basilica and stood at the edge of the first of the two hundred and twenty-one
steps that led down to the street far below. Oh, he knew it wouldn't stop
us, he said patiently. He just wanted to slow us down, to keep us here
until he arrived. He pointed.
Far below, the narrow streets of Montmartre had come alive with the sounds
and lights of a fleet of French police cars. Dozens of uniformed gendarmes
had gathered at the bottom of the steps, with more arriving from the narrow
side streets to form a cordon around the building. Surprisingly, none of them
had started climbing.
Flamel, Scatty and the twins ignored the police. They were watching the tall
thin white-haired man in the elegant tuxedo slowly make his way up the steps
toward them. He stopped when he saw them emerge from the basilica, leaned on
a low metal railing and raised his right hand in a lazy salute.
Let me guess, Josh said, that must be Niccol Machiavelli.
The most dangerous immortal in Europe, the Alchemyst said grimly. Trust
me: this man makes Dee look like an amateur.
CHAPTER FOUR
W elcome back to Paris, Alchemyst.
Sophie and Josh jumped. Machiavelli was still far away to be heard so
clearly. Strangely, his voice seemed to be coming from somewhere behind them,
and both turned to look, but there were only two stained green metal statues
over the three arches in front of the church: a woman on a horse to their
right, her raised arm holding a sword, and a man holding a scepter on their
left.
I've been waiting for you. The voice seemed to be coming from the statue of
the man.
It' s a cheap trick, Scatty said dismissively, picking strips of wax off the
front of her steel-toed combat boots. It s nothing more than ventriloquism.
Sophie smiled sheepishly. I thought the statue was talking, she admitted,
embarrassed.
Josh started to laugh at his sister and then immediately reconsidered. I
guess I wouldn't be surprised if it did.
The good Dr. Dee sends his regards. Machiavelli s voice continued to hang
in the air around them.
So he survived Ojai, then, Nicholas said conversationally, not raising his
voice. Standing tall and straight, he casually put both hands behind his back
and glanced sidelong at Scatty. Then the fingers of his right hand started
dancing against the palm and fingers of his left.
Scatty drew the twins away from Nicholas and slowly retreated under the
shadowed arches. Standing between them, she put her arms around their
shoulders both their auras crackling silver and gold with her touch and drew
their heads together.
Machiavelli. The master of lies. Scatty' s whisper was the merest breath
against their ears. He must not hear us.
I cannot say I am pleased to see you, Signor Machiavelli. Or is it Monsieur
Machiavelli in this age? the Alchemyst said quietly, leaning against the
balustrade, looking down the white steps to where Machiavelli was still small
in the distance.
This century, I am French, Machiavelli replied, his voice clearly audible.
I love Paris. It is my favorite city in Europe after Florence, of course.
While Nicholas talked to Machiavelli, he kept his hands behind his back, out
of sight of the other immortal. His fingers were moving in an intricate
series of taps and beats.
Is he working a spell? Sophie breathed, watching his hands.
No, he s talking to me, Scatty said.
How? Josh whispered. Magic? Telepathy?
ASL: American Sign Language.
The twins glanced quickly at one another. American Sign Language? Josh
asked. He knows sign language? How?
You seem to keep forgetting that he s lived a long time, Scathach said with
a grin that showed her vampire teeth. And he did help create French sign
language in the eighteenth century, she added casually.
What' s he saying? Sophie asked impatiently. Nowhere in the witch s memory
could she find the knowledge necessary to translate the older man s gestures.
Scathach frowned, her lips moving as she spelled out a word.
Sophie brouillard fog, she translated. She shook her head. Sophie, he s
asking you for fog. That doesn t make sense.
It does to me, Sophie said as a dozen images of fog, clouds and smoke
flashed through her brain.
Niccol Machiavelli paused on the steps and drew in a deep breath. My people
have the entire area surrounded, he said, moving slowly toward the
Alchemyst. He was slightly out of breath and his heart was hammering; he
really needed to get back to the gym.
Creating the wax tulpa had exhausted him. He had never made one so big
before, and never from the back of a car roaring through Montmartre s narrow
and winding streets. It wasn't an elegant solution, but all he had needed to
do was to keep Flamel and his companions trapped in the church until he got
there, and he had succeeded. Now the church was surrounded, more gendarmes
were en route and he had called in all available agents. As the head of the
DGSE, his powers were almost limitless, and he d issued an order to impose a
press blackout. He prided himself on having complete control of his emotions,
but he had to admit that right now he was feeling quite excited: soon he
would have Nicholas Flamel, Scathach and the children in custody. He would
have triumphed where Dee had failed.
