The Sorceress smiled. “She can try.” She twirled the spear. It hummed in the air. “I wonder what this would turn her into: baby girl, lion cub or bird egg.”
“You know that Dee will return—and in force. He’ll want his army of monsters.”
“I’ll be waiting for him, too,” the Sorceress promised.
“You cannot win,” the Morrigan spat.
“People have been telling Nicholas and me that for centuries. And yet, we’re still here.”
“What will you do with me?” the Crow Goddess asked eventually. “Unless you kill me, you know I’ll never rest until you are dead.”
Perenelle smiled. She brought the spearhead close to her lips and blew gently on it until it glowed white-hot. “I wonder what this would turn you into?” she asked absently. “Bird or egg?”
“I was born, not hatched,” the Morrigan said simply. “You cannot threaten me with death. It holds no fear for me.”
Perenelle got to her feet and planted the butt of the spear on the ground. “I’m not going to kill you. I’ve got a much more suitable punishment in store for you.” She looked toward the skies, and the wind took her long hair, blowing it straight out behind her. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to be able to fly, to soar silently through the heavens.”
“There is no greater feeling,” the Morrigan said honestly.
Perenelle’s smile was icy. “That’s what I thought. So I’m going to take away that which you hold most precious: your freedom and your ability to fly. I have the most wonderful cell just for you.”
“No prison can hold me,” the Morrigan said contemptuously.
“It was designed to hold Areop-Enap,” Perenelle said. “Deep underground, you will never see the sunlight or fly in the air again.”
The Morrigan howled again and thrashed from side to side. The water tower shifted and trembled, but the Old Spider’s web was unbreakable. Then the Crow Goddess abruptly fell silent. The wind picked up, and fog swirled around the two women. They could hear the clanging of distant alarms from San Francisco.
The Morrigan began to heave a series of hacking coughs, and it took Perenelle a moment before she realized that the Crow Goddess was laughing. Although she had an idea she was not going to like the answer, Perenelle asked, “And do you want to tell me what you find so amusing?”
“You may have defeated me,” the Morrigan heaved, “but you are already dying. I can see the age on your face and hands.”
Perenelle raised her hand to her face and moved the spearhead so that it shed light on her flesh. She was shocked to discover a speckling of brown spots on the back of her hand. She touched her face and neck, fingers tracing the lines of new wrinkles.
“How long before the alchemical formula wears off, Sorceress? How long before you wither into shriveled old age? Is it measured in days or weeks?”
“A lot can happen in a few days.”
“Sorceress, listen to me now. Listen to the truth. The Magician is in Paris. He has captured the boy and loosed Nidhogg on your husband and the others.” She coughed another laugh. “I was sent here to kill you because you and your husband are worthless. The twins are the key to the future.”
Perenelle leaned close to the Morrigan. The spearhead shed a crimson glow over both their faces, making them look like hideous masks. “You’re right. The twins are the key to the future—but whose: the Dark Elders’ or humankind’s?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Niccolò Machiavelli took a tentative step forward and looked down over the city of Paris. He was standing on the roof of the great Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame; below was the river Seine and the Pont au Double, and directly spread out before him was the broad parvis, the square. Holding tightly to the ornate brickwork, he drew in a deep shuddering breath and willed his thumping heart to slow. He had just climbed one thousand and one steps up out of the catacombs onto the roof of the cathedral, following a secret route Dee claimed he’d used before. His legs were trembling with the effort and his knees ached. Machiavelli liked to think that he kept himself in good condition—he was a strict vegetarian and exercised every day—but the climb had exhausted him. He was also vaguely irritated that the strenuous climb hadn’t affected Dee in the slightest. “When did you say you were last up here?” he asked.
“I didn’t say,” the Magician snapped. He was standing to Machiavelli’s left, in the shadow of the south tower. “But if you must know, it was in 1575.” He pointed off to one side. “I met the Morrigan right there. It was on this roof that I first learned of the true nature of Nicholas Flamel and the existence of the Book of Abraham. So perhaps it is fitting that it ends here too.”
Machiavelli leaned out and looked down. He was standing almost directly above the west rose window. The square below him should have been thronged with tourists, but it was eerily deserted. “And how do you know Flamel and the others will come out here?” he asked.
Dee’s small teeth flashed in an ugly grin. “We know the boy is claustrophobic. His senses have just been Awakened. When he comes out of whatever trance Mars left him in, he’s going to be terrified, and his heightened senses will only add to that terror. For the sake of his sanity, Flamel will have to get him above ground as quickly as possible. I know that there is a secret passage leading from the buried Roman city into the cathedral.” He suddenly pointed down as five figures stumbled out of the central door directly below them. “You see?” he said triumphantly. “I’m never wrong.” He looked at Machiavelli. “You know what we have to do?”
The Italian nodded. “I know.”
“You don’t look too happy about it.”
“Defacing a beautiful building is a crime.”
“But killing people is not?” Dee asked.
“Well, people can always be replaced.”
“Let me just sit,” Josh gasped. Without waiting for a response, he crumpled out of his sister’s and Saint-Germain’s hands and sat down on a smooth circular stone set into the cobbled square. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he rested his chin on his kneecaps and wrapped his arms around his shins. He was shaking so hard that his heels were tapping off the stone.
