Josh looked down. He was still holding the Aztec sunstone in his right hand, but he’d covered it with his left. When he lifted his left hand, the stone came with it. It was stuck to his skin. Puzzled, he looked at the Elder.
“Wait,” Prometheus whispered.
Suddenly Josh’s left hand glowed gold and an agonizing pain shot up the length of his arm. He gasped; then he smelled oranges and the pain vanished.
The sunstone dropped to the ground.
And when he turned his hand over, he discovered that the Aztec face had seared into the flesh of his palm. It resembled a black tattoo. “A trigger?” he whispered.
“A trigger,” Prometheus said. “When you wish to call upon the Magic of Fire, visualize the type of flame you would like to create and press the thumb of your right hand to the face.”
Josh looked at the barbaric image burned into his palm and grinned. This was way cooler than Sophie’s boring circle tattoo.
“Leave me now,” Prometheus said. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” The Elder sat back into his chair and reached for his remote control. He watched the boy climb unsteadily to his feet.
“Thank … thank you,” Josh mumbled.
“You’re welcome.… Oh, and Josh—try not to burn yourself too often.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
In the heart of the Catacombs beneath Paris, the Elder Mars Ultor awoke. For a single instant his eyes were a brilliant blue, but they quickly turned an ugly burning red.
The boy, the twin, the one he had Awakened, the one he was connected to, had mastered his second magic, the Magic of Fire.
Closing his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the pain that ate away at his entire body, he looked through the boy’s eyes and found he was staring into the face of his wife’s brother: Prometheus. He broke the connection instantly, afraid that the Elder would sense his presence. Mars Ultor, the Avenger, who feared nothing and no one, was terrified of the Firelord.
Then, almost reluctantly, he concentrated on visualizing the English Magician’s face, and when Dee turned his head to look up with wide gray eyes, the Elder said: “It is done.”
“It is done.” John Dee jerked awake with such force that he fell out of the chair and sprawled on his burnt hands. The pain was excruciating, but he ignored it: his dreamless sleep had been interrupted by the image of the Sleeping God, Mars Ultor, trapped in his bone prison deep beneath Paris. In his dream the Elder’s eyes had opened and looked at him, and Dee heard him speak behind the mask.
“It is done. The boy has mastered fire.”
Climbing to his feet, Dee cradled his arms across his chest and pressed his forehead against the cool glass wall. Focusing, he visualized Mars Ultor’s prison in precise detail, until he could actually see the imprisoned Elder. “I want the boy,” he said aloud.
And on the other side of the world, bloodred smoke curled from the Sleeping God’s eyes. “Josh,” Mars whispered. “Josh.”
Exhausted and sore, Josh Newman lay back on the hard uncomfortable bed and closed his eyes. A single heartbeat later, he was asleep.
And then his eyes snapped open.
No longer blue, they were the same color as Mars Ultor’s.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Scathach caught the hint of movement above them and jerked Joan to one side … in the instant before Saint-Germain tumbled out of the air to land in a heap at their feet.
The immortal sat up and fastidiously dusted himself off as the two women looked at him in astonishment. He was just standing up when there was a crash in the undergrowth behind them. The two women turned, weapons ready … as Palamedes and William Shakespeare strolled out of the long grass.
“When shall we three meet again!” Shakespeare said with a smile that exposed his bad teeth.
Joan squealed with delight and launched herself at Saint-Germain, wrapping her arms and legs around him, sending him staggering backward. Catching her in his arms, he swung her around and around. “I knew you would come for me,” Joan whispered in French.
“I said I would follow you to the ends of the earth,” he murmured in the same language, “and now you know I really mean it.” Returning Joan to the ground, he bowed to the Shadow. “You are unharmed and in good health, I see.”
“We are.” Scatty returned his bow. “I thought I’d lost the capacity for surprise a long time ago,” she said, “but I guess I was mistaken. And I really do hate surprises,” she added.
Saint-Germain turned to Palamedes and the Bard and raised his eyebrows in silent shock. The knight grinned, teeth white against his dark skin. “What, did you think we would let you have all the fun?”
“But how …?” Saint-Germain wondered.
Palamedes turned to Shakespeare. “Tell him.”
The Bard shrugged modestly. “I suggested to the Green Man that he send us after you.” Will smiled. He stopped and bowed to Scatty and Joan. “Ladies.”
“And Tammuz did it?” Saint-Germain sounded surprised.
“He raised a few minor objections,” Palamedes rumbled, “until Will threatened him with some horrible fungus disease.” The Saracen Knight bowed. “Ladies: it is good to see you both.”
“And you, Sir Knight,” Joan said.
“Been a long time, Pally,” Scathach added with a smile.
The knight made a pained face. “Please, don’t call me Pally. I hate that.”
“I know.”
The hooded man had remained seated on the rock, bright blue eyes watching each immortal in turn, absently running his index finger along the length of the hook that took the place of his left hand.
William Shakespeare stepped forward, took off his black-framed glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. “I believe, sir, that we are due an explanation.”
