Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2

by Michael Scott

  will be laughed at and dismissed as hysteria.

  Sophie shook her head in disbelief. You can t hide something like that

  forever.

  The Elders have been doing it for millennia, Saint-Germain said, tilting

  the rearview mirror so that he could look at Sophie. In the dark interior of

  the car, she thought his bright blue eyes were glowing slightly. And you

  have to remember that humankind really does not want to believe in magic.

  They don't want to know that myths and legends were almost always based on

  the truth.

  Joan reached over and laid her hand gently on her husband s arm. But I do

  not agree; humans have always believed in magic. It is only in these last few

  centuries that the belief has fallen away. I think that they really want to

  believe, because in their hearts they know it to be true. They know that

  magic really exists.

  I used to believe in magic, Sophie said very quietly. She had turned to

  look out at the city again, but reflected in the glass, she saw a brightly

  painted child s bedroom: her bedroom, five, perhaps six years ago. She had no

  idea where it was the house in Scottsdale, maybe, or it might have been

  Raleigh; they d moved around so much then. She was sitting in the middle of

  her bed, surrounded by her favorite books. When I was younger, I read about

  princesses and wizards and knights and magicians. Even though I knew they

  were just stories, I wanted the magic to be real. Until now, she added

  bitterly. She moved her head to glance at the Alchemyst. Are all the fairy

  tales true?

  Flamel nodded. Not every fairy tale, but just about every legend is based on

  a truth; every myth has a basis in reality.

  Even the scary ones? she whispered.

  Especially the scary ones.

  A trio of news helicopters buzzed low overhead, the noise of their rotors

  vibrating the interior of the car. Flamel waited until they had passed and

  then leaned forward. Where are we going?

  Saint-Germain pointed straight ahead and to the right. There s a secret

  entrance to the catacombs in the Trocad ro Gardens. It leads straight down

  into the forbidden tunnels. I ve checked the old maps; I think Dee s route

  will take them through the sewers first and then down into the lower tunnels.

  We ll make up some time this way.

  Nicholas Flamel sat back in the seat and then reached over and squeezed

  Sophie s hand. It s going to be all right, he said.

  But Sophie didn't believe him.

  The entrance to the catacombs was through a rather ordinary-looking metal

  grate set into the ground. Partially covered in moss and grass, it was hidden

  in a stand of trees behind a richly carved and beautifully painted carousel

  at one end of the Trocad ro Gardens. Usually, the stunning gardens would have

  been overrun with tourists, but this morning they were deserted, and the

  carousel s empty wooden horses bobbed up and down below their blue and white

  striped awning.

  Saint-Germain cut across a narrow path and led them into a patch of grass

  burned brown by the summer sun. He stopped over an unmarked rectangular metal

  grate. I haven t used this since 1941. He knelt down, grabbed the bars and

  tugged. It didn't move.

  Joan glanced sidelong at Sophie. When Francis and I fought with the French

  Resistance against the Germans, we used the catacombs as a base. We could pop

  up anywhere in the city. She tapped the metal grate with the toe of her

  shoe. This was one of our favorite spots. Even during the war the gardens

  were always full of people, and we could mingle easily with the crowds.

  The air was suddenly touched with the rich autumnal scent of burnt leaves,

  and then the metal bars in Francis s hands began to glow with a rich red-hot,

  then white-hot, heat. The metal turned to liquid and melted away, thick blobs

  disappearing down into the shaft. Saint-Germain wrenched the remainder of the

  grating out of the hole and tossed it to one side, then swung himself into

  the opening. There s a ladder here.

  Sophie, you go next, Nicholas said. I ll come after you. Joan, will you

  take up the rear?

  Joan nodded. She caught the edge of a nearby wooden park bench and dragged it

  across the grass. I ll pull it over the opening before I climb down. We

  don't want any unexpected visitors dropping in, do we? She smiled.

  Sophie gingerly climbed into the opening, her feet finding the rungs of the

  ladder. She carefully lowered herself. She d been expecting it to be foul and

  horrible, but it just smelled dry and musty. She started counting the steps

  but lost count somewhere around seventy-two, though she could tell by the

  rapidly diminishing square of sky above their heads that they were climbing

  deep underground. She wasn't scared not for herself. Tunnels and narrow

  spaces held no fears for her, but her brother was terrified of small spaces:

  how was he feeling now? Butterflies shifted in her stomach; she felt queasy.

  Her mouth went dry and she knew instinctively, unquestioningly that this was

  how her brother was feeling right at that moment. She knew that Josh was

  terrified.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  B ones, Josh said numbly, looking up and down the tunnel.

  The wall directly before him was created from hundreds of stained-yellow and

  bleached-white skulls. Dee strode down the corridor and his sphere of light

  sent shadows dancing and twitching, making it appear as if the empty eye

  sockets were moving, following him.

  Josh had grown up with bones; he knew they were nothing to be frightened of.

