The Magician

by Michael Scott

  “Nothing,” the two men said simultaneously.

  “Nothing? But that’s not possible.”

  Joan swiveled around in the passenger seat. “But that is what is going to happen. This will be covered up.”

  Sophie looked at Flamel. He nodded in agreement. “Most people simply won’t believe it anyway, Sophie. It will be dismissed as a hoax or a prank. Those who do think it true will be called conspiracy theorists. And you can be sure that Machiavelli’s people are already working to confiscate and destroy every image.”

  “Within a couple of hours,” Saint-Germain added, “the events of this morning will simply be reported as an unfortunate accident. Sightings of a monster will be laughed at and dismissed as hysteria.”

  Sophie shook her head in disbelief. “You can’t hide something like that forever.”

  “The Elders have been doing it for millennia,” Saint-Germain said, tilting the rearview mirror so that he could look at Sophie. In the dark interior of the car, she thought his bright blue eyes were glowing slightly. “And you have to remember that humankind really does not want to believe in magic. They don’t want to know that myths and legends were almost always based on the truth.”

  Joan reached over and laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm. “But I do not agree; humans have always believed in magic. It is only in these last few centuries that the belief has fallen away. I think that they really want to believe, because in their hearts they know it to be true. They know that magic really exists.”

  “I used to believe in magic,” Sophie said very quietly. She had turned to look out at the city again, but reflected in the glass, she saw a brightly painted child’s bedroom: her bedroom, five, perhaps six years ago. She had no idea where it was—the house in Scottsdale, maybe, or it might have been Raleigh; they’d moved around so much then. She was sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by her favorite books. “When I was younger, I read about princesses and wizards and knights and magicians. Even though I knew they were just stories, I wanted the magic to be real. Until now,” she added bitterly. She moved her head to glance at the Alchemyst. “Are all the fairy tales true?”

  Flamel nodded. “Not every fairy tale, but just about every legend is based on a truth; every myth has a basis in reality.”

  “Even the scary ones?” she whispered.

  “Especially the scary ones.”

  A trio of news helicopters buzzed low overhead, the noise of their rotors vibrating the interior of the car. Flamel waited until they had passed and then leaned forward. “Where are we going?”

  Saint-Germain pointed straight ahead and to the right. “There’s a secret entrance to the catacombs in the Trocadéro Gardens. It leads straight down into the forbidden tunnels. I’ve checked the old maps; I think Dee’s route will take them through the sewers first and then down into the lower tunnels. We’ll make up some time this way.”

  Nicholas Flamel sat back in the seat and then reached over and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

  But Sophie didn’t believe him.

  The entrance to the catacombs was through a rather ordinary-looking metal grate set into the ground. Partially covered in moss and grass, it was hidden in a stand of trees behind a richly carved and beautifully painted carousel at one end of the Trocadéro Gardens. Usually, the stunning gardens would have been overrun with tourists, but this morning they were deserted, and the carousel’s empty wooden horses bobbed up and down below their blue and white striped awning.

  Saint-Germain cut across a narrow path and led them into a patch of grass burned brown by the summer sun. He stopped over an unmarked rectangular metal grate. “I haven’t used this since 1941.” He knelt down, grabbed the bars and tugged. It didn’t move.

  Joan glanced sidelong at Sophie. “When Francis and I fought with the French Resistance against the Germans, we used the catacombs as a base. We could pop up anywhere in the city.” She tapped the metal grate with the toe of her shoe. “This was one of our favorite spots. Even during the war the gardens were always full of people, and we could mingle easily with the crowds.”

  The air was suddenly touched with the rich autumnal scent of burnt leaves, and then the metal bars in Francis’s hands began to glow with a rich red-hot, then white-hot, heat. The metal turned to liquid and melted away, thick blobs disappearing down into the shaft. Saint-Germain wrenched the remainder of the grating out of the hole and tossed it to one side, then swung himself into the opening. “There’s a ladder here.”

  “Sophie, you go next,” Nicholas said. “I’ll come after you. Joan, will you take up the rear?”