Although his mouth and nose were hidden by a scarf, the hooded man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “And I believe I will tell you only what I think you need to know, and no more.”
Palamedes’ hand moved and the broadsword strapped to his back appeared in his grip. “An explanation, and then you send us back to our own time.”
The hooded man laughed. “Why, Sir Knight, you—none of you—can return home just yet.”
Palamedes raised his sword and took a step forward.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” the man said almost impatiently. Palamedes’ sword suddenly turned into a length of wood, which quickly sprouted leaves. Vines immediately started to coil around the knight’s wrist and arm. He dropped the sword to the ground, where it was swallowed into the earth, leaving nothing more than a darkened patch in the dirt by his feet.
“That was my favorite sword,” the Saracen Knight muttered.
“This is my world,” the hooded man said. “I created it. I control it and everything in it.” He stretched his hook out over the water and moved it clockwise, and the pool instantly froze into a crackling sheet of ice. When he moved it counterclockwise, the ice transformed into foul-smelling bubbling lava. “And right now,” the man said, “you are here … which means that I control you.” His hand moved again and the lava turned back into crystal-clear water.
Will Shakespeare stepped closer to the water’s edge, then stooped to scoop up a handful of the liquid. He paused before he brought it to his lips. “I take it that it is safe to drink.”
“I can make it any flavor you like.”
The Bard sipped the water. “You’re not going to kill us, are you?”
“I am not.”
Shakespeare straightened slowly and looked closely at the hooded man. He frowned: there was something almost familiar about him. “Have we met before?”
The figure held up his left arm, tilting the hook so that it caught the sunlight. “If we had, I am sure you would have remembered this.”
“Still, there is something about you …,” Shakespeare said, squinting hard at the man. “I feel I should know you.”
The hooded man turned to Saint-Germain. “However, we have met before. It is good to see you again. You have prospe
red in the centuries since our last encounter.”
“All thanks to you.” Saint-Germain stepped forward and bowed. “It has just occurred to me that this is all your doing. You planned this. In fact, I think you’ve been planning this for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” the man said, surprising the others. “For a very long time.”
“Flamel said he met you when he was traveling across Europe looking for someone to translate the Codex.”
The hooded man bowed. “I met him and Mistress Perenelle briefly.”
“And you taught me how to master the Magic of Fire.”
“It was necessary. If I had not taught you what I knew, then sooner or later your own Fire magic would have consumed you. I needed to keep you alive.”
“I’m grateful,” Saint-Germain said.
The hooded man looked at each of them in turn. “I have worked hard to keep all of you alive and in good health—even you, Scathach,” he added. “I have been waiting ten thousand years for this day to come.”
“Ten thousand years?” Shakespeare asked.
“Since the Fall of Danu Talis.”
“You were on the island?” Scathach breathed.
“Yes, I was. And so were you, Scathach, and you too, Palamedes, and you, Shakespeare and Saint-Germain and Joan. You were all there. You went to stand and fight with the original twins.”
There was a long silence, when even the sounds of the landscape faded to stillness.
Finally, Scathach shook her head. “That’s impossible. If I was on Danu Talis in the past, why don’t I remember?”
“Because you’ve not been there yet,” he said simply. He slid off the rock and stood before them. He was slightly taller than Saint-Germain, though not as tall as Palamedes. “I’ve gathered you here to take you back to Danu Talis with me. The twins need warriors they can trust. Come now, there is little time to waste.”
“Just like that?” Palamedes demanded. “You cannot expect us to travel into the past and fight just because you say so. Why should we fight for you?”
“You are not fighting for me,” the hooded man said impatiently. “You are fighting for the continued existence of the human race. If you choose not to come, then Danu Talis will not sink and the creatures you know as humani will never rise to civilization. You have all in your differing ways been champions of the humani. It is time to champion their cause again.”
“But we cannot go with you, not now,” Saint-Germain said. “We’ve got to get back to our own time.”
Joan nodded. “What about Nicholas and Perenelle and the creatures on Alcatraz that Dee and Machiavelli are about to release into the city? We need to fight with the Flamels.”
The hooded man shook his head. “If we fail and Danu Talis is not destroyed, then nothing else matters.”
“A moment,” Shakespeare said. “You said Danu Talis has to fall.”
“Of course. If the island is not destroyed, then there is no human history. The Elders will remain and the world you know will never have existed.”
“But Nicholas and Perenelle …,” Joan began.
“I am afraid that the Flamels and the twins are on their own. You cannot help them. But you can help fight for an entire species. If you do not, there really is no reason to worry about the Flamels—for they will not exist.”
The group was silent for a moment, trying to piece together what the man was saying. Danu Talis hadn’t fallen yet because there had been no battle yet. And they themselves were the warriors who would fight the battle. A group brought together from the future to shape the events of the past.
“What if we refuse?” Saint-Germain asked. “Can you send us back to our own world? To Paris, Sherwood Forest or San Francisco?”
“No. It took an enormous expenditure of power to create this Pleistocene Shadowrealm; I have neither the power nor the ability to send you back to your own worlds. As soon as I leave the world, it will start to decay and die.”
