The Warlock

by Michael Scott

  Some of them transformed completely into monsters, sprouting fur and fangs; others became hybrid creatures, growing wings or fins on their bodies. Some shrank, while others grew monstrously tall. Many went mad.

  Abraham was slowly turning into a beautiful statue. His gold aura no longer glowed over and above his skin. It had actually settled onto the surface of his flesh, coating it, turning it metallic. The left side of his face from forehead to chin and from nose to ear was a solid gold mask. Only his eye remained untouched, although the white had turned a pale saffron with threads of gold twisted through the gray iris. The upper and lower teeth on the left side of his face were solid gold, and his left hand was covered in what looked like a golden glove, though Prometheus knew it was actually his flesh.

  Prometheus suddenly realized that Abraham was staring at him. A curl of a smile appeared on his thin lips. “You saw me yesterday,” the Mage said gently. “I’ve not changed since then.”

  The Elder nodded, his cheeks turning the same color as his fiery hair.

  The transformation was both horrible and beautiful. And although Abraham never spoke of it, both he and Prometheus knew that it could only end one way: the Change would turn the Mage into a living statue, incapable of speech or movement, though his mind would remain alert and curious. He had never asked, but Prometheus suspected that Abraham knew exactly how much time he had left.

  “Tell me the news,” Abraham said.

  “It’s not good,” Prometheus warned him. He saw the look of pain cross the fleshy part of the Mage’s face but pressed on quickly. “The strangers appeared—as you said they would—on the hills south of the city. But the anpu were waiting for them. They were captured and were taken away in the vimanas. I’ve no idea where they are now, but I’m guessing they’re in the dungeons below the imperial court.”

  “Then they are lost to us and we are doomed.” Abraham turned away. He raised both hands and the blue-green globe once again appeared in the air. Wisps of white cloud spun around the sphere, floating over the green and brown landmasses. And in the center of the globe was the Isle of Danu Talis.

  “What happens now?” Prometheus asked.

  Abraham brought both hands—metal and flesh—together, enclosing the floating world. Then he squeezed. Grains of blue and white, green and brown, dribbled like sand between his fingers. He turned to the Elder, light flowing off the metallic side of his face. “Now the world ends.”

  his is Nereus,” Niccolò Machiavelli said quickly to Billy the Kid. His left hand was resting lightly on the young man’s shoulder, but his fingers were locked over the nerve in the side of his neck. Every time Billy opened his mouth to say something, Machiavelli squeezed, silencing him. “Billy, this is the Old Man of the Sea, one of the most powerful of all the Elders.” He released the pressure on the American immortal’s neck for an instant.

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Billy squawked.

  The harsh white light Machiavelli had created still lit up the tunnel. It revealed a short broad man with a head of thick shoulder-length hair and a tightly curled beard. An ugly burn marred his deeply tanned forehead, and there was a smattering of similar burns across his chest and shoulders. A sleeveless jerkin of overlapping kelp leaves held together with seaweed covered his chest, and he held a spiked stone trident in his left hand. He moved forward and the white light dipped and illuminated the lower half of his body. Machiavelli felt Billy draw in a shocked breath, and once more his fingers tightened on the nerve in the American’s neck to prevent him from commenting. The Old Man of the Sea was only human from the waist up; overlong octopus legs twisted and writhed beneath him.

  “It is an honor to meet you,” Machiavelli offered.

  “And you are the immortal human the Italian.” Nereus’s voice was a liquid bubbling. “The one they call the King Maker.”

  Machiavelli bowed. “That is a title I have not heard in a long time.”

  “That is what your master called you,” the Old Man of the Sea continued.

  “My master is very generous,” the immortal said smoothly.

  “Your master is very dangerous. And not very pleased with you. However, that is not my concern. I have been instructed to assist you, King Maker. What do you want?”

  “I was sent here to loose the creatures in the cells into San Francisco. My instructions are to start with the amphibious creatures and release them into the bay. I was told that you or your daughters would guide them toward the city.”

  Nereus’s voice was wet and sticky. “You have the words to awaken the creatures?”