Later he would have someone in his department leak a story to the press that
thieves had been apprehended breaking into the national monument. Close to
dawn just in time for the early-morning news a second report would be leaked,
revealing how the desperate prisoners had overpowered their guards and
escaped on their way to the police station. They would never be seen again.
I have you now, Nicholas Flamel.
Flamel came to stand at the edge of the steps and pushed his hands into the
back pockets of his worn black jeans. I believe the last time you made that
statement, you were just about to break into my tomb.
Machiavelli stopped in shock. How do you know that?
More than three hundred years ago, in the dead of night, Machiavelli had
cracked open Nicholas and Perenelle s tomb, looking for proof that the
Alchemyst and his wife were indeed dead and trying to determine whether they
had been buried with the Book of Abraham the Mage. The Italian hadn't been
entirely surprised to find that both coffins were filled with stones.
Perry and I were right there behind you, standing in the shadows, close
enough to touch you when you lifted the top off our tomb. I knew someone
would come I just never imagined it would be you. I ll admit I was
disappointed, Niccol , he added.
The white-haired man continued up the steps to Sacre -Coeur. You always
thought I was a better person than I was, Nicholas.
I believe there is good in everyone, Flamel whispered, even you.
Not me, Alchemyst, not anymore, and not for a very long time. Machiavelli
stopped and indicated the police and heavily armed black-clad French special
forces gathering at the bottom of the steps. Come now. Surrender. No harm
will come to you.
I cannot tell you how many peopl
e have said that to me, Nicholas said
sadly. And they were always lying, he added.
Machiavelli s voice hardened. You can deal with me or with Dr. Dee. And you
know the English Magician never had any patience.
There is one other option, Flamel said with a shrug. His thin lips curled
in a smile. I could deal with neither of you. He half turned, but when he
looked back at Machiavelli, the expression on the Alchemyst s face made the
immortal Italian take a step back in shock. For an instant something ancient
and implacable shone through Flamel s pale eyes, which flickered a brilliant
emerald green. Now it was Flamel s voice that dropped to a whisper, still
clearly audible to Machiavelli. It would be better if you and I were never
to meet again.
Machiavelli attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. That sounds
like a threat and believe me, you are in no position to issue threats.
Not a threat, Flamel said, and stepped back from the top steps. A
promise.
The cool damp Parisian night air was abruptly touched with the rich odor of
vanilla, and Niccol Machiavelli knew then that something was very wrong.
Standing straight, eyes closed, arms at her sides, palms facing outward,
Sophie Newman took a deep breath, attempting to calm her thundering heart and
allow her mind to wander. When the Witch of Endor had wrapped her like a
mummy with bandages of solidified air, she had imparted thousands of years of
knowledge into the girl in a matter of heartbeats. Sophie had imagined she d
felt her head swelling as her brain filled with the Witch s memories. Since
then, her skull had throbbed with a headache, the base of her neck felt stiff
and tight and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. Two days ago she had
been an ordinary American teenager, her head filled with normal everyday
things: homework and school projects, the latest songs and videos, boys she
liked, cell phone numbers and Web addresses, blogs and urls.
Now she knew things that no person should ever know.
Sophie Newman possessed the Witch of Endor s memories; she knew all that the
Witch had seen, everything she had done over millennia. It was all a jumble:
a mixture of thoughts and wishes, observations, fears and desires, a
confusing mess of bizarre sights, terrifying images and incomprehensible
sounds. It was as if a thousand movies had been mixed up and edited together.
And scattered throughout the tangle of memories were countless incidences
when the Witch had actually used her special power, the Magic of Air. All
Sophie had to do was find a time when the Witch had used fog.
But when and where and how to find it?
Ignoring Flamel s voice calling down to Machiavelli, blanking out the sour
smell of her brother s fear and the jingle of Scathach s swords, Sophie
concentrated her thoughts on mist and fog.
San Francisco was often wrapped in fog, and she d seen the Golden Gate Bridge
rising out of a thick layer of cloud. And only last fall, when the family had
been in St. Paul s Cathedral in Boston, they d stepped out onto Tremont
Street to find that a damp fog had completely obscured the Common. Other
memories began to intrude: mist in Glasgow; swirling damp fog in Vienna;
thick foul-smelling yellow smog in London.
Sophie frowned; she had never been to Glasgow, Vienna or London. But the
Witch had and these were the Witch of Endor s memories.