“So we really do not have much choice, then, do we,” Saint-Germain said.
“There are always choices,” the hooded man said quietly. “Some are just harder to make than others. You can come with me and live, or stay here and die.”
“Those are not great choices,” Palamedes said.
“They are the only choices you have.”
“And on Danu Talis, we must fight?” the knight asked.
“Yes. You will fight—in the biggest battle you’ve ever fought.”
Palamedes looked over at the Bard, and Shakespeare smiled and nodded. “I’ve always wanted to see a mythical land. I’ve got this idea for a play—all it needs is a setting.…”
“And I think I would like to see my birthplace before it sank,” Scatty said, a strange note of urgency in her voice. She looked even paler than usual.
The hooded man’s eyes crinkled again. “Yes. And you might get to see your parents.”
The Shadow took a step back, suddenly looking startled. That was exactly the thought that had been in her head.
“I have a question,” Joan said quietly, and everyone turned to look at her. “What is your name? You know us—indeed, you seem very familiar with us—but we’ve no idea who you are.”
The hooded man nodded. “I have had many names through the centuries, but the one I prefer is the one I was first called on Danu Talis: Marethyu.”
Scathach gasped and the immortal humans turned to her. Joan laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “What does it mean?” She glanced over her shoulder at the hooded man.
“Tell them,” he said to the Shadow.
“In the language of Danu Talis, it means ‘death.’”
WEDNESDAY,
6th June
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sophie Newman knew the moment she awoke in the tiny cramped bedroom that something was wrong. There was a vague fluttering in the pit of her stomach and a dull ache at the back of her head, and she was painfully aware that her heart was pounding. Wrapping her arms tightly around her chest, she attempted to control her suddenly frantic breathing. What was happening to her: was this a panic attack? She’d never had one before, but her friend Elle in New York has them all the time. Sophie felt light-headed and just a little sick, and when she rolled out of bed and came to her feet, a wave of dizziness washed over her.
Stepping out into the hallway, she stopped and listened carefully. The little guesthouse was quiet. And it felt empty. With her left hand brushing the wall, she walked down the corridor into the kitchen. The night outside had started to pale toward dawn. Perry had told her that Prometheus kept his Shadowrealm in synch with earth time and it had a regular cycle of day and night.
The crystal skull sat in the center of the kitchen table.
Last night, she’d watched the Flamels put their hands on it, allowing their auras to sink into it. The crystal had glowed dully, the hint of ice-white, the merest suggestion of pale green winking deep within its core, but nothing else had happened, and the effort had exhausted Nicholas.
Sophie hurried past it. She didn’t see the crystal as it pulsed silver and the eye sockets darkened, filling with shadow. The light faded as she moved away from the table and walked to the couch, where Josh had spent the night.
But the couch was empty.
“Josh?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Maybe he was in the bathroom, or he’d probably gone up to the main house looking for food. Yet even as she was making excuses, she knew they weren’t true. When Josh had returned after learning the Magic of Fire from Prometheus, he had been ashen-faced, staggering with exhaustion. He’d fallen sound asleep the moment he’d crawled onto the couch.
“Josh?” she called again. “Josh?”
The fluttering in her stomach was worse now, like really bad indigestion, and her heart was racing so fast she was feeling breathless.
“Josh!” Louder now. “Where are you?” If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. “Josh Newman, you come here right this minute!”
She hea
rd movement at the door and the handle turned. Spinning toward it, Sophie put her hands on her hips. “Just where have you—”
The door swung open and Aoife stepped into the room, followed by Niten. The Japanese immortal carried two swords, one much longer than the other, while Aoife clutched a long ugly leaf-bladed knife.
“It’s Josh,” Sophie began breathlessly. “He’s missing.”
They split up without a word, Niten moving to the right, Aoife to the left. The guest cottage was tiny and they were back in the kitchen within moments. “No sign of a struggle,” Niten said calmly. “Looks like he just walked out.” He turned and disappeared back into the night, leaving Sophie alone with Aoife.
“He’s gone,” Sophie whispered. “He’s gone.” It was all she could say as waves of panic began to wash over her.
Aoife returned the knife to the sheath strapped to her leg. “Talk to me,” she said. “What happened?”
Sophie shook her head. “When I woke up, I felt …” She pressed both hands to her stomach as she searched for the words.
“Empty,” Aoife suggested.
Sophie looked at the red-haired warrior. “Yes,” she breathed, suddenly able to identify the feeling. “I feel empty. I’ve never felt that way before.”
Aoife nodded, her pale face expressionless.
Niten opened the door and spoke quickly to the warrior in Japanese, then turned and raced away.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Sophie was starting to feel breathless with terror again. “What’s happened to my brother?” she asked. Static curled through her hair, and tendrils of her silver aura smoked off her skin. She began to shake, and Aoife stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly. When Aoife spoke, her voice echoed inside Sophie’s head, and even though she used the ancient Irish tongue of her youth, Sophie understood every word. “Breathe deeply, calm yourself.… You need to be in control now. For your sake. For Josh’s sake.”
The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Page 22