  Joan nodded. She caught the edge of a nearby wooden park bench and dragged it across the grass. “I’ll pull it over the opening before I climb down. We don’t want any unexpected visitors dropping in, do we?” She smiled.

  Sophie gingerly climbed into the opening, her feet finding the rungs of the ladder. She carefully lowered herself. She’d been expecting it to be foul and horrible, but it just smelled dry and musty. She started counting the steps but lost count somewhere around seventy-two, though she could tell by the rapidly diminishing square of sky above their heads that they were climbing deep underground. She wasn’t scared—not for herself. Tunnels and narrow spaces held no fears for her, but her brother was terrified of small spaces: how was he feeling now? Butterflies shifted in her stomach; she felt queasy. Her mouth went dry and she knew—instinctively, unquestioningly—that this was how her brother was feeling right at that moment. She knew that Josh was terrified.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “Bones,” Josh said numbly, looking up and down the tunnel.

  The wall directly before him was created from hundreds of stained-yellow and bleached-white skulls. Dee strode down the corridor and his sphere of light sent shadows dancing and twitching, making it appear as if the empty eye sockets were moving, following him.

  Josh had grown up with bones; he knew they were nothing to be frightened of. His father’s study was full of skeletons. As children, both he and Sophie had played in museum storerooms full of skeletal remains, but they had all been animal and dinosaur bones. Josh had even helped piece together the tailbone of a raptor that had gone on display in the American Museum of Natural History. But these bones…these were…these were…

  “Are these all human bones?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Machiavelli said softly, his voice now touched with a trace of his Italian accent. “There are the remains of at least six million bodies down here. Maybe more. The catacombs were originally huge limestone quarries.” He jerked his thumb upward. “The same limestone used to build the city. Paris is built over a warren of tunnels.”

  “How did they get down here?” Josh’s voice trembled. He coughed, wrapped his arms tightly around his body and tried to look nonchalant, as if he weren’t completely terrified. “They look ancient; how long have they been here?”

  “A couple of hundred years only,” Machiavelli said, surprising him. “By the end of the eighteenth century, the graveyards of Paris were overflowing. I was in the city then,” he added, mouth twisting in disgust. “I’d never seen anything like it. There were so many dead in the city that the graveyards were often just huge mounds of piled earth with bones visible in them. Paris might have been one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but it was also the foulest. Worse than London—and that’s saying something!” He laughed, and the sound echoed and reechoed off the bone walls and was distorted into something hideous. “The stink was indescribable, and there truly were rats as big as dogs. Disease was rife and outbreaks of plague were common. Finally, it was recognized that the overflowing graveyards must have something to do with the contagion. So it was decided to empty the graveyards and move the remains down into the empty quarries.”

  Trying not to think about the fact that he was surrounded by the bones of people who had most likely died from some terrible disease, Josh focused on the walls. “Who made the patter
ns?” he asked, pointing to a particularly ornate sunburst design that had been created using human bones of various length to represent the sunbeams.

  Machiavelli shrugged. “Who knows? Someone who wished to honor the dead, perhaps; someone trying to make sense out of what must have been incredible chaos. Humans are always looking to make order out of chaos,” he added softly.

  Josh looked at him. “You call them…us, ‘humans.’” He turned to look for Dee, but the Magician had almost reached the end of the corridor and was out of earshot. “Dee calls us humani.”

  “Don’t confuse me with Dee,” Machiavelli said with an icy smile.

  Josh was confused. Who was the more powerful here—Dee or Machiavelli? He’d thought it was the Magician, but he was beginning to suspect that the Italian was much more in control. “Scathach told us you were more dangerous and more cunning than Dee,” he said, thinking aloud.

  Machiavelli’s smile turned to a delighted grin. “That’s the nicest thing she’s ever said about me.”

  “Is it true? Are you more dangerous than Dee?”

  Machiavelli took a moment to consider. Then he smiled and the faintest hint of serpent filled the tunnel. “Absolutely.”

