"But even there you failed," Bastet whispered coldly. "The Codex was incomplete, lacking the final two pages." The Elder's breathing changed and Dee was suddenly aware in the darkness that her meat-tainted breath was dangerously close to his face. "Magician, you enjoy the protection of a powerful Elder-perhaps the most powerful of us all-and that has kept you alive thus far," Bastet pressed on. Huge glowing yellow eyes appeared out of the gloom, the pupils as narrow as knife blades. "When others called for your punishment or death, your master has protected you. But I wonder-and I am not alone in this-why does an Elder use such a flawed tool?"
The words chilled him. "What did you call me?" he finally managed to whisper. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt huge in his mouth.
Bastet's eyes blazed. "A flawed tool."
Dee felt breathless. He tried to calm his thundering heart. It had been more than four hundred years since he'd last heard those three words, but they'd remained vividly etched in his memory. He'd never forgotten them. In many ways they had shaped his life.
Turning his face away from the stink of Bastet's breath, Dee rested his forehead against the cool glass and looked out into the night flashing past in streaks of light. He was driving through the heart of twenty-first-century London, and yet when he closed his eyes and remembered the last time he had felt this way, the last time he had heard those words, he felt as if he were back in the city of Henry VIII.
Memories, long buried but never forgotten, came flooding back, and he knew the Elder's use of those three bitter words could not have been accidental. She was letting him know just how much she knew about him.
It was April 23, 1542, a cold showery day in London, and John Dee was standing before his father, Roland, in their house on Thames Street. Dee was fifteen years old-and looked older than his years-but at that moment he felt like a ten-year-old. He had locked his hands into fists behind his back and was unable to move, afraid to speak, breathless, heart thundering so hard it was actually shaking his entire body. He knew if he moved he would fall over, or turn and run like a child from the room, and if he spoke he would break down and weep. But he would not show any weakness in front of Roland Dee. Over his father's right shoulder, through the tiny diamond-paned window, John could see the top of the nearby Tower of London. Standing still and silent, he allowed his father to continue reading.
John Dee had always known he was different.
He was an only child, and it had been obvious from an early age that he was gifted with an extraordinary ability for mathematics and languages; he could read and write not only English, but also Latin and Greek, and had taught himself French and a little German. John was entirely devoted to his mother, Jane, and she always sided with him against his domineering father. Encouraged by his mother, John had set his sights on attending St. John's College, Cambridge. He had thought-had hoped-that his father would be delighted, but Roland Dee was a textile merchant who held a minor position in Henry's court and was almost fearful of too much education. Roland had seen what happened to educated men at court: it was too easy to upset the king, and men who did that too often ended up in prison or dead, stripped of their lands and fortune. John knew his father wanted him to take over the family business, and for that he needed no further education than the abilities to read and write and add up a column of figures.
But John Dee wanted more.
On that April day in 1542, he had finally plucked up the courage to tell his father he was attending college, with or without his permission. His grandfather, William Wild, had agreed to pay the fees, and Dee had enrolled without his father's knowledge.
"And if you go to this school, what then?" Roland demanded, bushy beard bristling with rage. "They will fill your head with useless nonsense. You will learn your Latin and Greek, your mathematics and philosophy, your history and geography, but what use is that to me, or to you? You will not be content with that. You will seek more knowledge, and that will send you down some dark paths, my boy. You will never be satisfied, because you will never know enough."
"Say what you will," the fifteen-year-old boy had managed to answer. "I am going."
"Then you will become like a knife that is sharpened so often it becomes blunt: you will become a flawed tool… and what use have I for a flawed tool?"
Dr. John Dee opened his eyes and focused once more on the streets of modern London.
He had rarely spoken to his father after that day, even when the old man was locked up in the Tower of London. Dee had gone to Chelmsford, and then to the newly founded Trinity College, and quickly established a reputation for himself as one of the most brilliant men of his age. And there were times when he remembered his father's words and realized that Roland Dee had been right: his quest for knowledge was insatiable, and it had taken him down some very dark and dangerous paths. It had ultimately led him to the Dark Elders.
