The Warlock Page 12

  Sophie shivered as something cold slithered along the length of her spine. The price of love was anything … and everything.

  The Sorceress looked from Sophie to Tsagaglalal and then back at the girl again. “I need you both to help me transfer a portion of my aura into Nicholas.”

  “How?” Sophie breathed.

  “I need you to give me your auras.”

  ome of Scathach’s proudest boasts were that no prison could hold her and that no friend of hers would ever be imprisoned against their will. But she was beginning to discover that the Danu Talis prison was different. “I’m thinking,” Scatty said, “that we might be in trouble. Real trouble.”

  The Warrior was standing at the entrance of a crude cave cut into the walls of the mouth of an active volcano. The cave was her cell.

  Over the course of her long life, Scathach had been imprisoned dozens of times. But never like this. The Warrior had been hunted and trapped in lethal Shadowrealms, abandoned on desert islands and left to fend for herself in some of the most isolated and dangerous places on earth. She had broken out of the dreaded Elmina Castle in Ghana and had tricked her way off the Chateau d’If in the Mediterranean.

  Scatty looked around. The towering walls of the volcano were dotted with hundreds of caves. More than half of them held captives, and others were filled with nothing but moldering bones and scraps of cloth.

  She watched the vimana move upward, its metallic smell briefly dispelling the stink of sulfur. It stopped before another cave mouth and she watched Joan hop from the craft and into the cave. A second craft dropped down into the volcano’s mouth and came to a halt almost directly across from her. The top opened and Saint-Germain was pushed into a cave. The immortal dusted himself off, then spotted her and Joan. He waved and Scatty waved back. Saint-Germain cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, but the rumbling roar from below covered whatever he’d tried to say. He shrugged with an elegant roll of his shoulders and disappeared into his cave … reappearing a moment later, shaking his head.

  Scathach ducked into her own cave to examine it. Her cell—and she was guessing the others would be identical—was more an alcove than a cave. It was barely high enough to stand up in and was narrow enough that she could touch both walls at the same time. She almost laughed at the thought of Palamedes in such a cell. Unless the cells came in a bigger size, he was going to be very uncomfortable. There was no door, nor was there any need for one: directly below the cave entrance—a long way down—was the bubbling red-black lava, and from the back wall of the cave to the sheer drop into the pit was about three short steps. Only Joan, the smallest of the group, would be able to lie down. What little light there was came from the flickering reflections from below. The smell and the heat were indescribable.

  The Shadow folded her arms across her chest and looked around. There were no stairs, ladders or bridges; the only way to access the caves was to use the vimanas. And she’d just watched the last of the silver crafts spiral up and out of the volcano.

  She looked over at Saint-Germain and then to where William Shakespeare leaned almost casually against the wall of his cell, looking down at her. Directly across from him she spotted Palamedes sitting in a cave mouth, feet dangling over the edge, and when she glanced up, Joan was leaning over the edge of her cave mouth looking down at her. She waved and the Shadow waved back. They were all looking at her. And Scathach knew why.

  Whenever her friends had been in trouble, Scathach had freed them. She’d rescued Nicholas from Lubyanka prison in Moscow hours before his execution, and had liberated Saint-Germain—even though she didn’t really like him—from the notorious Devil’s Island prison. When Perenelle had been locked up in the Tower of London, Scathach had fought her way through a hundred heavily armed guards and mercenaries who’d been lying in wait, expecting her. It had taken the Warrior Maid less than thirty minutes to free the Sorceress. And of course, she had ridden into the heart of Rouen to free Joan from certain death at the stake.

  Lying flat on her stomach, Scathach examined the rock walls, looking for footholds or handholds, but they were glass-smooth. Rolling over on her back, she examined the rock above her head. It too looked as if it had been polished. Sitting up, she folded her legs into a lotus position and rested her hands in her lap. “This could be tricky,” she muttered.

  Often, even the threat of the Shadow was enough to secure the release of a prisoner. When Hel had captured Joan and dragged her into her Shadowrealm, Scathach had let it be known that she would be standing on The Bridge of Gjallarbrú at the entrance to Hel’s kingdom at exactly midnight. If Joan was not released unharmed, Scathach promised that she would continue over the golden bridge into the Shadowrealm. When she was finished, she vowed, the entire world would be nothing more than dust. At exactly one minute to midnight, Hel herself had escorted Joan to the bridge to hand her over into the Warrior’s care.

