The Warlock

by Michael Scott

  “I don’t even know what was in the cell—some winged monstrosity. Giant vampire bat, I think. I said the words, and the creature opened its eyes and immediately crumbled to dust.”

  “Maybe you said a word wrong?” Virginia suggested. She plucked a scrap of paper from Josh’s hands. “I mean, it looks difficult.”

  “I am fluent,” Dee snapped.

  “He is,” Machiavelli said, “I will give him that. And his accent is very good too, though not quite as good as mine.”

  Dee spun back to the cell holding Machiavelli. “Tell me what went wrong.”

  Machiavelli seemed to be considering it; then he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Dee jerked his thumb at the sphinx. “Right now she’s absorbing your aura, ensuring that you cannot use any spells against me. But she’ll be just as happy eating your flesh. Isn’t that true?” he said, looking up into the creature’s female face.

  “Oh, I love Italian,” she rumbled. She stepped away from Dee and dipped her head to look into the opposite cell. “Give me this one,” she said, nodding at Billy the Kid. “He’ll make a tasty snack.” Her long black forked tongue flickered in the air before the outlaw, who immediately grabbed it, jerked it forward and allowed it to snap back like an elastic band. She screamed, coughed, and squawked all at the same time.

  Billy grinned. “I’ll make sure I’ll choke you on the way down.”

  “It might be difficult to do that if you have no arms,” the sphinx said thickly, working her tongue back and forth.

  “I’ll still give you indigestion.”

  Dee looked at Machiavelli. “Tell me,” he said again, “or I will feed your young American friend to the beast.”

  “Tell him nothing,” Billy yelled.

  “This is one of those occasions when I am in agreement with Billy. I am going to tell you nothing.”

  The Magician looked from one side of the cell to the other. Then he looked at Machiavelli. “What happened to you? You were one of the Dark Elders’ finest agents in this Shadowrealm. There were times you even made me look like an amateur.”

  “John, you were always an amateur.” Machiavelli smiled. “Why, look at the mess you’re in now.”

  “Mess? What mess? I’m not in a mess.” Dee’s eyes started to dance wildly, and a giggle bubbled up from his chest. “You have no idea what I’ve planned. It is, not to put too fine a point on it, masterful.”

  “Your arrogance will be your downfall, John,” Machiavelli said. He turned away from the cell door and lay down on the narrow cot.

  “I will kill the outlaw,” Dee said suddenly. “I will feed him to the sphinx.”

  Machiavelli remained lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Do you want me to do it?” Dee screamed at Machiavelli. “Do you want me to kill Billy the Kid?” He leaned against the cell and looked in on Machiavelli. “What! No last-minute attempt to save your new friend?”

  “I can save Billy and condemn thousands to death, or I can condemn Billy and save thousands,” the Italian said quietly. “What do you think I should do, Billy?” he called out.

  The outlaw stepped up to the bars of the cell. “When I went to school—which I did for a bit—we were taught a saying that really stuck with me. ‘It is better that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish.’ ”

  Niccolò Machiavelli nodded. “I like that. Yes, I like that very much.” Then he turned his head away from Dee. “You have your answer.”

  Dee spun back to the sphinx. “He’s yours.”

  The creature’s long black tongue snapped out and wrapped around Billy’s throat, pulling him in hard against the bars. “Lunch,” the sphinx rasped.

  A single pure note rang out in the cellblock, and the sphinx collapsed into an ungainly heap on the floor. “No,” Virginia breathed.

  Billy crashed back into his cell, both hands holding his neck, which now had a solid red stripe around it. He was gasping for air.

  Dee was speechless with rage. His mouth kept opening and closing, but no sound came out other than a hissing breath.

  “John, be reasonable,” Virginia said. “I’ve known Billy a very long time, and we have had some great adventures together. He’s as close as I have to a friend. When he dies, which he will, sooner or later, because he can be so stupid,” she added, glaring at the American immortal, “it should be with a degree of dignity, rather than being fed to this … this thing.”