  “Hurry; this way,” Dr. Dee called back, voice flattened by the narrow walls and low ceiling. He turned and headed off down the bone-lined tunnel, taking the light with him. Josh was tempted to run after him, unwilling to be alone in the utter darkness, but then Machiavelli snapped his fingers and an elegant candle-thin flame of gray-white light appeared in the palm of his hand.

  “Not all the tunnels are like this,” Machiavelli continued, indicating the neatly set bones in the walls, the regular shapes and patterns. “Some of the small tunnels are simply piled high with assorted bits and pieces.”

  They rounded a curve in the tunnel and found Dee waiting for them, tapping his foot impatiently. He turned and marched away without saying a word.

  Josh concentrated on Dee’s back and the globe of light bobbing over his shoulder as they wound deeper and deeper into the catacombs; doing that helped him to ignore the walls that seemed to be closing in with every step. He noticed as he walked along that some of the bones lining the tunnel had dates scratched on them, centuries-old graffiti, and he was conscious too that the only footsteps in the thick layer of dust on the floor were the imprints of Dee’s small feet. These tunnels had not been used in a very long time.

  “Do people ever come down here?” he asked Machiavelli, making conversation just for the sake of hearing a sound in the oppressive silence.

  “Yes. Portions of the catacombs are open to the public,” Machiavelli said, holding his hand high, the thin flame picking out the ornate patterns of bones set in the walls, dancing shadows bringing them to flickering life. “But there are many kilometers of catacombs beneath the city, and vast tracts of it have not been mapped. Exploring those tunnels is dangerous and illegal, of course, but people still do it. Those people are called cataphiles. There’s even a special police unit, the cataflics, that patrols these tunnels.” Machiavelli waved an arm at the surrounding walls, the flame dancing wildly but not extinguishing. “But we’ll run into neither group down here. This area is completely unknown. We are deep below the city now, in one of the very first quarries excavated many centuries ago.”

  “Deep below the city,” Josh repeated slowly. He hunched his shoulders, imagining he could actually feel the weight of Paris over his head, the many tons of earth, concrete and steel pressing down on him. Claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm him, and he felt as if the walls were throbbing, pulsing. His throat was dry, his lips cracked, and his tongue felt too big in his mouth. “I think,” he whispered to Machiavelli, “I think I’d like to head back up to the surface now, if that’s OK.”

  The Italian blinked in genuine surprise. “No, Josh, no, it’s not OK.” Machiavelli reached out and squeezed Josh’s shoulder and the boy felt a rush of warmth flow through his body. His aura crackled, and the close air in the tunnel was touched with the scent of orange and the rank odor of snake. “It’s too late for that,” Machiavelli said gently. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’ve gone too deep…there’s no turning back. You will leave these catacombs Awakened or…”

  “Or what?” Josh asked, when he realized, with a growing sense of horror, how the Italian was going to finish the sentence.

  “Or you will not leave them at all,” Machiavelli said simply.

  They rounded a curve and started down a long arrow-straight tunnel. The walls here were even more ornately decorated in bone but with strange square patterns that Josh almost recognized. They were similar to drawings he’d seen in his father’s study and looked like Maya or Aztec glyphs; but what were Meso-American hieroglyphs doing in the Catacombs of Paris?

  Dee was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel. His gray eyes sparkled in the reflected light, which also lent his skin an unhealthy glow. When he spoke, his English accent had thickened, and the words tumbled so quickly it was difficult to comprehend what he was saying. Josh couldn’t tell if the Magician was excited or nervous, and that made him even more afraid.

  “This is now a momentous day for you, boy, a momentous day. For not only will your powers be Awakened, but you will also meet one of the few Elders who is still remembered by humanity. It is a great honor.” He clapped his hands together. Ducking his head, he raised his hand, bringing up the globe of light, and revealed two tall arched columns of bones that had been shaped to form a doorframe. Beyond the opening, there was utter blackness. Stepping back, he directed, “You first.”

  Josh hesitated and Machiavelli caught his arm and squeezed tightly. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “Whatever happens, you must not show fear, and do not panic. Your life, your very sanity, depends on it. Do you understand?”