  Machiavelli held up a high-resolution color photograph. “My master sent this to me. It is from the Pyramid of Unas.”

  Nereus nodded. Three of his legs rose into the air and waved in front of the Italian. “Let me see.”

  Machiavelli took a step back from the Elder’s grasping tentacles.

  “Do you not trust me, Immortal?” Nereus snapped.

  Machiavelli turned the photograph to face the creature. “I do not want to get the images wet,” he explained. “I printed this on an ink-jet printer. If it gets wet, the ink will run. And I most certainly do not want to disappoint my master any further.”

  “Hold it up. Let me see.” Nereus leaned forward and squinted. Then, reluctantly, he reached into a pocket on his jerkin and removed a plastic Ziploc bag. Inside the bag was an eyeglasses case. Opening it, Nereus popped a pair of rimless half glasses on his nose and looked at the image again. “Old Kingdom,” he muttered, then nodded. “These are the Utterances. Be careful, Italian: there is great power in them. What do you want to release first?”

  Machiavelli let go of Billy and reached into his pocket for a scrap of paper. “My master also gave me instructions,” he said, unfolding the page to reveal a series of dots and dashes.

  “Do we have a kraken?” Billy asked quickly. “Could we unleash a kraken?” Nereus and Machiavelli turned to look at the young American immortal. “What?” he asked, looking from one to the other. He turned to Machiavelli. “What?”

  The Italian’s gray eyes blazed a warning.

  “We do not have a kraken,” Nereus said. “Besides, even if I did have a kraken, they’re only about this big.” He spread his thumb and forefinger roughly an inch apart.

  “I thought they were bigger.”

  “Mariners’ tales. And you know sailors are terrible liars.”

  “What do you have?” Machiavelli asked. “I need something dramatic. I thought we would start with something theatrical, something that will make an impact on the city, something to focus their attention.”

  Nereus considered for a moment and then he smiled, revealing his hideous teeth. “I do have the Lotan.”

  Machiavelli and Billy looked at him blankly.

  “The Lotan,” Nereus said.

  The two immortals shook their heads. “I have no idea what that is,” Machiavelli admitted.

  “Doesn’t sound scary to me,” Billy said.

  “It’s a seven-headed sea dragon.”

  Machiavelli nodded. “That might work.”

  “It’ll certainly get their attention,” Billy muttered.

  e’re being followed,” Josh said.

  John Dee and Virginia Dare turned in their seats to look out the rear window. Five cyclists were pedaling furiously after them, weaving smoothly in and out of the traffic on the lower deck of the Oakland Bay Bridge. Car horns blared, echoing off the metal struts and the steel upper deck. “I didn’t think bicycles were allowed on the bridge,” Dee said, reaching for the swords at his feet.

  “Why don’t you get out and tell them,” Virginia Dare suggested.

  “There are two motorcycles coming up fast, left and right,” Josh said. At any other time he might have been frightened, but the last week had changed him. Made him strong and confident. And he could defend himself, he thought, glancing down at the stone swords on the floor beside him.

  “Might be nothing …,” Dee began.

  “
They’re wearing backpacks,” Josh added.

  “Sack Men,” Dare said confidently.

  Josh glanced in both side mirrors and his heart sped up. Black-helmeted motorcyclists were visible on each side. “They’re right behind us.”

  “You concentrate on driving,” Dee said. “Virginia and I will take care of this.”

  “Traffic is at a standstill ahead,” Josh said evenly, watching brake lights flare farther down the bridge. His voice was calm, controlled.

  Dee leaned forward between the seats. Then he pointed to the left. “Take the Treasure Island exit. Don’t signal, just do it.”

  Josh turned the wheel and the heavy car squealed across two lanes of traffic. The motorcyclist on the left hit his brakes and his back tire locked, leaving a long smoking trail behind him. The bike wobbled and fell over, sending the rider tumbling to the ground. Cars screeched to a halt.

  “Nicely done,” Virginia said. “Been driving long?”