  His father s study was full of skeletons. As children, both he and Sophie had

  played in museum storerooms full of skeletal remains, but they had all been

  animal and dinosaur bones. Josh had even helped piece together the tailbone

  of a raptor that had gone on display in the American Museum of Natural

  History. But these bones these were these were

  Are these all human bones? he whispered.

  Yes, Machiavelli said softly, his voice now touched with a trace of his

  Italian accent. There are the remains of at least six million bodies down

  here. Maybe more. The catacombs were originally huge limestone quarries. He

  jerked his thumb upward. The same limestone used to build the city. Paris is

  built over a warren of tunnels.

  How did they get down here? Josh s voice trembled. He coughed, wrapped his

  arms tightly around his body and tried to look nonchalant, as if he weren t

  completely terrified. They look ancient; how long have they been here?

  A couple of hundred years only, Machiavelli said, surprising him. By the

  end of the eighteenth century, the graveyards of Paris were overflowing. I

  was in the city then, he added, mouth twisting in disgust. I d never seen

  anything like it. There were so many dead in the city that the graveyards

  were often just huge mounds of piled earth with bones visible in them. Paris

  might have been one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but it was

  also the foulest. Worse than London and that s saying something! He laughed,

  and the sound echoed and reechoed off the bone walls and was distorted into

  something hideous. The stink was indescribab
le, and there truly were rats as

  big as dogs. Disease was rife and outbreaks of plague were common. Finally,

  it was recognized that the overflowing graveyards must have something to do

  with the contagion. So it was decided to empty the graveyards and move the

  remains down into the empty quarries.

  Trying not to think about the fact that he was surrounded by the bones of

  people who had most likely died from some terrible disease, Josh focused on

  the walls. Who made the patterns? he asked, pointing to a particularly

  ornate sunburst design that had been created using human bones of various

  length to represent the sunbeams.

  Machiavelli shrugged. Who knows? Someone who wished to honor the dead,

  perhaps; someone trying to make sense out of what must have been incredible

  chaos. Humans are always looking to make order out of chaos, he added

  softly.

  Josh looked at him. You call them us, humans. He turned to look for Dee,

  but the Magician had almost reached the end of the corridor and was out of

  earshot. Dee calls us humani.

  don't confuse me with Dee, Machiavelli said with an icy smile.

  Josh was confused. Who was the more powerful here Dee or Machiavelli? He d

  thought it was the Magician, but he was beginning to suspect that the Italian

  was much more in control. Scathach told us you were more dangerous and more

  cunning than Dee, he said, thinking aloud.

  Machiavelli s smile turned to a delighted grin. That s the nicest thing

  she's ever said about me.

  Is it true? Are you more dangerous than Dee?

  Machiavelli took a moment to consider. Then he smiled and the faintest hint

  of serpent filled the tunnel. Absolutely.

  Hurry; this way, Dr. Dee called back, voice flattened by the narrow walls

  and low ceiling. He turned and headed off down the bone-lined tunnel, taking

  the light with him. Josh was tempted to run after him, unwilling to be alone

  in the utter darkness, but then Machiavelli snapped his fingers and an

  elegant candle-thin flame of gray-white light appeared in the palm of his

  hand.

  Not all the tunnels are like this, Machiavelli continued, indicating the

  neatly set bones in the walls, the regular shapes and patterns. Some of the

  small tunnels are simply piled high with assorted bits and pieces.

  They rounded a curve in the tunnel and found Dee waiting for them, tapping

  his foot impatiently. He turned and marched away without saying a word.

  Josh concentrated on Dee s back and the globe of light bobbing over his

  shoulder as they wound deeper and deeper into the catacombs; doing that

  helped him to ignore the walls that seemed to be closing in with every step.

  He noticed as he walked along that some of the bones lining the tunnel had

  dates scratched on them, centuries-old graffiti, and he was conscious too

  that the only footsteps in the thick layer of dust on the floor were the

  imprints of Dee s small feet. These tunnels had not been used in a very long

  time.

  Do people ever come down here? he asked Machiavelli, making conversation

  just for the sake of hearing a sound in the oppressive silence.

  Yes. Portions of the catacombs are open to the public, Machiavelli said,

  holding his hand high, the thin flame picking out the ornate patterns of

  bones set in the walls, dancing shadows bringing them to flickering life.

  But there are many kilometers of catacombs beneath the city, and vast tracts

  of it have not been mapped. Exploring those tunnels is dangerous and illegal,

  of course, but people still do it. Those people are called cataphiles.

  There s even a special police unit, the cataflics, that patrols these

  tunnels. Machiavelli waved an arm at the surrounding walls, the flame

  dancing wildly but not extinguishing. But we ll run into neither group down

  here. This area is completely unknown. We are deep below the city now, in one

  of the very first quarries excavated many centuries ago.

