Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2

by Michael Scott

  The women ignored him.

  Dr. John Dee sighed dramatically. He dropped into a high-backed leather

  armchair and clapped his small hands together with a sharp crack. Enough of

  this nonsense, he said in English. You re here for Scathach. Now, do you

  want her or not?

  The girl sitting at the piano stared at the Magician. If he noticed that her

  head was now twisted at an impossible angle, he didn't react. Where is she?

  Her English was perfect.

  Close by, Machiavelli said, moving slowly around the room.

  The three girls directed their attention to him, heads turning to track him,

  like owls following a mouse.

  What is she doing?

  She is protecting the Alchemyst Flamel, Saint-Germain and two humani,

  Machiavelli said. We only want the humani and Flamel. Scathach is yours. He

  paused and then added, You can have Saint-Germain, too, if you want him.

  He s no use to us.

  The Shadow. We just want the Shadow, the woman sitting at the piano said.

  Her indigo-tipped fingers moved across the keys, the sound delicate and

  beautiful.

  Machiavelli crossed to a side table and poured coffee from a tall silver pot.

  He looked at Dee and raised his eyebrows and the pot at the same time. The

  Magician shook his head. You should know that Scathach is still powerful,

  Machiavelli continued, speaking now to the woman seated at the piano. The

  pupils of her indigo eyes were narrow and horizontal. She knocked out a unit

  of highly trained police officers yesterday morning.

  Humani, the Disir almost spat. No humani can stand against the Shadow.

  But we are not humani, the woman standing at the window said.

  We are the Disir, finished the woman sitting across from Dee. We are the

  Shieldmaidens, the Choosers of the Dead, the Warriors of

  Yes, yes, yes, Dee said impatiently. We know who you are: Valkyries.

  Probably the greatest warriors the world has ever seen according to

  yourselves, anyway. We want to know if you can defeat the Shadow.

  The Disir with indigo eyes swiveled her body away from the piano and flowed

  smoothly to her feet. She stalked across the carpet to stand before Dee. Her

  two sisters were suddenly by her side, and the temperature in the room

  abruptly plummeted.

  It would be a mistake to mock us, Dr. Dee, one said.

  Dee sighed. Can you defeat the Shadow? he asked again. Because if you

  cannot, then I m sure that there are others who would be only too delighted

  to try. He held up his cell phone. I can call upon Amazons, Samurai and

  Bogatyrs.

  The temperature in the room continued to fall as Dee spoke, and his breath

  plumed white in the air, ice crystals forming on his eyebrows and beard.

  Enough of this trickery! Dee snapped his fingers and his aura flashed

  briefly yellow. The room grew warm, then hot, heavy with the stink of rotten

  eggs.

  There is no need for these lesser warriors. The Disir will slay the Shadow,

  the girl standing to Dee s right said.

  How? Dee snapped.

  We have what those other warriors have not.

  You re talking in riddles, Dee said impatiently.

  Tell him, Machiavelli said.

  The Disir with the palest eyes turned her head in his direction and then

  looked back at Dee. Long fingers flickered toward his face. You destroyed

  the Yggdrasill and released our pet creature, which had been long trapped in

  the roots of the World Tree.

  Something flickered behind Dee s eyes and a muscle twitched at the corner of

  his mouth. Nidhogg? He looked at Machiavelli. You knew about this?

  Machiavelli nodded. Of course.

  The Disir with indigo eyes stepped up to Dee and looked down into his face.

  Yes, you freed Nidhogg, the Devourer of Corpses. Still leaning toward Dee,

  she swiveled her head to look at Machiavelli. Her sisters also turned in his

  direction. Take us to where the Shadow and the others are hiding, then leave

  us. Once we have loosed Nidhogg, Scathach is doomed.

  Can you control the creature? Machiavelli asked curiously.

  Once it feeds off the Shadow, consumes first her memories and then her flesh

  and bones, it will need to sleep. After a feast like Scathach, it will

  probably sleep for a couple of centuries. We will recapture it then.

  Niccol Machiavelli nodded. We didn't discuss your fee.

  The three Disir smiled, and even Machiavelli, who had seen horrors, recoiled

  from the expressions on their faces. There is no fee, the Disir with indigo

  eyes said. This we will do to restore the honor of our clan and avenge our

  fallen family. Scathach the Shadow destroyed many of our sisters.

  Machiavelli nodded. I understand. When will you attack?

  At dawn.

  Why not now? Dee demanded.

  We are creatures of the twilight. In that no-time between night and day, we

  are at our strongest, one said.

  That is when we are invincible, her sister added.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I guess I must still be on American time, Josh said.

  Why? Scathach asked. They were standing in the fully equipped gym in the

  basement of Saint-Germain s house. One wall was mirrored, and it reflected

  the young man and the vampire, surrounded by the latest exercise equipment.

  Josh glanced up at the clock on the wall. It s three a.m . I should be

  exhausted, but I m still totally awake. It could be because it s only six at

  night back home.

