The Magician Read online

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  I AM DYING. . . .

  SATURDAY, 2ND JUNE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SUNDAY, 3RD JUNE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  MONDAY, 4TH JUNE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS

  PREVIEW OF THE SORCERESS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY MICHAEL SCOTT

  COPYRIGHT

  For Courtney and Piers

  Hoc opus, hic labor est

  I am dying.

  Perenelle, too, is dying.

  The spell that has kept us alive these six hundred years is fading, and now we age a year for every day that passes. I need the Codex, the Book of Abraham the Mage, to re-create the immortality spell; without it, we have less than a month to live.

  But much can be achieved in a month.

  Dee and his dark masters have my dear Perenelle prisoner, they have finally secured the Book, and they know that Perenelle and I cannot survive for much longer.

  But they cannot be resting easy.

  They do not have the complete Book yet. We still have the final two pages, and by now they must know that Sophie and Josh Newman are the twins described in that ancient text: twins with auras of silver and gold, a brother and sister with the power to either save the world…or destroy it. The girl’s powers have been Awakened and her training begun in the elemental magics, though, sadly, the boy’s have not.

  We are now in Paris, the city of my birth, the city where I first discovered the Codex and began the long quest to translate it. That journey ultimately led me to discover the existence of the Elder Race and revealed the mystery of the philosopher’s stone and finally the secret of immortality. I love this city. It holds many secrets and is home to more than one human immortal and ancient Elder. Here, I will find a way to Awaken Josh’s powers and continue Sophie’s education.

  I must.

  For their sakes—and for the continuance of the human race.

  From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst

  Writ this day, Saturday, 2nd June,

  in Paris, the city of my youth

  SATURDAY,

  2nd June

  CHAPTER ONE

  The charity auction hadn’t started until well after midnight, when the gala dinner had ended. It was almost four in the morning and the auction was only now drawing to a close. A digital display behind the celebrity auctioneer—an actor who had played James Bond on-screen for many years—showed the running total at more than one million euro.

  “Lot number two hundred and ten: a pair of early-nineteenth-century Japanese Kabuki masks.”

  A ripple of excitement ran through the crowded room. Inlaid with chips of solid jade, the Kabuki masks were the highlight of the auction and were expected to fetch in excess of half a million euro.

  At the back of the room the tall, thin man with the fuzz of close-cropped snow white hair was prepared to pay twice that.

  Niccolò Machiavelli stood apart from the rest of the crowd, arms lightly folded across his chest, careful not to wrinkle his Savile Row–tailored black silk tuxedo. Stone gray eyes swept over the other bidders, analyzing and assessing them. There were really only five others he needed to look out for: two private collectors like himself, a minor European royal, a once-famous American movie actor and a Canadian antiques dealer. The remainder of the audience were tired, had spent their budget or were unwilling to bid on the vaguely disturbing-looking masks.

  Machiavelli loved all types of masks. He had been collecting them for a very long time, and he wanted this particular pair to complete his collection of Japanese theater costumes. These masks had last come up for sale in 1898 in Vienna, and he had then been outbid by a Romanov prince. Machiavelli had patiently bided his time; the masks would come back on the market again when the Prince and his descendents died. Machiavelli knew he would still be around to buy them; it was one of the many advantages of being immortal.

  “Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand euro?”

  Machiavelli looked up, caught the auctioneer’s attention and nodded.

  The auctioneer had been expecting his bid and nodded in return. “I am bid one hundred thousand euro by Monsieur Machiavelli. Always one of this charity’s most generous supporters and sponsors.”

  A smattering of applause ran around the room, and several people turned to look at him and raise their glasses. Niccolò acknowledged them with a polite smile.

  “Do I have one hundred and ten?” the auctioneer asked.

  One of the private collectors raised his hand slightly.

  “One-twenty?” The auctioneer looked back to Machiavelli, who immediately nodded.

  Within the next three minutes, a flurry of bids brought the price up to two hundred and fifty thousand euro. There were only three serious bidders left: Machiavelli, the American actor and the Canadian.

  Machiavelli’s thin lips twisted into a rare smile; his patience was about to be rewarded, and finally the masks would be his. Then the smile faded as he felt the cell phone in his back pocket buzz silently. For an instant he was tempted to ignore it; he’d given his staff strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely critical. He also knew they were so terrified of him that they would not phone unless it was an emergency. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ultraslim phone and glanced down.

  A picture of a sword pulsed gently on the large LCD screen.