  “Not that long”—Josh grinned—“but I’ve had a lot of practice over the past week.” The road curved to the left, and Josh’s eyes watered as he came out from beneath the shadowed lower deck of the bridge into brilliant sunshine. Then, suddenly, the expanse of San Francisco Bay and the city beyond opened up. In the distance, directly ahead of him in the middle of the bay, was the island of Alcatraz.

  “Virginia. The rider’s coming up on your side!” Josh called.

  The woman hit the button that rolled down the electric window. The remaining motorcyclist had drawn up alongside the speeding limo and was in the process of trying to reach into his backpack with his right hand while controlling the bike with his left. “Hi,” she said. The gloomy interior of the car lit up with a warm green glow and the scent of sage filled the air. Virginia rubbed her forefinger and thumb together, and in the mirror, Josh saw a tiny ball of green energy appear. She flicked the ball at the motorcyclist.

  “You missed!” Dee snapped. “Here, let me.…”

  “Patience, Doctor, patience,” Virginia said.

  The rubber on the bike’s front tire abruptly crumbled to black powder. Spokes collapsed, the wheel buckled and the bike careered across the road, the front forks scraping a shower of sparks from the concrete. Then the bike hit the low restraining wall on the bay side of the road and the rider was catapulted over it, disappearing without a sound.

  “Subtle, as always, Virginia,” Dee said.

  Josh put his foot down and roared up Treasure Island Road. Traffic had stopped behind them as cars were abandoned and drivers rushed to help the motorcyclist. Josh slowed as the road dipped toward the island. He could see a small marina on the right. He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye as he was passing Macalla Road and, without thinking, pushed his foot flat to the floor. The car shot forward, jerking Virginia and Dee back in their seats. “The bike riders are back,” Josh said. Although his heart was racing, he wasn’t afraid. He found himself automatically preparing strategies and working out escape routes. He did a quick count. “There’s lots of them.”

  The cyclists had appeared from the side road and were pedaling furiously after the car. All eight wore mirrored cycling glasses and aerodynamic helmets that gave them a vaguely insectile appearance.

  “This is getting tedious,” Dee muttered. “Drive on. Turn right into the yacht club. I have an idea.” He looked at Virginia. “Can you stop them?” He jerked his thumb at the cyclists.

  Virginia Dare gave him a withering look. “I have stopped armies. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I doubt you’ll ever let me,” he sighed. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears.

  Rolling her window halfway down, Virginia placed her flute on the edge of the glass, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and blew gently.

  The sound was appalling.

  Josh felt it deep in his bones. It was like a dentist’s drill … only worse, much worse. His teeth and cheekbones ached, and he could actually feel the sound behind his right ear. His golden aura flared protectively around his head, and for an instant his skull was encased in an archaic warrior’s helmet. The noise immediately faded and Josh opened and closed his mouth, relaxing tense jaw muscles. The speed with which his armor had formed over his body had been astonishing, and he had no conscious memory of having called it up. He flexed his gloved fingers. Did that mean it was getting easier to shape and control his aura?

  A seagull appeared. It flew in from the water, straight for the windshield, and for a heartbeat, Josh thought it was going to smash into the glass. At the last moment, it sailed up and over the car … and landed on the head of the first cyclist. The bike wobbled furiously as the cyclist attempted to brush the bird off his head.

  A second and a third seagull dropped out of the sky, and suddenly the air was full of the huge white birds. They descended onto the cyclists, flapping and cawing, spattering them with their white droppings, pecking at them. The first bicyclist crashed to the ground and the second smashed into him. A third and then a fourth piled into them. The remaining cyclists skidded to a halt, threw down their bikes and backed away, waving their hands ineffectually at the screaming, circling birds.

  Virginia sat back with the flute on her lap and rolled up the window. “Satisfied?” she asked Dee.

  Dee took his fingers out of his ears. “Simple and effective, with a flair for the dramatic, as always.”

