“But which one?” Josh asked.
Perenelle swiveled around to look at the Alchemyst, her fine eyebrows raised in a silent question. No words passed between them, but the Sorceress nodded and turned back with a smile on her face. “We will train Josh in the Magic of Fire,” she said.
Josh looked at Sophie and grinned. “Fire. I like that.” He turned back to Perenelle. “But who’s going to train me?”
Sophie knew the answer even before the Sorceress spoke. “We will go and see Prometheus, the Master of Fire.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Niccolò Machiavelli sat in the passenger seat of the stripped-down army surplus jeep, clutching the bar welded onto the dashboard in a white-knuckled grip. Billy sat in the back and whooped delightedly with each bump and dip on the unpaved road. Black Hawk drove the narrow country lanes at high speed, foot pushed hard to the floor, a ferocious grin on his face.
“I think,” Machiavelli said, shouting to be heard over the noise of the engine, “I think that your master would probably prefer us alive so he can kill us himself. He might be irritated if you do the job for him. Slow down.”
“This isn’t fast,” Black Hawk said. The jeep lurched forward, engine howling as all four wheels left the ground. “Now, this is fast.”
“I’ll be sick,” Machiavelli promised, “and when I am, I’m going to be sick in your direction. Yours too,” he added, looking back over his shoulder at Billy the Kid.
Black Hawk reluctantly eased his foot off the accelerator.
“I’ve not lived through more than five hundred years of Europe’s most turbulent history only to die in a car crash.”
“Black Hawk could drive these roads wearing a blindfold,” Billy said.
“I’m sure he could, though why he would want to do something like that is beyond me.”
“Have you never done something purely for the thrill of it?” Black Hawk asked.
“No,” Machiavelli said. “Not for a long time.”
Black Hawk looked shocked. “But that seems like such a waste of immortality. I pity you,” he added.
“You pity me?”
“You are not living, you are surviving.”
Niccolò Machiavelli stared at the Native American immortal for a long time before he finally nodded and looked away. “You may be right,” he murmured.
The house was set back off the road.
At first glance it looked like a small, ordinary timber cottage, similar to so many others scattered across the United States. It was only when one approached closer that the truth was revealed: the house was enormous, much of it built into the side of the hill behind it.
Machiavelli felt his skin prickle and crawl the moment the car turned off the rough track onto a narrow rutted drive: the telltale signs of warding spells. There was old magic here, ancient eldritch power. He caught glimpses of arcane symbols cut into trees, spirals daubed on rocks, stick figures carved into fence posts. The track cut straight across a field of grass that grew as high as the car doors. The blades rasped and hissed against the metal, sounding like a thousand warning whispers. The Italian caught flickers of movement all around him, and glimpses of snakes, toads, and quick, scurrying lizards. A gangling misshapen scarecrow dominated the field on the left-hand side of the track. Its head was a huge gnarled dried pumpkin that had been carved in a round-eyed face with a protruding tongue.
The grassy field stopped abruptly, as if a line had been drawn in the earth, and the rest of the approach to the house was across perfectly flat land. Machiavelli nodded his approval: nothing could get through the field without setting off countless alarms or being attacked by a poisonous lurking guardian. Getting close to the house undetected would be impossible. An enormous lynx, bigger than any he had ever seen before, lay on the ground before the open front door, regarding the car impassively, only the tiny movements of its black-tufted ears betraying that it was real and not a carving.
Black Hawk pulled the jeep up in front of the house, but kept the engine running and made no move to climb out. “End of the road,” he said without a trace of a smile.
Niccolò climbed out gratefully and started to brush the dirt and grit off his expensive handmade suit, then gave up. The suit was ruined. He had a closetful of identical suits in his home in Paris, but he doubted he’d ever get a chance to wear them again.
Looking around, he breathed in the warm grassy air. Whenever he thought about dying—which he did with remarkable regularity—he imagined it would take place in a European city, Paris perhaps, maybe even Rome or his beloved Florence. He’d never thought he was going to end his days in California. However, he wasn’t dead yet, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.