“We really need to keep moving,” Flamel said urgently, looking around.
“Give us a minute,” Sophie snapped. Kneeling beside her brother, she reached out to touch him, but a spark cracked between her fingertips and his arm and they both jumped. “I know what you’re feeling,” she said gently. “Everything is so…so bright, so loud, so sharp. Your clothes feel so heavy and rough against your skin, your shoes are too tight. But you do get used to it. The feelings do go away.” He was undergoing what she’d experienced only a couple of days ago.
“My head is throbbing,” Josh mumbled. “It feels like it’s about to explode, like it’s crammed with too much information. I keep thinking these strange thoughts….”
The girl frowned. That didn’t sound right. When she’d been Awakened, her senses had been overwhelmed, but it was only when the Witch of Endor had poured knowledge into her that she’d felt as if her brain were about to burst. A sudden thought struck her, and she remembered that when she’d raced into the chamber, she’d seen the Elder’s huge hand pressing on her brother’s head. “Josh,” she said quietly. “When Mars Awakened you, what did he say?”
Her brother shook his head miserably. “I don’t know.”
“Think,” she said sharply, and saw him wince at the sound of her voice. “Please, Josh,” she said quietly. “This is important.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” he muttered with a trace of a smile.
“I know.” She grinned. “But I’m still your big sister—now tell me!”
Josh frowned, but the effort hurt his forehead. “He said…he said that the Awakening wasn’t a gift, that it was something I would have to pay for later.”
“What else?”
“He said…he said that mine was one of the most powerful auras he’d ever encountered.” Josh had been looking at the
god as he’d spoken the words, seeing him for the first time with Awakened eyes, noticing the intricate detail on his helm and the ornate design on his leather breastplate and hearing clearly the pain in his voice. “He said he was going to give me a gift, something I might find useful in the days to come.”
“And?”
“I have no idea what that was. When he put his hand on my head, I felt as if he was trying to push me through the floor. The pressure was incredible.”
“He’s passed something to you,” Sophie said, worried. “Nicholas,” she called.
But there was no response, and when she turned to look for the Alchemyst she found him, Saint-Germain and Joan staring back at the great cathedral.
“Sophie,” Nicholas said calmly, without turning around, “help your brother to his feet. We need to get out of here right now. Before it’s too late.”
His calm, reasoned tone frightened her more than if he had shouted. Catching her brother under both arms, ignoring the rattling snap of their auras, she hauled him upright and turned around. Facing them were three squat mismatched monsters.
“I think it’s already too late,” she said.
Over the centuries, Dr. John Dee had learned how to animate Golems and had also managed to create and control simulacra and homunculi. One of the earliest skills Machiavelli had mastered was the ability to control a tulpa. The process was surprisingly similar; all that really differed were the materials.
They could both bring the inanimate to life.
Now the Magician and the Italian stood side by side on the roof of Notre Dame and focused their wills.
And one by one, the gargoyles and grotesques of Notre Dame came to creaking life.
The gargoyles—the water spouts—moved first.
Singly and in pairs, then in dozens and suddenly in hundreds, they broke free of the cathedral walls. Crawling out from the hidden places—the unseen eaves, the forgotten gutters—stone dragons and serpents, goats and monkeys, cats, dogs and monsters slithered down the front of the building.
Then the grotesques—the hideous carved statues—came to lumbering life. Lions, tigers, apes and bears tore themselves free from the medieval stonework and clambered down the building.
“This is really very, very bad,” Saint-Germain muttered.
A crudely carved lion dropped to the ground directly in front of the cathedral door and padded forward, stone claws clicking and sliding on the smooth cobbles.
Saint-Germain threw out his hand and the lion was engulfed in a ball of fire…which had no effect on it, other than to burn off centuries of dirt and bird droppings. The lion kept coming. Saint-Germain tried different types of fire—darts and sheets of flame, fire balls and whips—but to no avail.
More and more of the gargoyles dropped to the ground. A few shattered on impact, but most survived. They spread out, filling the square, and then they started to close in, tightening the noose. Some of the creatures were intricately and beautifully carved; others had been weathered to little more than anonymous lumps. The bigger gargoyles lumbered slowly while the smaller grotesques darted about. But they all moved in absolute silence, save for the grinding scrape of stone on stone.
A creature that was half man, half goat shuffled out of the approaching crowd, dropped to all fours and trotted forward, wickedly curved stone horns slashing at Saint-Germain. Joan jumped forward and chopped at the creature, her sword striking sparks off its neck. The blow didn’t even slow it down. Saint-Germain managed to throw himself to one side at the last minute, then made the mistake of slapping the beast on the rump as it went past. His hand stung. The goat-man tried to stop on the cobbles and slipped, crashing to the ground and cracking off one of his horns.