  Machiavelli’s smile vanished. In that second he knew he was not going to be able to buy the Kabuki masks this century. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room and pressed the phone to his ear. Behind him, he could hear the auctioneer’s hammer hit the lectern “Sold. For two hundred and sixty thousand euro…”

  “I’m here,” Machiavelli said, reverting to the Italian of his youth.

  The line crackled and an English-accented voice responded in the same language, using a dialect that had not been heard in Europe for more th
an four hundred years. “I need your help.”

  The man on the other end of the line didn’t identify himself, nor did he need to; Machiavelli knew it was the immortal magician and necromancer Dr. John Dee, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the world.

  Niccolò Machiavelli strode out of the small hotel into the broad cobbled square of the Place du Tertre and stopped to breathe in the chill night air. “What can I do for you?” he asked cautiously. He detested Dee and knew the feeling was mutual, but they both served the Dark Elders, and that meant they had been forced to work together down through the centuries. Machiavelli was also slightly envious that Dee was younger than he—and looked it. Machiavelli had been born in Florence in 1469, which made him fifty-eight years older than the English Magician. History recorded that he had died in the same year that Dee had been born, 1527.

  “Flamel is back in Paris.”

  Machiavelli straightened. “When?”

  “Just now. He got there through a leygate. I’ve no idea where it comes out. He’s got Scathach with him….”

  Machiavelli’s lips curled into an ugly grimace. The last time he’d encountered the Warrior, she’d pushed him through a door. It had been closed at the time, and he’d spent weeks picking splinters from his chest and shoulders.

  “There are two humani children with him. Americans,” Dee said, his voice echoing and fading on the transatlantic line. “Twins,” he added.

  “Say again?” Machiavelli asked.

  “Twins,” Dee added, “with pure gold and silver auras. You know what that means,” he snapped.

  “Yes,” Machiavelli muttered. It meant trouble. Then the tiniest of smiles curled his thin lips. It could also mean opportunity.

  Static crackled and then Dee’s voice continued. “The girl’s powers were Awakened by Hekate before the Goddess and her Shadowrealm were destroyed.”

  “Untrained, the girl is no threat,” Machiavelli murmured, quickly assessing the situation. He took a breath and added, “Except perhaps to herself and those around her.”

  “Flamel took the girl to Ojai. There, the Witch of Endor instructed her in the Magic of Air.”

  “No doubt you tried to stop them?” There was a hint of amusement in Machiavelli’s voice.

  “Tried. And failed,” Dee admitted bitterly. “The girl has some knowledge but is without skill.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Machiavelli asked carefully, although he already had a very good idea.

  “Find Flamel and the twins,” Dee demanded. “Capture them. Kill Scathach if you can. I’m just leaving Ojai. But it’s going to take me fourteen or fifteen hours to get to Paris.”

  “What happened to the leygate?” Machiavelli wondered aloud. If a leygate connected Ojai and Paris, then why didn’t Dee…?

  “Destroyed by the Witch of Endor,” Dee raged, “and she nearly killed me, too. I was lucky to escape with a few cuts and scratches,” he added, and then ended the call without saying good-bye.

  Niccolò Machiavelli closed his phone carefully and tapped it against his bottom lip. Somehow he doubted that Dee had been lucky—if the Witch of Endor had wanted him dead, then even the legendary Dr. Dee would not have escaped. Machiavelli turned and walked across the square to where his driver was patiently waiting with the car. If Flamel, Scathach and the American twins had come to Paris via a leygate, then there were only a few places in the city where they could have emerged. It should be relatively easy to find and capture them.

  And if he could capture them tonight, then he would have plenty of time to work on them before Dee arrived.

  Machiavelli smiled; he’d only need a few hours, and in that time they would tell him everything they knew. Half a millennium on this earth had taught him how to be very persuasive indeed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Josh Newman reached out and pressed the palm of his right hand against the cold stone wall to steady himself.

  What had just happened?

  One moment he’d been standing in the Witch of Endor’s shop in Ojai, California. His sister, Sophie, Scathach and the man he now knew to be Nicholas Flamel had been in the mirror looking out at him. And the next thing he knew, Sophie had stepped out of the glass, taken his hand and pulled him through it. He’d squeezed his eyes shut and felt something icy touch his skin and raise the small hairs on the back of his neck. When he’d opened his eyes again, he was standing in what looked like a tiny storage room. Pots of paint, stacked ladders, broken pieces of pottery and bundled paint-spattered cloths were piled around a large, rather ordinary-looking grimy mirror fixed to the stone wall. A single low-wattage lightbulb shed a dim yellow glow over the room. “What happened?” he asked, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard and tried again. “What happened? Where are we?”

  “We’re in Paris,” Nicholas Flamel said delightedly, rubbing his dusty hands against his black jeans. “The city of my birth.”

