Zephaniah pulled the map from the metal tube; she held it up, comparing the symbols etched into the glass above the door with the pattern on the skin. They matched. “This is the library,” she said, craning her neck to look at the top of the pyramid. It was topped with a cap of solid gold. “The proportions are wrong,” she said suddenly, stepping back to look at the doors. “The handles are set too high and the doors are unusually tall.”
Prometheus nodded. “And the steps are too shallow,” he said.
“This city was not built for creatures like us,” Zephaniah added.
“But for whom … or for what?” he wondered.
“The Ancients?” Zephaniah suggested.
“Not them: they resembled us to some degree. Legend has it that this city was created for the Earthlords.”
“What did they look like?”
Prometheus shrugged. “No one knows. None survived the last battle, and all record of them was erased from history.” Pulling two short double-headed axes from his belt, he stepped up to the door of opaque black glass and pushed hard, expecting it to be stiff with age.
It swung silently open.
Prometheus quickly stepped inside and put his back to the wall, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Zephaniah remained outside and pulled a coiled metal whip from around her waist. If there was anything inside, she didn’t want to get in her brother’s way, and it was her duty to protect him.
“I’m not sure this is the right place.…” Prometheus’s voice echoed. “There are no books here, just statues. Hundreds—no, thousands of them.”
A flicker of movement at the edge of the forest caught Zephaniah’s attention. A branch had shifted slightly, moving against the wind rather than with it.
“I think we’ve got company,” she said quietly. And then her nostrils flared as she caught the distinctive smell of anise, the odor of her brother’s aura. “Prometheus?”
“Statues,” he repeated, his voice growing fainter as he moved away from the door
“Prometheus …”
“They look like they’re made of clay.…”
The smell of anise was stronger now, and when she glanced over her shoulder, Zephaniah caught the dull red glow of her brother’s aura from within the darkened building. But how was that possible? For the past few days neither of them had been able to bring their auras alight. Gripping the whip tightly in her right hand, she backed in through the open door, then turned … and stopped in horror.
Prometheus was standing in the middle of an enormous room. His axes had fallen to the ground and his arms were stretched straight out, his head thrown back. His aura was ablaze, streamers of fire coiling off his skin, his hair and beard crackling with static. Liquid fire puddled around his feet, and his outstretched fingers and thumbs spat tiny lightning bolts. His eyes burned like red-hot coals.
And he was surrounded by statues.
Intricately beautiful, delicately carved from clay, they ranged in color from deep black to palest white. And while their bodies were perfectly sculpted, their faces remained unfinished, little more than vague ovals, without eyes, ears, nose or mouth. Male and female stood side by side in identical positions, tall, elegant and otherworldly. They looked not unlike the Elders or even the legendary Archons, but were obviously different from those races.
And every inch of their carved clay bodies was covered in the same spiraling script that decorated the front of the building.
Prometheus’s burning aura washed over the closest statues, red sparks running across the designs, crimson fire crawling along the archaic writing, bringing the lines of curling text to life.
“Prometheus …,” Zephaniah whispered.
Then the statue closest to Prometheus, a statuesque female, moved. A sliver of hardened clay fell away and shattered on the ground, revealing dark flesh beneath. Behind the Elder a second statue, a male, shifted slightly, and more clay fell away to expose rich golden skin.
“Little Brother …”
The Elder’s fiery aura blazed higher, leaping from statue to statue, igniting the script with threads of fire. Crackling balls of it dripped off Prometheus’s skin like sweat and rolled along the floor. When they reached a statue, they hissed and surged, and lines of flame crawled up the clay, igniting the writing. When all the writing was burning and the statue was bright with fire, the figure moved, hardened clay cascading off its body to shatter on the floor.
Zephaniah was suddenly aware that her brother’s aura had changed color. It had become darker, almost ugly, and the bitter-sweet smell of anise had become sharp and sour.
“Prometheus!” she shouted in alarm, but he could not hear her. She knew what was happening: his aura had started to consume him.
The Elder’s aura was an inferno now, a solid pillar of fire stretching up to the apex of the pyramid, and Prometheus was almost invisible in the middle of the flames. Fire bounced off the ceiling and fell onto the carvings like burning rain. The heat was overwhelming, washing over the thousands of figures, burning away clay to reveal the flesh beneath.
Zephaniah knew she needed to distract her brother, to disrupt his aura before the fire destroyed him. She desperately pushed her way through the statues. Some toppled and fell, and where the clay shells had not been touched by Prometheus’s aura, they shattered to dust when they hit the floor. When Zephaniah was close enough, she uncoiled the whip and lashed out at her brother, catching him around an outstretched arm. The metal and leather of the weapon instantly glowed bright red and started to burn. She pulled with all her might, and he staggered.
Prometheus’s aura flickered, darkened, then blazed back even brighter. The smell of anise had turned unmistakably foul. Bitter.
Jerking the burning whip free, Zephaniah lashed out again, this time catching him around the throat. Gripping the whip with both hands, she jerked hard and managed to tug Prometheus off balance. He staggered, and then his aura flickered and died as he folded to his knees.