And somewhere at the back of his mind, in that dark and secret place where only the most hurtful memories are buried, lurked those three bitter words.
A flawed tool.
No matter what he achieved-his extraordinary successes, his amazing discoveries and uncannily accurate predictions, even his immortality and his association with figures who had been worshipped by generations as gods and myths-those three words mocked him, because he was secretly afraid that his father had been correct about that too. Perhaps he was a flawed tool.
Clearing his throat, he lifted his forehead from the window, fixed a quizzical smile on his face and turned back to the dark interior of the car. "I was not aware that you had a file on me."
Leather squeaked as Bastet changed position. "We have files on every immortal and mortal humani who is in our service. Yours happens to be bigger than all the rest combined."
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be. It is, as I have said, a litany of failures."
"I am disappointed that you should view it that way," Dee said softly. "Luckily, I do not answer to you. I answer to a higher authority," he added, with the smile still fixed on his face.
Bastet hissed like a cat with its tail caught.
"But enough of these pleasantries," the Magician continued, rubbing his hands quickly together. "What brings you to London? I thought you had returned to your Bel Air mansion after our adventure in Mill Valley."
"Earlier today I was contacted by someone from my past." The Dark Elder's voice was a low angry rumbling. "Someone I thought long dead, someone I never wanted to talk to again."
"I'm not sure what this has to do with me…," the Magician began.
"Mars Ultor made contact with me."
Dee straightened. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could just about make out Bastet's cat head silhouetted in black against the lighter rectangle of the window. "Mars spoke to you?"
"For the first time in centuries. And he asked me to help you."
Dee nodded. When he had left the catacombs earlier, the Elder had still not responded to his offer to bring the twins back to Paris and force Sophie to lift the curse.
Cloth rustled and the cat smell of the Goddess grew stronger. "Is it true?" she asked, close enough to make Dee recoil from her foul breath.
The Magician turned away, blinking tears from his eyes. "Is…" He coughed. "Is what true?"
"Can you release him? The Witch cursed him; that is a curse she will not lift."
One of the reasons the English Magician had survived in the lethal court of Queen Elizabeth and for centuries afterward was that he never made a promise he could not keep, or a threat he didn't intend to carry out. He took a moment to consider his response, careful to keep his face neutral. Although it was dark in the back of the car, he knew that it made no difference to the cat-headed Elder. She could easily see in the dark. "The Witch transferred all her knowledge and lore into the girl, Sophie, who we now know to be one of the twins of legend. The girl even admitted that she knew how to reverse the spell, but when Mars asked her-begged her-to do so, she refused. All I have to do is give her a go
od reason not to refuse the next time we ask." Dee's cruel lips twisted in a smile. "I can be very persuasive."
The Dark Elder grunted.
"You don't sound very happy about that. I would have thought you would be thrilled to have someone like Mars back in your ranks."
The Elder laughed, an ugly sound. "You know nothing about Mars Ultor, the Avenger, do you?"
The Magician took a moment before replying. "I know some of the myths," he admitted.
"Once he was a hero; then he became a monster," Bastet said slowly. "A force of nature, untamable, unpredictable and deadly beyond belief."
"You don't seem to like him very much."
"Like him?" Bastet echoed. "I love him. And it is precisely because I love him that I do not want him abroad in the world again."
Confused, Dee shook his head. "I would have thought we needed Mars in the coming battle."
"His rage is liable to devastate this world and every adjoining Shadowrealm… and then either some humani hero or warrior Elder will be forced to destroy him utterly. At least in the catacombs, I know where he is and I know he is safe."
Dee tried to make sense of what he was hearing. "How can you claim that you love him and yet want him condemned to that living death?"
Dee felt, rather than heard, the swish of nails as they arced through the air before his face. The leather seat popped and hissed as it was punctured. When she spoke, the Elder's voice was trembling with emotion. "The humani nations called Mars by many names through the ages. I called him Horus… and he is my baby brother."