  “Thanks,” Billy wheezed.

  “You’re welcome. And you owe me.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Virginia turned back to Dee. “I’ll make a deal.”

  “For what?” he demanded.

  “For Billy’s life,” she said evenly.

  “Do you forget who you’re dealing with?” Dee snarled.

  “Do you?” she asked softly.

  Dr. John Dee drew in a deep shuddering breath. He took a step backward, hit the heavy bulk of the sphinx and sat down hard on the ground at her feet. A strong musky miasma swirled around him. “A deal …,” he coughed.

  “A deal.”

  “What can you offer me?”

  Virginia twirled her flute in her fingers, the sudden movement sending a quartet of notes rushing through it. They hung heavy on the air.

  And then movement rustled through every cell.

  Dee shot to his feet. He darted from one side of the cellblock to the other. All the creatures were stirring. “You can do this? You can awaken them?”

  Virginia twirled her flute. “Of course. Usually I put things to sleep, but the same song, reversed, brings them awake again. This is obviously nothing more than a simple Somnus spell.”

  Josh stepped away from Virginia and peered into the nearest cell. Something with fur, feathers and scales lay curled in a heap. But even as he watched, a shudder ran through it.

  “Virginia,” Billy said urgently. “Don’t do this.”

  “Shut up, Billy.”

  “Think of the people in San Francisco.”

  “I don’t know any of the people in San Francisco,” Virginia answered, then paused. “Well, actually I do, and I don’t like them. But I do like you, Billy, and I’m not going to allow you to end up as lunch for some raggedy lion-monster-thingy.”

  “A sphinx,” Machiavelli corrected her. He was standing at the bars again. “Mistress Dare,” the Italian said carefully. “I absolutely applaud you for what you want to do for your friend. But I urge you to think of the bigger picture.”

  “Oh, but you are mistaken, Italian,” Dee said quickly. “Virginia is thinking of the bigger picture. Aren’t you, dear?”

  Virginia smiled. “The doctor has promised me the world,” she said quietly. “In fact, he has promised me all the worlds.”

  And then she put the flute to her mouth and the scent of sage wafted through the cellblock as a beautiful, delicate and ethereal melody bounced off its walls.

  Josh felt Clarent tremble in time to the music, vibrating and pulsing to the ancient rhythm. And then Durendal, still strapped to his back, started to throb against his flesh like a heart.

  And Josh felt a terrible hunger, accompanied by a ferocious rage, burn through him. It washed through his body, until a red mist actually drifted across his eyes, and he was looking at the world through a film of crimson. His aura blazed, the gold touched with streaks of bloodred. Sparks crackled off the cell bars, spitting, hissing off the metal, crackling in time to Virginia’s eldritch music.

  And then all the creatures in the cells came awake.

  he wind whipping around the crystal tower was icy and tainted with the stink of battle and broken metal, but none of the group standing on the battle-scarred and blood-streaked platform seemed to feel the chill.

  Abraham the Mage, a being more gold than flesh, stood in the chipped doorway, a copper-bound book held to his chest with his right hand. His left was frozen into solid gold by his side. Tsagaglalal stood next to him, supporting him. When he smiled, only
half of his face moved, and a pale gold liquid leaked from his single gray eye.

  “My friends,” he said, obviously in pain. “I feel I can call you that. Even though this is the first time I am seeing some of you in the flesh, I have seen you all lo these many centuries. I have followed you through the present and into your futures. I know what tricks of fate and quirks of circumstance brought you here. And in truth, I was responsible for some of them.” He drew in a deep ragged breath and his chest moved slowly.

  “Prometheus—my oldest friend: you brought so many great gifts into my life, including my dear wife, Tsagaglalal, and her irrepressible brother, Gilgamesh. I count both of you as my own brothers, the family I never had. Both of you know what must be done.”

  The two men bowed, unashamed of the tears on their faces.

  Half of Abraham’s face moved in a smile. “I am now and will eternally be grateful.” Although his neck remained stiff, his eye moved. “Joan of Arc … what a history you have. What a life you have led.”