  “Paris?” Josh whispered. He was going to say “Impossible,” but he was beginning to understand that that word had no meaning anymore. “How?” he asked aloud. “Sophie?” He looked to his twin sister, but she had pressed her ear against the room’s only door and was listening intently. She waved him away. He turned to Scathach, but the red-haired warrior just shook her head, both hands covering her mouth. She looked as if she was about to throw up. Josh finally turned to the legendary Alchemyst, Nicholas Flamel. “How did we get here?” he asked.

  “This planet is crisscrossed with invisible lines of power sometimes called ley lines or cursus,” Flamel explained. He crossed his index fingers. “Where two or more lines intersect a gateway exists. Gates are incredibly rare now, but in ancient times the Elder Race used them to travel from one side of the world to the other in an instant—just as we did. The Witch opened the leygate in Ojai and we ended up here, in Paris.” He made it sound so matter-of-fact.

  “Leygates: I hate them,” Scatty mumbled. In the gloomy light, her pale, freckled skin looked green. “You ever been seasick?” she asked.

  Josh shook his head. “Never.”

  Sophie looked up from her spot leaning against the door. “Liar! He gets seasick in a swimming pool.” She grinned, then pressed the side of her face back against the cool wood.

  “Seasick,” Scatty mumbled. “That’s exactly what it feels like. Only worse.”

  Sophie turned her head again to look at the Alchemyst. “Do you have any idea where we are in Paris?”

  “Someplace old, I’m guessing,” Flamel said, joining her at the door. He put the side of his head back against the door and listened.

  Sophie stepped back. “I’m not so sure,” she said hesitantly.

  “Why not?” Josh asked. He glanced around the small untidy room. It certainly looked as though it was part of an old building.

  Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know…it just doesn’t feel that old.” She reached out and touched the wall with the palm of her hand, then immediately jerked it back again.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh whispered.

  Sophie placed her hand against the wall again. “I can hear voices, songs and what sounds like organ music.”

  Josh shrugged. “I can’t hear anything.” He stopped, abruptly conscious of the huge difference between himself and his twin. Sophie’s magical potential had been Awakened by Hekate, and she was now hypersensitive to sights and sounds, smells, touch and taste.

  “I can.” Sophie lifted her hand from the stone wall and the sounds in her head faded.

  “You’re hearing ghost sounds,” Flamel explained. “They’re just noises absorbed by the building, recorded into the very structure itself.”

  “This is a church,” Sophie said decisively, then frowned. “It’s a new church…modern, late nineteenth century, early twentieth. But it’s built on a much, much older site.”

  Flamel paused at the wooden door and looked over his shoulder. In the dim overhead light, his features were suddenly sharp and angular, disturbingly skull-like, his eyes completely in shadow.
“There are many churches in Paris,” he said, “though there is only one, I believe, which matches that description.” He reached for the door handle.

  “Hang on a second,” Josh said quickly. “Don’t you think there’ll be some sort of alarm?”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” Nicholas said confidently. “Who would put an alarm on a storeroom in a church?” he asked, jerking the door open.

  Immediately an alarm pealed through the air, the sound echoing and reechoing off the flagstones and walls. Red security lights strobed and flashed.

  Scatty sighed and muttered something in an ancient Celtic language. “Didn’t you tell me once to wait before moving, to look before stepping and to observe everything?” she demanded.

  Nicholas shook his head and sighed at the stupid mistake. “Getting old, I guess,” he said in the same language. But there was no time for apologies. “Let’s go!” he shouted over the shrieking alarm, and darted down the corridor. Sophie and Josh followed close behind, while Scatty took up the rear, moving slowly and grumbling with every step.

  The door opened onto a short narrow stone corridor that led to another wooden door. Without pausing, Flamel pushed through the second door—and immediately a new alarm began to shriek. He turned left into a huge open space that smelled of old incense, floor polish and wax. Banks of lit candles shed a golden yellow light over walls and floor and, combined with the security lights, revealed a pair of enormous doors with the word EXIT above them. Flamel raced toward it, his footsteps echoing.

  “Don’t touch—” Josh began, but Nicholas Flamel grasped the door handles and pulled hard.

  A third alarm—much louder than the others—went off, and a red light above the door began to wink on and off.

  “Told you not to touch,” Josh muttered.

  “I can’t understand it—why is it not open?” Flamel asked, shouting to be heard above the din. “This church is always open.” He turned and looked around. “Where is everyone? What time is it?” he asked, as a thought struck him.

  “How long does it take to travel from one place to another through the leygate?” Sophie asked.