their own efforts.

  No one knew whom Dee served. But it was obviously someone more powerful than Machiavelli’s own Dark Elder master. And that made Dee all the more dangerous.

  Leaning forward, Machiavelli pressed a button on his desk phone. The door immediately opened and Dagon stepped into the room, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting the bare walls.

  “Any reports on the Alchemyst?”

  “Nothing. We’ve accessed the video from the security cameras in the Pont de l’Alma station and every station it connects with and we’re analyzing it now, but it’s going to take time.”

  Machiavelli nodded. Time was something he did not have. He waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “Well, we might not know where he is now, but we know where he’s going: to Saint-Germain’s house.”

  Dagon’s lips parted stickily. “The house is under observation. All entrances and exits are secured; there are even men in the sewers beneath the building. No one can get in or out without us observing them. There are two RAID units in vans in nearby side streets and a third unit in the house next to Saint-Germain’s property. They can be over the wall in moments.”

  Machiavelli stood up and stepped out from behind the desk. With his hands behind his back, he walked around the tiny anonymous office. Although it was his official address, he rarely used this room, and it held nothing but the desk, two chairs, and the telephone. “But is it enough, I wonder? Flamel has escaped from six highly trained officers who were holding him at gunpoint, facedown on the pavement. And we know Saint-Germain—the Master of Fire—is inside this property. We had a little example of his abilities this morning.”

  “The fireworks were harmless,” Dagon said.

  “I’m sure he could have just as easily turned the tower to liquid. Remember, he makes diamonds from coal.”

  Dagon nodded.

  Machiavelli continued. “We also know that the American girl’s powers have been Awakened, and we’ve seen a little of what she can do. The fog at Sacré-Coeur was an impressive feat for someone untrained and so young.”

  “And then there is the Shadow,” Dagon added.

  Niccolò Machiavelli’s face turned into an ugly mask. “And then there is the Shadow,” he agreed.

  “She took out twelve heavily armed officers in the coffee shop this morning,” Dagon said emotionlessly. “I’ve watched her face down entire armies, and she survived for centuries in an Underworld Shadowrealm. Flamel is obviously using her to protect the twins. She must be destroyed before we move against any of the others.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You will need an army.”

  “Perhaps not. Remember, ‘Cunning and deceit will every time serve a man better than force,’” he quoted.

  “Who said that?” Dagon asked.

  “I did, in a book, a long time ago. It was true in the court of the Medicis, and it is true now.” He looked up. “Did you send for the Disir?”

  “They’re on their way.” Dagon’s voice turned sticky. “I don’t trust them.”

  “No one trusts the Disir.” There was no humor in Machiavelli’s smile. “Did you ever hear the story of how Hekate trapped Scathach in that Underworld?�
��

  Dagon remained unmoving.

  “Hekate used the Disir. Their feud with the Shadow goes back to the time just after the sinking of Danu Talis.” Putting his hands on the creature’s shoulders, Machiavelli stepped close to Dagon, taking care to breathe through his mouth. Dagon exuded a fishy odor; it coated his pale skin like oily, rancid sweat. “I know you hate the Shadow, and I have never asked you why, though I have my suspicions. It is obvious that she has caused you much pain. However, I want you to put aside your feelings; hate is the most useless of all emotions. Success is the best revenge. I need you focused and by my side. We are close now, so close to victory, close to returning the Elder Race to this world. Leave Scathach to the Disir. But if they fail, then she is yours. I promise you.”

  Dagon opened his mouth to reveal the circle of needle-pointed teeth. “They will not fail. The Disir intend to bring Nidhogg.”

  Niccolò Machiavelli blinked in surprise. “Nidhogg…it’s free? How?”

  “The World Tree was destroyed.”

  “If they loose Nidhogg on Scathach, then you are right. They will not fail. They cannot.”

  Dagon reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. His huge bulbous fish eyes were wide and staring. “And if they lose control of Nidhogg, it could devour the entire city.”

  Machiavelli took a moment to consider. Then he nodded. “It would be a small price to pay to destroy the Shadow.”

  “You sound just like Dee.”

  “Oh, I am nothing like the English Magician,” Machiavelli said feelingly. “Dee is a dangerous fanatic.”

  “And you’re not?” Dagon asked.

  “I’m only dangerous.”

  Dr. John Dee sat back into the soft leather seat and watched the sparkling grid of L.A.’s lights fall away beneath him. Checking an ornate pocket watch, he wondered if Machiavelli had received the phone call from his master yet. He imagined he had. Dee grinned, wondering what the Italian would make of that. If nothing else, it would at least show Machiavelli who was in charge.