  Scathach nodded. That s one of the reasons. Another is because you are

  around people like Nicholas and Saint-Germain, and especially your sister and

  Joan. Although your powers have not been Awakened, you are in the company of

  some of the most powerful auras on the planet. Your own aura is picking up a

  little of their power, and it is energizing you. But just because you don't

  feel tired, that doesn t mean you should not rest, she added. Drink plenty

  of water too. Your aura is burning through a lot of liquids. You need to keep

  hydrated.

  A door opened and Joan stepped into the gym. While Scathach was dressed in

  black, Joan was wearing a long-sleeved white T-shirt over loose white

  trousers and white sneakers. Like Scathach, however, she was carrying a

  sword. I wondered if you needed an assistant, she said, almost shyly.

  I thought you d gone to bed, Scathach said.

  I don't sleep much these days. And when I do, my dreams are troubled. I

  dream of fire. She smiled sadly. isn't it a wonderful irony: I m married to

  a Master of Fire, yet I m terrified by dreams of fire.

  Where is Francis?

  In his office, working. He ll be there for hours. I m not sure if he ever

  sleeps anymore. Now, she said, looking at Josh and changing the subject,

  how are you getting on?

  I m still learning how to hold the sword, Josh muttered, sounding vaguely

  embarrassed. He d seen movies; he d thought he knew how people fought with

  swords. He d never imagined, though, that just holding one would be so

  difficult. Scathach had spent the past thirty minutes attempting to teach him

  how to hold and move Clarent without dropping it. She hadn't had much

  success; every time he spun the weapon, the weight dragged it from his grip.

  The h
ighly polished wooden floor was scratched and gouged where the stone

  blade had struck it. It s harder than I thought, he finally admitted. I m

  not sure I ll ever learn.

  Scathach can teach you how to fight with a sword, Joan said confidently.

  She taught me. She took a simple farm girl and turned her into a warrior.

  She twisted her wrist, and her sword, which was almost as tall as she was,

  moved and curled in the air with an almost human-sounding moan. Josh

  attempted to copy the action and Clarent went spinning from his hand. It

  buried itself point first in the floor, cracking the wood and swaying to and

  fro.

  Sorry, Josh muttered.

  Forget everything you think you know about swordplay, Scathach said. She

  glanced at Joan. He s watched too much TV. He thinks he can just twirl a

  sword around like a cheerleader s baton.

  Joan grinned. She deftly flipped her longsword and presented it to Josh, hilt

  first. Take it.

  Josh reached for the sword with his right hand.

  You might think about using both hands, the small Frenchwoman suggested.

  Josh ignored her. Wrapping his fingers around the hilt of Joan s sword, he

  attempted to lift it from her grasp. And failed. It was incredibly heavy.

  You can see why we re still on the basics, Scatty said. She plucked the

  sword from Josh s grip and tossed it to Joan, who caught it easily.

  Let s start with how to hold a sword. Joan took up a position on Josh s

  right, while Scathach stood to his left. Look straight ahead.

  Josh looked into the mirror. While he and Scathach were clearly visible in

  the glass, the faintest silver haze surrounded Joan of Arc. He blinked,

  squeezing his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, the haze was still

  there.

  It s my aura, Joan explained, anticipating the question he was just about

  to ask. It s usually invisible to the human eyes, but it ll sometimes turn

  up on photos and in mirrors.

  And your aura is like Sophie s, Josh said.

  Joan of Arc shook her head. Oh no, not like your sister s, she said,

  surprising him. Hers is much stronger.

  Joan raised the longsword, spinning it around so that the point of the blade

  was positioned between her feet and both hands rested on the pommel of the

  hilt. Now, just do as we do and do it slowly. She stretched out her right

  arm, holding the long blade steady. On Josh s left, the Shadow extended both

  arms, holding her two short swords straight out in front of her.

  Josh wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the stone sword and raised his

  right arm. Even before he had it fully extended, it had begun to tremble with

  the weight of the blade. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to keep his arm

  steady. It s too heavy, he gasped as he lowered his arm and rotated his

  shoulder; his muscles were burning. It felt a bit like the first day of

  football practice after summer vacation.

  Try it like this. Watch me. Joan showed him how to grip the handle with

  both hands.

  Using both hands, he found that it was easier to hold the sword straight out.

  He tried it again, this time holding the sword with one hand. For about

  thirty seconds the weapon remained still; then the tip began to tremble. With

  a sigh, Josh lowered his arms. Can t do it with one hand, he muttered.

  In time you will, Scathach snapped, losing patience. But in the meantime,

  I ll teach you how to wield it using both hands, Eastern fashion.

  Josh nodded. That might be easier. He d spent years studying tae kwon do,

  and had always wanted to study kendo, Japanese fencing, but his parents had

  refused, saying it was too dangerous.

  All he needs is practice, Joan said seriously, looking at Scathach s

  reflection in the mirror, her gray eyes bright and twinkling.

  How much practice? Josh asked.

  At least three years.