Nicholas drew Clarent and spun around, holding the sword in both hands, wondering which creature would attack first. A bear with the head of a woman lumbered forward, claws extended. Nicholas jabbed with Clarent, but the sword screamed harmlessly off the creature’s stone hide. He quickly cut at the beast with the edge of the sword, but the vibration numbed his entire arm, almost knocking the sword from his grip. The bear swiped a massive paw that whispered over the Alchemyst’s head. It teetered off balance, and Nicholas rushed forward to throw his weight against it. The bear crashed to the ground. Its claws beat against the cobblestones, shattering them to dust as it attempted to regain its feet.
Standing before her brother, desperately trying to shield him, Sophie loosed a series of small whirlwinds. They bounced harmlessly off most of the stones and did nothing more than send a newspaper spiraling high into the sky.
“Nicholas,” Saint-Germain said desperately as the circle of stone creatures drew even closer. “A little magic, some alchemy, would be good now.”
Nicholas held out his right hand. A tiny sphere of green glass formed in it. Then it cracked and the liquid contents flowed back into his skin. “I’m not strong enough,” the Alchemyst answered sadly. “The transmutation spell in the catacombs exhausted me.”
The gargoyles shuffled closer, stone grinding, cracking with every step. Small grotesques were pulverized to dust if they were caught under the bigger creatures’ feet.
“They’ll just roll right over us,” Saint-Germain muttered.
“Dee must be controlling them,” Josh mumbled. He slumped against his sister, hands pressed against his ears. Every grinding footstep, every crack of stone, was agony to his Awakened hearing.
“There’s too many here for just one man,” Joan said. “It has to be Dee and Machiavelli.”
“But they must be close by,” Nicholas said.
“Very close,” Joan agreed.
“A commander always takes the high ground,” Josh said suddenly, surprising himself with the knowledge.
“Which means they’re on the roof of the cathedral,” Flamel concluded.
Then Joan pointed. “I see them. There, between the towers, directly above the center of the West Rose Window.” She tossed her sword to her husband, and then her aura flowed silver around her body and the air filled with the scent of lavender. Her aura hardened, taking on shape and substance, and suddenly a longbow grew out of her left hand while a shining arrow appeared in her right. Drawing back her right arm, she sighted and loosed the arrow, sending it arcing high into the air.
“They’ve spotted us,” Machiavelli said. Huge beads of sweat rolled down his face, and his lips were blue with the effort of controlling the stone creatures.
“It is no matter,” Dee said, peering over the edge. “They are powerless.” In the square below, the five humans were standing in a circle as the crushing stone statues closed in.
“Then let us finish it,” Machiavelli said through gritted teeth. “But remember, we need the children alive.” He broke off as something slender and silver arced through the air before his face. “It’s an arrow,” he began in wonder, and then stopped and grunted as the arrow plunged deep into his thigh. His entire leg from hip to toe went dead. He staggered back and fell onto the cathedral roof, hands pressed against his leg. Surprisingly, there was no blood, but the pain was excruciating.
On the ground far below, at least half the creatures suddenly froze or toppled over. They crashed to the ground, and those behind tumbled over them. Rock shattered, weathered stone exploding to dust. But still the rest of the creatures pressed on, closing in.
Another dozen silver arrows arced up from below. They pinged and shattered harmlessly against the brickwork.
“Machiavelli!” Dee howled.
“I can’t…” The pain in his leg was indescribable, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I can’t concentrate….”
“Then I’ll finish it myself.”
“The boy and girl,” Machiavelli said weakly. “We need them alive….”
“Not necessarily. I am a necromancer. I can reanimate their corpses.”
“No!” Machiavelli screamed.
Dee ignored him. Focusing his extraordinary will, the Magician issued the gargoyles a single command. “Kill the
m. Kill them all.”
The creatures surged forward.
“Again, Joan!” Flamel shouted. “Fire again!”
“I cannot.” The tiny Frenchwoman was gray with exhaustion. “The arrows are shaped from my aura. I have nothing left.”
The gargoyles pressed in, closer and closer, stone grinding and scraping as they shuffled on. Their range of movement was limited; some had claws and teeth, others horns or barbed tails, but they would simply crush the humans.
Josh picked up a small round grotesque that was so weathered it was little more than a squat lump of stone and heaved it back into the mass of creatures. It struck a gargoyle, and both shattered. He winced with the sound, but he also realized that they could be destroyed. Pressing his hands against his ears, he squinted at the broken creature, his Awakened sight taking in every detail. The stone creatures were invulnerable to steel and magic…but then he noted that the stone was weathered and fragile. What destroyed stone?
…There was a flash of memory…except it wasn’t his memory…of an ancient city, walls crumbling, pulverized to dust…
“I’ve got an idea,” he shouted.
“Make it a good one,” Saint-Germain called. “Is it magic?”
“It’s basic chemistry.” Josh looked at Saint-Germain. “Francis, how hot can you make your fire?”
“Very hot.”
“Sophie, how cold a wind can you create?”
“Very cold,” she said, nodding. She suddenly knew what her brother was suggesting: she’d done the same experiment in chemistry class.
“Do it now,” Josh shouted.
A carved dragon with a chipped bat’s wing lurched forward. Saint-Germain unleashed the full force of his Fire magic against the creature’s head, bathing it in flame, baking it cherry red. And then Sophie let loose a puff of arctic air.
The Magician Page 33