  “No fear, no panic,” Josh repeated. He was starting to hyperventilate. “No fear, no panic.”

  “Go now.” Machiavelli released the boy’s arm and pushed him forward toward Dee and the bone doorway. “Have your powers Awakened,” he said, “and I hope it will be worth it.”

  Something in Machiavelli’s voice made Josh look back. There was a look almost of pity on the Italian’s face, and Josh stopped. Dee looked at him, gray eyes glittering, lips twisted in an ugly smile. He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to be Awakened?”

  And Josh really had only one answer to that.

  Glancing back at Machiavelli again, he half raised a hand in farewell, took a deep breath and stepped through the arched doorway into the pitch-black. Light blossomed as Dee followed him, and the boy discovered that he was standing in a vast circular chamber that seemed to be carved entirely out of one enormous bone—the smoothly curved walls, the polished yellow ceiling, even the parchment-colored floor were the same shade and texture as the bone-filled walls outside.

  Dee put his hand on the small of Josh’s back and urged him forward. Josh took two steps and stopped. The past few days had taught him to expect surprises—wonders, creatures and monsters: but this, this was…disappointing.

  The chamber was empty except for a long rectangular raised stone plinth in the center of the room. Dee’s globe of light bobbed over the platform, harshly illuminating every carved detail. Lying flat on the top of a pitted slab of limestone was a huge statue of a man in ancient-looking metal and leather armor, gauntleted hands wrapped around the thick hilt of a broadsword that was at least six feet long. Rising up on his toes, Josh could see that the statue’s head was covered in a helmet that completely concealed the face.

  Josh looked around. Dee was standing to the right of the doorway and Machiavelli had stepped into the room and taken up a position on the left. They were both watching him intently. “What…what happens now?” he asked, his voice flat and muffled in the chamber.

  Neither man responded. Machiavelli folded his arms and tilted his head slightly to one side, eyes narrowing.

  “Who’s this?” Josh asked, jerking a thumb at the statue. He
didn’t expect to get an answer from Dee, but when he turned to the Italian he realized that Machiavelli wasn’t looking at him, he was looking beyond him. Josh spun around…just as two nightmarish creatures materialized out of the shadows.

  Everything about them was white, from their almost transparent skin to the long fine hair that flowed down their backs and brushed the floor behind them. It was impossible to say whether they were male or female. They were the size of small children, unnaturally thin, with bulbous heads, broad foreheads and pointed chins. Overlarge ears and tiny nubs of horn grew out of the top of their skulls. Huge circular eyes without any pupils fixed on him, and when the creatures stepped forward, he realized that there was something wrong with their legs. Their thighs curved backward, and then the legs jutted forward at the knee and ended in goatlike hooves.

  They separated as they came around the slab, and Josh’s instinct was to back away from them, but then he remembered Machiavelli’s advice and stood his ground. Taking a deep breath, he looked closely at the nearer creature and discovered that it was not quite as terrifying as it looked at first: it was so small it appeared almost fragile. He thought he knew what they were; he’d seen images of them on fragments of Greek and Roman pottery on the bookshelves in his mom’s study. They were fauns, or maybe satyrs; he wasn’t sure what the difference was.

  The creatures slowly circled Josh, reaching for him with icy long-fingered hands tipped with filthy black nails, stroking his torn T-shirt, pinching the fabric of his jeans. They spoke together, chattering in high-pitched, almost inaudible voices that set his teeth on edge. One bone-chilling finger touched the flesh of his stomach and his aura spat and crackled gold sparks. “Hey!” he shouted. The creatures jumped back, but that single touch had set Josh’s heart racing. He was abruptly gripped by every nameless fear he’d ever imagined, and all the nightmares that most terrified him flooded to the surface, leaving him gasping and shaking, bathed in a bitter icy sweat. The second faun darted forward and laid a cold hand on Josh’s face. Suddenly, his heart was tripping madly, his stomach churning with mindless panic.