  The Frenchwoman bowed her head slightly, eyes still fixed on Abraham’s face.

  “Soon you will fight for all you hold dear, and you will be forced to make a choice that will threaten to tear you apart. Follow your heart, Joan. Be as strong as you have always been.”

  Joan reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed.

  “And what of you, Saint-Germain? I recall when I first discovered that your life intersected with Joan’s, I thought it was a mistake. I spent a month checking and rechecking my data, looking for the error. But there was none. You are, in your heart, a simple man, Saint-Germain. You are a rogue and you know it. But this I know for a certainty—you have always loved Joan with all of your being.”

  Saint-Germain nodded and Joan glanced sidelong at him and squeezed his hand again.

  “You will know what to do when the time comes. Do not hesitate.

  “Palamedes the Saracen Knight and William Shakespeare. Another unlikely pairing, and again I thought my research was incorrect. But when I checked and discovered that you were both in search of the same thing—family—I knew I was not wrong. You are here today because soon we will need your special skills: your imagination, Bard, and Palamedes, he will need you to protect him. I know you would give your life for him.” Abraham raised his head slightly to where the Rukma still hovered in the air. “Just as he was prepared to give his life for all of you.”

  Shakespeare dipped his head, then pulled off his glasses and furiously polished them, so that no one would see the flush of color on his cheeks.

  “And Scathach. The Shadow. For ten thousand years I have watched you. I could fill a library with your adventures and another with your mistakes. You are, without doubt, the most infuriating, irresponsible, dangerous, loyal and courageous person I have ever encountered. The world would be a poorer place without you. You have given much to the humani, and they have not given you back as much as you deserve. But I have a gift for you. It is in two parts, and the first part I will share with you now. The second part … well, it may have to wait for another place and another time. Here is my gift: your sister lives. She is trapped now in a Shadowrealm with Coatlicue the Archon. You should know that she went there willingly, sacrificing herself to keep you safe.”

  The Shadow swallowed hard, fists opening and closing tightly. Her skin was the color of chalk and her eyes blazed green.

  “You are her only hope of rescue. Remember that. Hold on to it, even when all seems lost. You must live.”

  Scathach nodded.

  “Now you must go,” Abraham finished. “Go back to Danu Talis and destroy this world.” Then, as quietly as he had appeared, he turned and, flanked by Tsagaglalal and Gilgamesh, disappeared back into the tower.

  Without a word, Prometheus pulled himself up the dangling rope into the Rukma vimana. The craft shuddered, then slowly dipped until it was level with the edge of the platform. One by one, the four human immortals walked out onto the wing and climbed into the craft.

  Only Scathach remained. She had turned to face south, to where the lights of the distant city of Danu Talis lit up the clouds. Her clan, the Clan Vampire, were supposedly incapable of any real emotion and were certainly incapable of tears, so why, then, was there liquid on her cheeks? It could only be spray from the sea far below, she decided. Brushing it away, she turned, climbed onto the wing and swung herself into the craft.

  “Let’s go,” she said, strapping herself in. “Let’s get this over and done with. I’ve got a sister to rescue.”

  ’ve never been here before,” Nicholas Flamel admitted. He stopped and looked up at the sign above his head.

  PIER 14

  “Oh, Nicholas, I told you, you need to get out of the shop more often.” Perenelle slipped her arm through her husband’s as they walked beneath the blocky gray entrance to the new pier. “It’s been open about a year now. And it is one of my favorite places in the city.”

  “You never told me,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “So even after all these years, we can still surprise one another,” she teased.

  He leaned over and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Even after all these years,” he said. “So enlighten me—how often do you come to this place?”

  “Five, maybe six times a week.”

  “Oh?”

  “Every morning when I’d leave the shop, I’d usually walk down to the Embarcadero, amble along the promenade and end up walking the length of this pier. Where did you think I was for that hour?”

  “I thought you’d popped across the road for coffee.”

  “Tea, Nicholas,” Perenelle said in French. “I drink tea. You know I hate coffee.”