Stunned, Dee sat back in the seat. "But why then did the Witch curse him?" he asked. "You're suggesting that this curse actually protects him."
"Because she loved him even more than I did. The Witch of Endor is his wife." etala.
The Sorceress backed away from the creature that had come through the web. It had obviously been sleeping in the cell beyond. She had caught the hint of movement in the last instant before it had appeared, but she hadn't been quick enough to escape its flailing claws. A ragged nail had sliced her flesh, and her shoulder and arm stung as if they had been burned. She knew she needed to get back into the sunshine as quickly as possible and wash out the wound. Perenelle shuddered to think what foulness might be hiding under the vetala's fingernails.
Behind the vampire, the spider web hung in ragged tatters. Tiny green sparks danced across the web, and she wondered if these were what had awakened the creature. Each strip still showed a sliver of Nicholas, Josh and Shakespeare.
And then the second creature stepped through the dangling threads of web.
Perenelle noted that the two creatures were alike enough to be twins. Their faces were beautiful, with fine delicate Indian features, flawless skin and enormous liquid brown eyes. She knew that they would usually keep their black bat wings wrapped around them, concealing their emaciated gray-skinned bodies and clawed hands and feet until the moment before they struck.
Backing down the corridor, Perenelle stepped slowly away from the vetala, desperately trying to remember what she knew about them. They were primitive and beastlike, creatures of the night and darkness, and like many of the vampire clan who were nocturnal, they were photosensitive and could not stand sunlight.
She needed to reach the stairs behind her… but she dared not turn her back to run.
De Ayala appeared behind the two vetala. The ghost raised both hands and flowed through the creatures. It moaned, a long terrifying howl of utter despair and absolute loneliness that echoed and reechoed off the damp stones. The vetala ignored the ghost. Their huge eyes were focused on the Sorceress, mouths slightly parted to reveal perfectly white teeth, chins damp with saliva. De Ayala winked out of existence and then doors slammed and rattled above their heads with enough force to send dust drifting down on top of them. The vetala didn't even react. They simply continued to inch ever forward.
"Madame, I cannot help you," de Ayala said desperately, appearing alongside the Sorceress. "It is as if they know I am a ghost and powerless to harm them."
"They look hungry," Perenelle murmured, "and they know they cannot eat you." She stopped, suddenly noticing that the shreds of spiderweb behind the vampires had started to glow a dull lambent green. She caught fragmentary glimpses of her husband outlined in his aura.
"Perenelle."
Nicholas's voice was the merest gossamer whisper. There was a flicker of movement alongside him, and then his aura flared, bright enough to shed a dull green glow through the rags of web over the corridor on Alcatraz.
The Sorceress knew a dozen spells that would defeat the vampire, but to use them meant activating her aura… and that would bring the sphinx. She continued backing away; once she reached the stairs, she was going to turn and run and hope to make it to the door before the creatures brought her down. She thought she could make it. These were forest creatures; their claws were designed for soft earth and tree bark, and she had seen how their long nails slipped on the stone floor. Their folded wings were also awkward and cumbersome. Perenelle took another step back, moving toward the lighted rectangle of the door behind her. Now that she could feel the heat of the sun on her back, she knew she was close to the steps.
And then, in the shreds of dangling web, she saw Sophie and Josh standing on either side of her husband. They were all staring intently at her, frowning hard. Nicholas's aura glowed bright emerald. On his right-hand side, Sophie blossomed silver, and Josh, on his left, bloomed gold. The spiderweb glowed like a lantern and the entire corridor lit up.
"Perenelle."
The two vetala turned, hissing like cats at the sound and sudden light, and Perenelle saw her husband reach out to her, fingers wide. Light particles danced at the end of his fingertips… and at that moment, she knew what he was going to do.
"Nicholas! Stop! Stop now!" she screamed.