  Deep below the city, Josh repeated slowly. He hunched his shoulders,

  imagining he could actually feel the weight of Paris over his head, the many

  tons of earth, concrete and steel pressing down on him. Claustrophobia

  threatened to overwhelm him, and he felt as if the walls were throbbing,

  pulsing. His throat was dry, his lips cracked, and his tongue felt too big in

  his mouth. I think, he whispered to Machiavelli, I think I d like to head

  back up to the surface now, if that s OK.

  The Italian blinked in genuine surprise. No, Josh, no, it s not OK.

  Machiavelli reached out and squeezed Josh s shoulder and the boy felt a rush

  of warmth flow through his body. His aura crackled, and the close air in the

  tunnel was touched with the scent of orange and the rank odor of snake. It s

  too late for that, Machiavelli said gently. He lowered his voice to a

  whisper. We ve gone too deep there s no turning back. You will leave these

  catacombs Awakened or

  Or what? Josh asked, when he realized, with a growing sense of horror, how

  the Italian was going to finish the sentence.

  Or you will not leave them at all, Machiavelli said simply.

  They rounded a curve and started down a long arrow-straight tunnel. The walls

  here were even more ornately decorated in bone but with strange square

  patterns that Josh almost recognized. They were similar to drawings he d seen

  in his father s study and looked like Maya or Aztec glyphs; but what were

  Meso-American hieroglyphs doing in the Catacombs of Paris?

  Dee was waiting for them at the end of the tunnel. His gray eyes sparkled in

  the reflected light, which also lent his skin an unhealthy glow. When he

  spoke, his English accent had thickened, and the words tumbled so quickly it

  was difficult to comprehend what he was saying. Josh couldn't tell if the

  Magician was excited or nervous, and that made him even more afraid.

  This is now a momentous day for you, boy, a momentous day. For not only will

  your powers be Awakened, but you will also meet one of the few Elders who is

  still remembered by humanity. It is a great honor. He clapped his hands

  together. Ducking his head, he raised his hand, bringing up the globe of

  light, and revealed two tall arched columns of bones that had been shaped to

  form a doorframe. Beyond the opening, there was utter blackness. Stepping

  back, he directed, You first.

  Josh hesitated and Machiavelli caught his arm and squeezed tightly. When he

  spoke, his voice was low and urgent. Whatever happens, you must not show

  fear, and do not panic. Your life, your very sanity, depends on it. Do you

  understand?

  No fear, no panic, Josh repeated. He was starting to hyperventilate. No

  fear, no panic.

  Go now. Machiavelli released the boy s arm and pushed him forward toward

  Dee and the bone doorway. Have your powers Awakened, he said, and I hope

  it will be worth it.

  Something in Machiavelli s voice made Josh look back. There was a look almost

  of pity on the Italian s face, and Josh stopped. Dee looked at him, gray eyes

  glittering, lips twisted in an ugly smile. He raised his eyebrows. don't you

  want to be Awakened?

  And Josh really had only one answer to that.

  Glancing
back at Machiavelli again, he half raised a hand in farewell, took a

  deep breath and stepped through the arched doorway into the pitch-black.

  Light blossomed as Dee followed him, and the boy discovered that he was

  standing in a vast circular chamber that seemed to be carved entirely out of

  one enormous bone the smoothly curved walls, the polished yellow ceiling,

  even the parchment-colored floor were the same shade and texture as the

  bone-filled walls outside.

  Dee put his hand on the small of Josh s back and urged him forward. Josh took

  two steps and stopped. The past few days had taught him to expect

  surprises wonders, creatures and monsters: but this, this was disappointing.

  The chamber was empty except for a long rectangular raised stone plinth in

  the center of the room. Dee s globe of light bobbed over the platform,

  harshly illuminating every carved detail. Lying flat on the top of a pitted

  slab of limestone was a huge statue of a man in ancient-looking metal and

  leather armor, gauntleted hands wrapped around the thick hilt of a broadsword

  that was at least six feet long. Rising up on his toes, Josh could see that

  the statue s head was covered in a helmet that completely concealed the face.

  Josh looked around. Dee was standing to the right of the doorway and

  Machiavelli had stepped into the room and taken up a position on the left.

  They were both watching him intently. What what happens now? he asked, his

  voice flat and muffled in the chamber.

  Neither man responded. Machiavelli folded his arms and tilted his head

  slightly to one side, eyes narrowing.

  Who s this? Josh asked, jerking a thumb at the statue. He didn't expect to

  get an answer from Dee, but when he turned to the Italian he realized that

  Machiavelli wasn't looking at him, he was looking beyond him. Josh spun

  around just as two nightmarish creatures materialized out of the shadows.

  Everything about them was white, from their almost transparent skin to the

  long fine hair that flowed down their backs and brushed the floor behind

  them. It was impossible to say whether they were male or female. They were

  the size of small children, unnaturally thin, with bulbous heads, broad

  foreheads and pointed chins. Overlarge ears and tiny nubs of horn grew out of

  the top of their skulls. Huge circular eyes without any pupils fixed on him,

  and when the creatures stepped forward, he realized that there was something