  “You hate coffee?” Nicholas said. “Since when?”

  “Only for the last eighty years or so.”

  Nicholas blinked, pale eyes reflecting the blue of the sea. “I knew that. I think.”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. He looked down the pier. “This is nice. Long, too.”

  “Fifteen feet wide and six hundred and thirty-seven feet from the shore,” she said significantly.

  “Ah,” Flamel nodded in understanding. “The trick will be to stop the Lotan from even coming ashore.”

  “If it gets onto dry land, we’ve lost,” Perenelle said. She pointed off to the left, to where Alcatraz was hidden by the curve of the bay. “The currents run very fast around the island. Anything going into the water will be swept down here, into the bay. I cannot imagine it coming ashore farther up the coast.”

  “If it does …,” Nicholas began.

  “If it does, we’ll deal with it,” Perenelle finished. Then she smiled to take the sting from her words. “If the current pushes it beyond the bridge, then there’s a good chance it will end up on the other side of the bay, in Alameda, perhaps. Getting there at this time of the afternoon, in traffic, is going to take a while. It could do immense damage before we reached it.”

  “So we have to make sure we stop it here,” he said.

  “Exactly. Well, you asked me to get you as close to the water as possible. I presume you have a plan?”

  “My love, I always have a plan.”

  They heard footsteps rattling behind them and turned as Prometheus and Niten came hurrying up. They were both carrying fishing rods over their shoulders. The slender Japanese man grinned. “Do not ask him how much it cost to hire these,” he said.

  “How much?” Nicholas asked.

  “Too much,” Prometheus answered furiously. “I could have bought an entire fishing boat, or at least a very good fish dinner, for what it cost to rent them for a couple of hours,” he grumbled. “Plus a deposit in case we don’t bring them back.”

  “What’s the plan?” Niten asked. He held out an empty bucket. “We can’t really go fishing. We don’t have bait.”

  “Oh, but we do.” Nicholas smiled. “You are our bait.”

  Niten and Prometheus stood side by side, leaning over the rail of the sem
icircular viewing point at the end of Pier 14. With their fishing rods arced out over the water, they looked like any other fishermen, chatting quietly together, ignoring the views of the city, the bridge, Treasure Island and the Embarcadero.

  Nicholas and Perenelle sat on seats behind them. The Alchemyst had discovered that the seats revolved and had been amusing himself by swinging back and forth. His chair squeaked with each turn. Finally Prometheus turned and glared at the immortal. “If you do that one more time, I’m going to feed you to the Lotan myself.”

  “And I will help,” Niten added.

  Perenelle suddenly stood. “Something’s coming,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t see anything …,” the Alchemyst said, and then he spotted it. A curling wave, a dark irregularity in the waters of the bay. He turned back to the Elder and the Swordsman. “You know what you have to do.”

  They nodded and returned to their fishing rods.

  “Perenelle,” Nicholas said.

  The Sorceress nodded. Leaning on the rail, she glanced at the people walking along the pier. Some were obviously tourists—the cameras were always a dead giveaway—while the mother with a toddler in a stroller was probably a local. There were a couple of elderly fishermen who seemed fixed to the rail and a trio of young men who were practicing their juggling skills with oranges and apples.

  Perenelle focused and her hair crackled with static sparks.

  Immediately the two fishermen packed up their rods and buckets and ambled away, still not speaking. The tourists suddenly lost interest in the views of the city and the bay, and the child in the stroller started wailing, deciding it was time to go home. Only the three jugglers remained.

  “They are concentrating on their juggling,” Nicholas muttered. “That is why you cannot influence them.”

  “Of course.” Perenelle laughed. “I’m getting slow in my old age.”

  A seagull swooped in and snatched an apple from one of the jugglers as he tossed it into the air. A second seagull speared an orange, and suddenly four of the huge birds dived in around the boys, pecking at them, speckling them with stinking bird droppings. The youths tossed the remainder of the fruit into the sea and hurried back down the pier.