As soon as Billy leapt out of the jeep, Black Hawk put it in gear and skidded away, showering him and Machiavelli in stones and grit, enveloping them in a cloud of dust. Billy grinned. “I knew he was going to do that.”
“You seem remarkably cheerful for someone who may be about to die,” Machiavelli said.
“I’ve seen men go to their deaths laughing, I’ve seen others wail and cry. They all died in the end, but those who were laughing seemed to have an easier time of it.”
“Do you expect to die here today?”
Billy laughed. “Dying’s not something I ever think about,” Billy said. “But no, I don’t think it’s going to happen today. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
The Italian immortal nodded but said nothing.
“Mr. Machiavelli doesn’t think I have the authority to remove his immortality. He’s incorrect.” The man who stepped out of the house was short and slender, his skin the color of brightly polished copper, his face bisected by an enormous hawklike nose and dominated by a full white beard that reached to his chest. His eyes were solid black with no whites showing. He was dressed simply in white linen trousers and shirt and his feet were bare. He smiled, revealing that every one of his teeth had been filed to razor-sharp points. “I am Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Lord Quez … Quet … Quaza …,” Machiavelli began.
“Oh, call me Kukulkan, everyone else does,” the Elder said, and headed back into the house. Machiavelli blinked in surprise: a long serpent’s tail, bright with multicolored feathers, trailed behind the Elder.
Billy caught Machiavelli by the arm. “Whatever you do,” he whispered urgently, “don’t mention the tail.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala floated silently through the ruins of Alcatraz. The Spanish lieutenant had been the first European to discover the small island in 1775 and had named it after the vast number of pelicans that claimed the rock as their own: La Isla de los Alcatraces. By the time it was sold to the American government in 1854, it was called Alcatraz.
When de Ayala had died, his shade had returned to the island, and he had haunted and protected it ever since.
He’d seen the nature of the island change and change again over the centuries: it was the site of the first lighthouse on the coast of California; then it held a military garrison that soon became a prison, which from 1861 to 1963 was home to some of America’s most violent and dangerous criminals.
More recently it had been a popular tourist attraction, and de Ayala had delighted in drifting unseen through the crowds of visitors, listening to their excited comments. He particularly loved to follow those who spoke his native tongue, Spanish.
In the last couple of months, however, the nature of Alcatraz had changed yet again. The island had been sold to a private company, Enoch Enterprises, which had immediately stopped all tours of the island. And quite soon afterward, new prisoners had arrived. None of which were human. There were creatures de Ayala vaguely recognized from sailors’ tales—werewolves and dragons, wyverns and worms—and some he knew from myth, like the minotaur and the sphinx, but most were completely alien to him.
And then Perenelle Flamel had been incarcerated on the island.
De Ayala had helped her escape her cell and was more delighted when she managed to flee the island altogether, leaving the two dangerous newcomers, Machiavelli and Billy the Kid, stranded with the monsters. He had hoped that they would remain overnight so he and the island’s other ghosts might have a little fun with them. But the two men had been rescued by a Native American, and as de Ayala watched their boat head toward the city, he wondered what would become of his beloved Isla de los Alcatraces. The sphinx still walked the prison’s corridors, the hideous spider Areop-Enap was wrapped in an enormous cocoon in the ruins of the Warden’s House and the Old Man of the Sea and his foul daughters patrolled the waters.
The ghost drifted to the top of the watchtower and turned to look toward the city he could never visit. What was it like, he wondered, this huge city on the edge of the continent? He could see its towers rising into the skies, and the fabulous orange bridge spanning the bay. He watched the boats cruise the waters, saw the metal birds in the skies and could just make out the metallic glitter of cars moving on the shore. When he had discovered Alcatraz, Philadelphia had been the largest city in the United States, with a population of thirty-four thousand. Now, over eight hundred thousand people lived in San Francisco—an inconceivable figure—and more than thirty-six million lived in the state of California. What would happen to them when the monsters were loosed into the city’s streets and sewers?