  In the rearview mirror, Josh watched the enormous flock of seagulls dart and soar over the tumbled mess of bodies and bicycles on the road. The birds pecked at the fallen riders. One grabbed a helmet and flew away with it, another ripped the saddle off a bicycle, and every rider was covered from head to foot in white bird droppings. All traffic on Treasure Island Road had come to a halt, and most of the drivers had cell phones or digital cameras in their hands, recording the extraordinary scene.

  “I bet that’s going up on YouTube right now,” Josh muttered. “What’s in those backpacks?” he asked again.

  “I’ve already told you.” Virginia smiled. “You really do not want to know!”

  “I do, actually,” Josh protested.

  “Turn here,” Dee commanded, pointing to the right. “Find a parking spot.”

  Josh swung onto Clipper Cove Way and pulled the car into an empty spot between two expensive sports cars. He put the car in park and spun around in the seat to look back at the two immortals. “Now what?”

  Dee opened the door and climbed out. Then he reached back into the car to retrieve the two stone swords. He shoved both into his belt. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Neither Josh nor Virginia moved. “I’m not moving until I know what we’re doing here,” Virginia spat.

  The Magician put his head back into the car. “As you so rightly pointed out, we’re trapped in San Francisco. And now we are also trapped on Treasure Island. There is only one road on and off the island, and we know it’s being watched.” He turned to look at the heaving mass of seagulls still clustered around the fallen cyclists. “We need a strategy.…”

  “A boat,” Josh said immediately.

  Dee looked at him in surprise. “Yes, exactly. We’ll hire a boat if we can, steal it if we have to. By the time anyone gets here, we’ll be long gone.”

  “Gone where?” Virginia asked.

  Dee rubbed his hands together gleefully. “To the last place they will look for us.”

  “Alcatraz,” Josh said.

  t had been a dream.

  Nothing more than a particularly vivid dream. And what a dream it had been!

  Sophie Newman lay back in her bed and stared up at the familiar ceiling. A long time ago someone—maybe her mother, who was an extraordinarily accomplished artist—had painted the ceiling a deep rich blue. Silver stars formed the constellations of Sirius and Orion, and a huge luminous half-moon took up the corner directly opposite her bed. The moon had been painted in phosphorescent paint, and its glow lulled her to sleep every night she slept at her aunt’s house. Josh’s room, next door, was in complete contrast:
it was a pale eggshell blue with a huge golden sun in the center of the ceiling. Sophie loved nothing more than falling asleep looking up at this ceiling, tracking the patterns of the constellations. Often she would imagine herself falling up into the stars, and then she would dream of flying. She particularly loved those dreams.

  Sophie stretched and wondered what the time was. The room was dull, which usually meant that it was just before dawn, but the air didn’t feel still, the way it always did before the city came alive. Her eyes moved down from the ceiling: there was no trace of morning light on the walls. In fact, the room was gloomy, which suggested that it was early afternoon. Had she slept that late? She’d had such crazy dreams. She couldn’t wait to tell Josh about them.

  Sophie rolled over … and found Aunt Agnes and Perenelle Flamel sitting on the side of the bed, watching her. And suddenly she felt sick to her stomach: it hadn’t been a dream.

  “You’re awake,” Aunt Agnes said.

  Sophie squinted at her aunt. She looked exactly the same as always, and yet the girl now knew that this was no ordinary human being.

  “We were worried about you,” Agnes said. “Get up, have a shower and get dressed. We’ll be waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  “We have a lot to talk about,” Perenelle Flamel added.

  “Josh …,” Sophie began.

  “I know,” Perry said gently. “But we will get him back. I promise you.”

  Sophie sat up in bed, drew her knees to her chin and buried her head in her hands. “There was a second there when I thought it had been a dream.” She drew in a deep shuddering breath. “And I was going to tell Josh and he was going to laugh at me, and then we’d try and figure out where all the different parts of the dream had come from, and then …” The tears came, and huge wracking sobs that spilled silver drops onto the sheets. “This isn’t a dream. This is a nightmare.”

  Showered, dressed in fresh clean clothes and feeling slightly better, Sophie was leaving her room to make her way down to the kitchen when she heard the voices coming from her aunt’s bedroom at the end of the hall.