“Prometheus …” Zephaniah dropped to the ground, cradling her brother, ignoring the heat that burned her flesh and seared her clothes. He opened his green eyes and looked up at her.
“What happened?” he mumbled.
Zephaniah tore her gaze from her brother to look up. What had once been statues were now living beings. They crowded around, still and silent, and she realized to her horror that their once-formless faces had altered to take on a semblance of her brother’s features.
“I think you’ve become a father,” she said in awe. “Little Brother, they all look like you.”
“Oh dear.” He coughed. “Even the women?”
“Especially the women,” Zephaniah said, closing her eyes.
Sophie Newman opened her eyes and instantly recognized the face glaring in through the window at them. “Prometheus,” she breathed. “Little Brother.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The huge ravens Huginn and Muninn, each as big as a horse, fell toward Dee and Virginia Dare, razor-sharp talons splayed wide. Their instructions were clear: lift both of the immortals high into the air and, once they were over the Thames, drop the woman into the river as punishment for aiding the Magician.
Dr. John Dee shoved Virginia to one side, sending her sliding across the frozen pool, her flute spinning from her hand. The Magician tried to run but lost his footing, his feet shooting out from under him. The fall saved his life.
The two monstrous crows crashed into the ice, talons and beaks shattering the surface. Huginn disappeared under the water with a startled squawk, then reappeared a moment later in an explosion of glistening shards. Muninn slid across the slippery pool, scrambling to gain purchase.
Dee staggered to his feet and stood swaying as the ice shattered all around him. He felt water soak into his expensive shoes and, with a surge of annoyance, stamped his foot down hard. The surface froze again, trapping Huginn partially under water and immobilizing Muninn’s feet.
The howling of the cucubuths was closer now.
Virginia Dare had clambered to her feet and retrieved her flute by the time Dee made his way across the frozen pool to her side. “Time to go,” he snapped.
Muninn’s huge head jerked toward them, jabbing its spearlike beak as the immortals tried to get past. Dee reached under his coat and pulled out the sword. The weapon crackled, red-blue fire running along the stone blade as he waved it in the air before the huge bird. The raven jerked its head back and then its beak opened and closed.
“Magician.”
The voice that came from the bird was raw with disuse. It spoke in the ancient language of Danu Talis.
Virginia Dare stopped at this sound, shocked. “I’ve seen some strange things in my time …”
“Huginn and Muninn have the power of human speech,” Dee reminded her. He lifted the sword. The blade brightened as he brought it close to the bird’s head, the red-blue fire reflected in its huge eyes. “But I don’t think it’s the raven that is speaking to us now,” he added, catching the bird’s gaze, carefully inspecting the creature.
“Magiker …”
“No, this is something older, something foul,” Dee said quietly. He suddenly swung the sword and the heavy lock barring the entrance to the Traitor’s Gate pool fell away. “Odin, the ravens’ master, speaks.”
“You cannot escape me. There is nowhere in this Shadowrealm where you can hide from me.”
“I am sorry if I destroyed your Shadowrealm, but you can create another,” Dee began.
“You killed the woman I loved.”
Dee was about to turn away, but he stopped to look at the trapped raven. “I am sorry about that too. She was a warrior; she died bravely in battle.”
“You know what it is like to lose a loved one, Majiker?”
Surprised, Dee said honestly, “Yes, I know. I buried my wives and children. I watched them age, wither and die.”
“I am going to destroy your world, Dee, before I destroy you. I will kill everything you hold dear.”
“There is little I hold dear anymore.”
“Not even this woman?”
Dee suddenly lashed out at the bird, the tip of his blade slicing through a single black feather on its neck. “Don’t threaten me,” Dee snarled. “I defeated you before. I will do it again.” He held up the sword, moving it before the bird’s eyes. “And last time, I did not have this!”
“It is as dangerous to you as it is to me,” Odin said through the bird’s mouth. Then there was a horrible coughing sound. It took Dee a few moments before he realized that Odin was laughing. “That is the sword that killed Hekate; I think it will be your downfall too, Magiker.”
“Doctor, we need to go.” Virginia grasped his hand in hers and pulled him through the open gate into the smaller pool. “I hate to break up your chat, but we have company, lots of company, none of it friendly. And while they want you alive, the same rule does not apply to me.”
The cucubuth howls were all around them, bouncing and echoing off the stones.
“What do we do now?” Dare demanded. “You do have a plan, don’t you?”
“This,” Dee said, taking the sword and plunging it point-first into the frozen pool. Ice shattered, water steamed and hissed, and then the couple fell into the inky black depths.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Killing me,” Billy the Kid said slowly, “or even trying to kill me, would be a mistake.” There was no humor in his voice now, and his accent had turned hard and clipped. “Lots of men have tried, and lots have failed.”
Kukulkan wheezed a laugh. “I am not a man.”
The immortal edged away from the Elder.
“Billy,” Machiavelli said softly, a note of warning in his voice.
Billy looked at the Italian and caught the hint of movement behind him. He turned to see the huge lynx standing in the doorway, its wide green eyes fixed on him.
“This one,” Kukulkan said, pointing at the Italian, “I have chosen to keep alive. But why should I keep you alive?”