Unconsciously, de Ayala drifted out over the water toward the city, and then the invisible ties that bound him to Alcatraz drew him back. He protected the island—but for how much longer? he wondered. The forces of the humani and the Elders were gathering, and no matter how it ended, de Ayala did not think his beloved Alcatraz would survive the coming war.
And with no Rock to watch over, he too would finally cease to exist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Sophie, I am going to ask you to do something, something you might find a little … odd,” Perenelle said softly. She had caught Sophie’s arm and drawn her to one side while Josh and Niten were carrying the plastic chairs into the houseboat. Aoife had disappeared belowdecks, and Nicholas sat on the edge of the craft, eyes closed, lined face turned toward the sun.
“What?” Sophie asked cautiously, turning to look at the Sorceress. The late-afternoon sun highlighted the tracery of lines that were beginning to appear on the woman’s face, around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Sophie wasn’t sure how she felt about Perenelle. She still liked her—she still wanted to like her—but there was something about the woman that was beginning to trouble her, and she wasn’t sure what it was.
“It would be better if you did not tell Josh what you know—what the Witch knows—about Prometheus.”
At the mention of the Elder’s name, the girl’s eyes blinked—blue, then silver—and the faintest hint of her vanilla odor touched the salty air. “I try not to think about the Witch’s memories,” she said carefully.
“Why not?” Perenelle sounded genuinely surprised.
“Nicholas told me that there is a possibility that her memories could overwhelm mine, that I could become the Witch”—Sophie frowned—“or that she could become me. If I remember all that the Witch knew … would that make me the Witch?”
Perenelle laughed gently. “I have never heard anything more ridiculous in my life.”
“But Nicholas said—”
“Nicholas told you what he believed to be true,” Perenelle said. “He was mistaken.”
Sophie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and shook her head, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. “But if the Witch’s memories become stronger than mine …”
“But it is you who are remembering, Sophie. It will always be you. I have lived on this earth for centuries; I can remember the smell of my grandmother’s hair, and she died more than six hundred and sixty years ago. I can recall the address of every house and apartment, hovel, tenement and palace I’ve lived in over the centuries. One memory does not crowd out another. The Witch’s memories have only been added to yours. Nothing more. True, our memories and experiences help make us unique. But if the Witch had wanted to take over your memories, she could have done so immediately, instantaneously, when you were with her in Ojai.”
The Sorceress paused and then added softly, “When Nicholas was imprisoned in the Bastille, I spent the time apprenticed to the Witch of Endor. She lived in the South of France then, and I studied with her for more than a decade. She can be cruel and capricious, and she is dangerous beyond belief, but she is extraordinarily disorganized. She was never able to plan ahead. I’ve often wondered about that. She sacrificed her eyes for the ability to observe the shifting strands of time. She can see years, decades, centuries, even millennia into the future, and can track the curling threads to their possible outcomes. But she is so scattered that she is unable to plan her own day. She often forgets even the simplest things. Yet she is cunning, and if she had wanted to control you, she would have done so when she was Awakening you.”
Sophie felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “So her memories and my memories will stay separate.”
“They are separate,” Perenelle assured her. “You know when you are experiencing the Witch’s memories, don’t you?”
Sophie nodded. “But Nicholas said—”
“Nicholas is often wrong,” Perenelle interrupted, a touch of ice in her voice. “I love him, I have loved him for centuries, and while he is extraordinary and brilliant, he is still human, with all the faults and foibles of a human. He makes mistakes,” she added. “We both do.” Shaking her head, she smiled, and a warmth returned to her voice. “So, no, I do not think the Witch’s memories will overcome yours. You are too strong-willed—you must be, to have survived the Awakening and learned Air, Fire and Water magic so quickly. And to be truthful,” she added with a smile, “I do not think the Witch would have been able to plan something quite so sophisticated. She was never subtle.”