  Three years? Taking a deep breath, he wiped first one palm and then the

  other on his pants and gripped the hilt again. Then he looked at himself in

  the mirror and stretched out both arms. I hope Sophie is doing better than I

  am, he muttered.

  The Comte de Saint-Germain had brought Sophie up to the house s tiny roof

  garden. The view of Paris was spectacular, and she leaned on the balustrade

  to look down onto the Champs-Elys es. Traffic had finally faded to little

  more than a sparse trickle, and the city was still and silent. She breathed

  deeply; the air was cool and damp, the slightly sour smell of the river

  masked by the herbal scents coming from the dozens of overflowing pots and

  fancy containers scattered across the roof. Sophie wrapped her arms around

  her body, vigorously rubbed her forearms and shivered.

  Cold? Saint-Germain asked.

  A little, she said, though she wasn't sure if she was cold or nervous. She

  knew Saint-Germain had brought her up here to teach her Fire magic.

  After tonight, you will never feel the chill again, Saint-Germain promised.

  You could walk across Antarctica wearing shorts and a T-shirt and feel

  nothing. Brushing his long hair off his forehead, he plucked a leaf from a

  pot and curled it between the palms of his hands, then rubbed them together.

  The crisp odor of spearmint filled the air. Joan loves to cook. She grows

  all her herbs up here, he explained, breathing deeply. There are a dozen

  different types of mint, oregano, thyme, sage and basil. And of course

  lavender. She loves lavender; it reminds her of her youth.

  Where did you meet Joan? Here, in France?

  I finally got together with her here, but believe it or not, I first met her

  in California. It was 1849; I was making a little gold and Joan was working

  as a missionary, running a soup kitchen and hospital for those who d gone

  west in search of gold.

  Sophie frowned. You were making gold during the Gold Rush? Why?

  Saint-Germain shrugged and looked vaguely embarrassed. Like just about

  everyone else in America in 48 and 49, I went west in search of gold.

  I thought you could make gold. Nicholas said he can.

  Making gold is a long, laborious process. I thought it would be far easier

  to dig it up out of the ground. And once an alchemist has a little gold, he

  can use that to grow more. That s what I thought I d do. But the land I

  bought turned out to be useless. So I started planting a few fragments of

  gold on the land and then I d sell the property to those people who had just

  arrived.

  But that s just wrong, Sophie said, shocked.

  I was young then, Saint-Germain said. And hungry. But that s no excuse,

  he added. Anyway, Joan was working in Sacramento, and she kept meeting

  people who had bought useless land from me. She thought I was a

  charlatan which I was and I took her for one of those dreadful do-gooders.

  Neither of us knew the other was immortal, of course, and we hated one

  another on sight. We kept bumping into one another over the years, and then,

  during the Second World War, we met again, here in Paris. She was fighting

  with the Resistance and I was spying for the Americans. That s when we

  realized that we were different. We survived the war, and we ve been

  inseparable ever since, though Joan keeps very much to the backg
round. None

  of my fan blogs or the gossip magazines even know we re married. We could

  probably have sold the wedding pictures for a fortune, but Joan prefers to

  keep a very low profile.

  Why? Sophie knew that celebrities valued their privacy, but to remain

  completely invisible seemed just strange.

  Well you have to remember that the last time she was famous, people tried to

  burn her at the stake.

  Sophie nodded. Suddenly, remaining invisible sounded perfectly reasonable.

  How long have you known Scathach? she asked.

  Centuries. When Joan and I got together, we discovered that we knew a lot of

  people in common. All immortal, of course. Joan s known her a lot longer than

  I have. Though I m not sure if anyone really knows the Shadow, he added with

  a wry smile. She always seems so He paused, hunting for the right word.

  Lonely? she suggested.

  Yes. Lonely. He gazed out across the city and then shook his head sadly and

  looked back over his shoulder at Sophie. Do you know how often she has stood

  alone against the Dark Elders, how many times she has put herself in terrible

  danger to keep this world safe from them?

  Even as Sophie started to shake her head, a series of images flashed through

  her consciousness, fragments from the Witch s memories:

  Scathach, wearing leather and chain mail, standing alone on a bridge, two

  blazing swords in her hands, waiting as enormous sluglike monsters gathered

  at one end.

  Scathach in full armor, standing in the door of a great castle, arms folded

  across her chest, her swords stuck into the ground at her feet. Facing her

  was an army of huge lizardlike creatures.

  Scathach, clad in sealskin and furs, balanced on a shifting ice floe as

  creatures that looked as if they had been carved out of the ice itself

  surrounded her.

  Sophie licked her lips. Why why does she do it?

  Because that is who she is. That is what she is. The count looked at the

  girl and smiled sadly. And because it is all she knows. Now, he said

  briskly, rubbing his hands together again, sparks and cinders spiraling up

  into the night air. Nicholas wants you to learn the Magic of Fire. Nervous?

  he asked.

  A little. Have you ever taught anyone else? Sophie asked hesitantly.

  Saint-Germain grinned, showing his uneven teeth. No one. You will be my

  first student and probably my last.