“Have you forgotten that I rescued you, saved your life?”
“And have you forgotten that I repaid that debt by making you immortal?”
“I’ve done your dirty work ever since,” Billy said quickly.
“And now you have embarrassed me before my fellow Elders. I assured them you would be perfect for this small task,” Kukulkan said. “And you failed me.”
“Personally, I think you failed me,” the American snapped, stepping away from the door. “You sent me out to perform a dangerous job without telling me what I was getting into.” Still moving slowly around the room, he stabbed a finger at the Elder. “You underestimated the Sorceress.”
“You are not the first,” Machiavelli offered quickly. “Perenelle has chosen to live in her husband’s shadow, and yet I have always believed she was the cleverer of the two. There is so much about her that is unknown.”
Kukulkan came slowly to his feet and glared at the Italian. “Do not speak again,” he hissed, “lest I change my mind and kill you too.” He turned to focus again on Billy. “I gave you three simple tasks: escort this man to the island, kill the Sorceress and free the beasts. You failed.”
“Well, one down, two to go. That ain’t so bad!” Billy said. Then he suddenly lunged toward the shelf that held the Elder’s collection of ancient artifacts and grabbed the jade club studded with volcanic glass. It was a Macuahuitl, an Aztec sword. As he lifted the club, the black obsidian shards sparkled in the afternoon light.
“How dare you raise a weapon in my presence.” Kukulkan’s head suddenly jutted forward and an unnaturally long black forked tongue flickered toward the outlaw.
But instead of pulling away, Billy took a step toward the Elder, slashing out with the Macuahuitl. The razor-sharp glass whistled as it cut through the air. Kukulkan immediately sucked his tongue back in and then coughed and gagged, choking on it. The Macuahuitl had missed it by inches.
“Do that again and I’ll cut it off!” Billy yelled. “I know you’ll grow a new one, but I bet it’ll hurt.”
The huge lynx padded silently toward the American, its jaws opening to reveal savage teeth.
“And you better tell your kitty cat to step outside,” the American added, without looking away from the Elder. He tilted the Macuahuitl and sent sparkles of reflected light around the room, shining it into the cat’s eyes.
The lynx stopped and fixed its narrow head on the Elder; then it turned and moved silently from the room.
“You have made an enemy of me,” Kukulkan said.
“Well, I’m not feeling too friendly toward you right now either. You were talking about killing me,” Billy reminded him. “That can upset a man.”
“Am I the only adult here?” Machiavelli said suddenly. He had not moved from the chair and had watched the Elder with fascination: he was behaving like a spoiled child. “Enough of this nonsense; we are supposed to be on the same side.”
“No humani threatens me …,” Kukulkan began.
“And no one—Elder, immortal, human or monster—threatens me,” Billy said.
“OK, we’ve established that neither of you likes to be threatened,” Machiavelli said mildly, “so let us now return to the business at hand. It seems to me,” he continued quickly, looking at each of them in turn, forcing them to focus on him, “that we have all disappointed someone or other. However, we have an opportunity to make amends.” He looked at the Feathered Serpent evenly. “We are grateful—both of us—to still be alive. We know we’ve failed; now let us see how we can make amends.”
“I didn’t f—” Billy began, but a look from the Italian silenced him.
“We are aware that our failure reflects poorly on you,” Machiavelli said, deliberately accepting blame in an attempt to calm Kukulkan. “But who else is aware that Billy and I have failed?” The Italian knew that if he could keep the Elder thinking and talking, then there was a chance he could resolve this situation.
Kukulkan returned to his curved stone
stool. “You mean other Elders?”
The Italian nodded.
“No one else; I am sure the news has not even percolated through to the Shadowrealms yet. Well, reasonably sure,” he added, “though there may be spies in the city that I do not know about.”
Billy the Kid returned to stand behind Machiavelli. “Do you people trust anyone?”
“No,” Kukulkan said simply.
“So if Billy and I were to return to Alcatraz, awaken the army and set it loose on the city, then our mission would be considered a success. And no one would be the wiser.”
Kukulkan thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “That is true.”
Machiavelli spread his arms wide. “And no one would need to know about our failure … and you would be spared any embarrassment.”
“You were also tasked with killing Perenelle, and she has escaped,” the Elder reminded him. “How do you intend to find her?”
“I will not need to.” Machiavelli’s smile turned icy. “I know the Flamels. I have spent centuries studying them—especially the woman.” Almost unconsciously, he rubbed his left hand, which bore a faint pattern of white scars, the reminders of their last encounter. “I can almost guarantee you that they will return to the island to try to stop us. It is their nature, and all men and women are slaves to their nature.”
Kukulkan’s feathered tail beat a gentle tattoo on the floor as he considered the idea. “Are you confident that you can defeat the Alchemyst and the Sorceress if they come back to Alcatraz?”
Machiavelli bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. He knew he’d won. “The Flamels are weak and aging fast. There is a sphinx on the island that will drain their powers, and I can use some of the creatures already there to help me.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, forcing the Elder to lean forward as well. It was a trick he had learned half a millennium previously. “Any help you could give us would, of course, be gratefully appreciated.”
The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Page 14