Niten and Josh appeared from belowdecks. There was a broad grin stretched across Josh’s face. “We will return in a few moments,” Niten called. “We’re going to get the car. We need something slightly less conspicuous than that red monstrosity you arrived in.”
Sophie and Pernelle stood in silence and watched as Josh and the Japanese man climbed onto the dock and disappeared through the tangle of houseboats.
“Nicholas and I are going to ask Prometheus to gift Josh with the Magic of Fire,” Perenelle continued. “But the experience must be new to your brother; he cannot be warned about the Master of Fire.”
Sophie was about to ask why, when the memories suddenly popped into her head. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face: Josh definitely wanted the Magic of Fire, but he was not going to be happy with the process of acquiring it. She nodded. “I won’t tell him anything.”
“Good.”
“Who is Niten?” Sophie asked. The name was unfamiliar to the Witch, and Sophie had been waiting for the opportunity to find out about the Japanese man.
The Sorceress’s green eyes clouded and she raised them to follow the man’s progress. “He is undoubtedly the greatest swordsman in the world—the only humani ever to defeat Scathach in single combat. But if you ask him what he is, he will tell you that he is an artist. And that also is true: his skill with the brush is legendary. Nicholas and I had one of his original bird paintings in our apartment in New York, before Dee burned it to the ground. Niten has traveled this world and the nearby Shadowrealms in search of opponents to fight simply to hone his skills. He was supposed to have been made immortal sometime in the seventeenth century by Benzaiten, who many—including the Witch—believe may even be one of the ancient Great Elders. Niten was also known as Miyamoto Musashi.”
Sophie caught her breath. The names Miyamoto Musashi and now Benzaiten sent dozens of images flickering through her head. She stared at the gently lapping water, and the ripples dissolved into …
Niten, dressed in the exotic armor of a
samurai, racing through a dense bamboo forest. Hundreds of snarling beast-faced monsters chased him. Most of the creatures were pink-and blue-skinned, though some were bright red. They were all horned and three-eyed, their mouths filled with savage teeth, their hands tipped with claws. The samurai broke out of the forest and stopped, swaying, on the edge of a sheer cliff that fell away to a raging sea and jagged rocks far below. He whirled to face the monsters, a sword in either hand. Howling savagely, hungrily, the beasts appeared and closed in on the human.…
And then Benzaiten appeared.
She rose from the sea behind Niten: tiny, ethereal and beautiful, riding on the back of an enormous pink-scaled dragon. She tapped the dragon on the back of its head with an ornate fan and the creature spread gossamer wings, opened its mouth to reveal hundreds of ragged teeth and a long black forked tongue … and the horned monsters turned and fled into the bamboo.
One remained. A huge blue-skinned creature with downward-curling tusks. Lifting a bow as tall as itself, it fired a long black-tipped arrow directly toward the tiny Elder.
Niten’s swords flashed, impossibly fast … and sliced the arrow out of the air.
Sophie shuddered and drew in a great ragged breath. “Yes, Benzaiten made him immortal.…”
“What did the Witch think of Benzaiten?” Perenelle asked curiously.
Sophie nodded. “The Witch believes she is one of the Great Elders.”
“See?” Perenelle smiled delightedly. “You can draw upon selective memories when you need them. You are controlling the memories, they are not controlling you.”
“Names seem to make me remember. When we were in Paris, Joan did something to help me while I slept. When the Witch first gave me her memories, I felt as if my skull were about to explode. The noises in my head were incredible. I kept hearing voices speaking a hundred different languages, snatches of songs and sounds that were so alien they were terrifying. After a couple of days, I discovered that I’d started to understand what they were saying,” she added, a note of awe in her voice. “When Joan was finished, the voices were still there, but they were like distant whispers. Now, if I concentrate, I can focus on a name and the memories appear. But I’ve been trying to ignore them.”
The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Page 10