Coiling spirals and twisting circles of crackling silver, green and gold energy spun from the tattered web. Hissing and spitting, they bounced off the walls and ceiling and then gathered around Perenelle's feet, creating a puddle of light that gradually sank into the stones. The Sorceress gasped as a warm wave of energy flowed up her legs and through her chest and exploded into her head. Images danced at the corner of her mind; thoughts and memories that were not hers.
The Eiffel Tower ablaze with lights…
The Nidhogg rampaging through the streets…
Valkyries in white armor…
The same women trapped, in ice…
Gargoyles slithering down off Notre Dame…
The hideous Genii Cucullati advancing…
Unbidden, her aura shimmered into existence around her, ice white and glacial, and her hair spread in a dark sheath behind her.
"Nicholas," Perenelle shouted as the web blackened to dust and her aura faded to nothing. "You have killed me!"
And then, howling through the very stones of Alcatraz, came the triumphant cry of the sphinx.
Even the vetala turned and fled. n a stinking flurry of flapping wings, the sphinx appeared at the end of the corridor, huge lion paws scraping along on the floor. Crouching low, belly to the ground, the creature spread her eagle's wings and screamed triumphantly in a language that predated the first Egyptian pharaoh. "You are mine, Sorceress. I will feast off your memories and then eat your bones." The sphinx's head was that of a beautiful woman, but her eyes were slit-pupiled and the tongue that waved in the air was long, black and forked. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and drew in a deep shuddering breath. "But what's this… what's this?" Her tongue darted, tasting the air. She took a couple of steps down the corridor, claws clicking on stone. "How can this be? You are powerful… powerful indeed… too powerful." And then she stopped, her flawless face creasing into an ugly frown. "And strong." Her voice faltered. "Stronger than you should be."
Perenelle had half turned to make a dash for the stairs, but then she suddenly stopped and turned back to face the sphinx. The corners of her eyes crinkled and the tiniest of smil
es curled her lips, turning her face cruel. Bringing her hand up to her face for a closer look, she gazed at it in wonder as a glasslike glove grew over each finger and down into her palm. The glass turned from transparent to translucent and then opaque. "Why, of course I am," she whispered. And then she laughed aloud, the shocking sound echoing off the walls. "Thank you, Nicholas; thank you, Sophie and Josh!" she shouted.
The woman's smile frightened the sphinx, but her laughter terrified her. The creature took a tentative step forward, then backpedaled. Despite her fearsome appearance and appalling reputation, the sphinx was a coward. She had grown up in a time of monsters, and it was fear and cowardice that had kept her alive through the millennia.
The Sorceress faced the creature and brought her palms together, thumb against thumb, fingers touching. Suddenly, her aura blazed white light, bleaching the entire corridor of color, and then crackled around her in a protective oval of harshly reflective mirrorlike crystals. Every crumbling brick, each rusting pipe, the mold-spattered ceiling, the tattered cobwebs and the crumbling metal cell-door bars were picked out in exquisite detail. Long angular shadows stretched down the corridor toward the sphinx, though Perenelle herself cast no shadow.
The woman flung out her right hand. A globe of white light that almost looked like a snowball burst from her palm and bounced once, twice on the floor, bounced again and then rolled to a stop between the filthy paws of the sphinx.
"And what am I supposed to do about this?" the creature snarled. "Catch it in my mouth and bring it back to you?"
Perenelle's smile was terrifying as her hair rose in a dark cloud behind her.
The sphere started to grow. Spinning, twisting, turning, sparkling ice crystals grew in layers on it. The air temperature abruptly plummeted and the sphinx's breath plumed white on the air.
The sphinx was a creature of the desert. All her long life, she had known arid heat and searing sunshine. Certainly, in the weeks since she had been tasked with guarding Alcatraz, she had grown used to the chill of the prison island, the damp bite of the bay's rolling fog banks, the sting of rain, the bitter winds. But she had never experienced cold like this. This was a chill so extreme that it burned. Countless tiny crystals erupted out of the glowing sphere and alighted on her flesh like fiery embers. A snowflake no bigger than a dust mote landed on her tongue: it was like sucking a hot coal. And still the ball grew bigger.
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