Images, thoughts and memories like the strands of fog she was seeing in her
head shifted and twisted. And then they suddenly cleared. Sophie clearly
remembered standing alongside a figure dressed in the formal clothing of the
nineteenth century. She could see him in her mind s eye, a man with a long
nose and a high forehead topped with graying curly hair. He was sitting at a
high desk, a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper before him, dipping a simple
pen into a brimming inkwell. It took her a moment to realize that this was
not one of her own memories, nor was it something she had seen on TV or in a
movie. She was remembering something the Witch of Endor had done and seen. As
she turned to look closely at the figure, the Witch s memories flooded her:
the man was a famous English writer and was just about to begin work on a new
book. The writer glanced up and smiled at her; then his lips moved, but there
was no sound. Leaning over his shoulder, she saw him write the words Fog
everywhere. Fog up the river. Fog down the river in an elegant curling
script. Outside the writer s study window, fog, thick and opaque, rolled like
smoke against the dirty glass, blotting out the background in an impenetrable
blanket.
And beneath the portico of Sacre -Coeur in Paris, the air turned chill and
moist, rich with the odor of vanilla ice cream. A trickle of white dribbled
from each of Sophie s outstretched fingers. The wispy streams curled down to
puddle at her feet. Behind her closed eyes, she watched the writer dip his
pen into the inkwell and continue. Fog creeping fog lying fog drooping fog in
the eyes and throats
Thick white fog spilled from Sophie s fingers and spread across the stones,
shifting like heavy smoke, flowing in twisting ropes and gossamer threads.
Coiling and shifting, it flowed through Flamel s legs and tumbled down the
steps, growing, thickening, darkening.
Niccol watched the fog flow down the steps of Sacre -Coeur like dirty milk,
watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that
Flamel was going to elude him. By the time the fog reached him it was chest
high, wet and vanilla scented. He breathed deeply, recognizing the odor of
magic.
Remarkable, he said, but the fog flattened his voice, dulling his carefully
cultivated French accent, revealing the harsher Italian beneath.
Leave us alone, Flamel s voice boomed out of the fog.
That sounds like another threat, Nicholas. Believe me when I tell you that
you have no idea of the forces gathered against you now. Your parlor tricks
will not save you. Machiavelli pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed
dial number. Attack. Attack now! He raced up the steps as he spoke, moving
silently on expensive leather-soled shoes, while far below, booted feet
thumped on stone as the gathered police charged up the steps.
I ve survived for a very long time. Flamel s voice didn't come from where
Machiavelli expected it to, and he stopped, turning left and right, trying to
make out a shape in the fog.
The world moved on, Nicholas, Machiavelli said. You did not. You might
have escaped us in America, but here, in Europe, there are too many Elders,
too many immortal humans who know you. You will not be able to remain hidden
for long. We will find you.
Machiavelli dashed up the final few steps that brought him directly to the
entrance of the church. There was no mist here. The unnatural fog started on
the top step and flowed downward, leaving the church floating like an island
on a cloudy sea. Even before he ran into the church, Machiavelli knew he
would not find them in there: Flamel, Scathach and the twins had escaped.
For the moment.
But Paris was no lo
nger Nicholas Flamel s city. The city that had once
honored Flamel and his wife as patrons of the sick and poor, the city that
named streets after them, was long gone. Paris now belonged to Machiavelli
and the Dark Elders he served. Looking out over the ancient city, Niccol
Machiavelli swore that he was going to turn Paris into a trap and maybe even
a tomb for the legendary Alchemyst.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he ghosts of Alcatraz awoke Perenelle Flamel.
The woman lay unmoving on the narrow cot in the cramped icy cell deep beneath
the abandoned prison and listened to them whisper and murmur in the shadows
around her. There were a dozen languages she could understand, many more she
could identify and a few that were completely incomprehensible.
Keeping her eyes closed, Perenelle concentrated on the languages, trying to
make out the individual voices, wondering if there were any she recognized.
And then a sudden thought struck her: how was she able to hear the ghosts?
Sitting outside the cell was a sphinx, a monster with a lion s body, an
eagle s wings and the head of a beautiful woman. One of its special powers
was the ability to absorb the magical energies of another living being. It
had drained Perenelle s, rendering her helpless, trapping her in this
terrible prison cell.
A tiny smile curled Perenelle s lips as she realized something: she was the
seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; she had been born with the ability to
hear and see ghosts. She had been doing so long before she had learned how to
train and concentrate her aura. Her gift had nothing to do with magic, and
therefore the sphinx had no power over it. Throughout the centuries of her
long life, she had used her skill with magic to protect herself from ghosts,
to coat and shield her aura with colors that rendered her invisible to the
apparitions. But as the sphinx had absorbed her energies, those shields had
been wiped away, revealing her to the spirit realm.
And now they were coming.
Perenelle Flamel had seen her first ghost that of her beloved grandmother
Mamom when she was seven years old. Perenelle knew that there was nothing to
fear from ghosts; they could be annoying, certainly, were often irritating
and sometimes downright rude, but they possessed no physical presence. There
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