  A pebble dropped on her head and she looked up. Joan was peering over the edge of a cave about ten feet over her head. “So, on a scale of one to ten,” the French immortal shouted down, “how much trouble are we in now?”

  We’re off the scale, Scatty thought, but all she said was “We’ve gone beyond twelve, heading to thirteen.” She saw the Frenchwoman’s narrow eyebrows rise disbelievingly. “Okay, maybe fourteen,” Scatty amended.

  “Well then, we are lucky that there’s not a prison in the world that can hold you,” Joan said, without a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  Except maybe this one, Scathach thought.

  osh eased the motorboat up against the wooden dock on Alcatraz, trying to get as close as possible to the gangplank where tourists used to disembark. The engine coughed, then died with a sputter. He turned the key in the ignition and attempted to restart the motor. There was a click, but nothing happened. Leaning forward, he tapped the circular gas gauge. “We’re out of gas,” he called back over his shoulder, to where Dee was once again slumped over the side of the scarred boat. As soon as the danger of the Nereids had passed, his seasickness had returned. “Did you hear me?” Josh raised his voice to get the Magician’s attention. He took a certain amount of pleasure in the English immortal’s discomfort.

  “I heard you,” Dee mumbled. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “It means we’re trapped here,” Josh said. “How are we going to get off the island if …,” he began, and then stopped.

  Virginia Dare was sitting on the gangplank, leaning back on one arm, dirty bare feet stretched straight out in front of her. Her wooden flute was in her left hand. She had it pressed lightly against her lips, but if she was making any sounds, Josh didn’t hear them over the slapping of the waves against the wooden pilings. The immortal was soaked through and had strands of seaweed wrapped around her waist. And with her long damp hair swept back off her face, she appeared extraordinarily young. She looked down at Josh and smiled. Then she pointed out across the bay with the wooden flute. “Nicely done, by the way. Very nicely done.”

  “How do you know I did it?” Josh asked, the compliment bringing a touch of color to his cheeks.

  “Too subtle for the English doctor.” Dare grinned. “Dee would have called down lightning, or drained the entire bay. He does not know the meaning of the word restraint.”

  “You could have helped us,” Dee grumbled, sitting up in the back of the boat.

  “I could have,” Dare said. “I chose not to.”

  “I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again,” Josh said. “And I never thought you’d ever see your flute again,” he added, nodding to the instrument.

  Virginia spun her flute lightly in her left hand. “Oh, we are old friends, this flute and I. We are … bonded. I will always be able to find her. And she will always come back to me.” Dare smiled again. “The Nereid made the mistake of trying to play it—and no one will ever use this flute but me.” The immortal’s face turned masklike and the smile that curled her lips was suddenly cruel. “Let us say that Nereus now has forty
-nine daughters rather than fifty.”

  “You killed her?” Josh asked. He found it difficult to imagine the young-looking woman sitting on the edge of the dock as a killer.

  Virginia spun her flute again, and for a moment Josh thought he heard a ghost of the same music he’d heard the Nereids sing. “We stole her songs, her voice. She is dumb now; she will never sing again … and Nereus will have no further use for her,” Dare finished, almost gleefully. Then she laughed, and her flute echoed the sound, even though it was nowhere near her lips.

  “But you didn’t use your aura?” Dee asked urgently as he climbed shakily out of the boat. He reached down and Josh handed him the stone swords Excalibur and Joyeuse.

  Dare smoothly climbed to her feet and tapped Dee on the shoulder with her wooden flute. For a single instant the afternoon air trembled with fragments of discordant music. “No, Doctor. I had no need to use my aura. My flute is akin to your swords—ancient, eternal and elemental—but unlike yours, which can only be used to destroy and kill, mine is a subtle instrument. It can even create new life.” She turned and walked up the gangplank, heading toward a stone wall inlaid with a clock and a sign with the words ALCATRAZ ISLAND spelled out in white on a brown background. She stopped beside the clock, turned and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sun. “That feels good.”

  Josh strapped the other two stone swords—Clarent and Durendal—to his back and climbed out of the boat. “The boat is out of gas,” he repeated, following them. “We’re trapped here.”

  “Not while we have the swords,” Dee called back over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly on the empty dock. “If we were prepared to reveal our location, we could fire them with our auras and use them to create gates to anywhere … to any place …” His voice suddenly trailed away to a whisper. “… to any time on this planet.” He stopped as if he’d been struck.

  Virginia’s eyes snapped open. “Doctor?”

  Both Josh and Dare watched as the color disappeared from the immortal’s face, leaving it sickly and pale, his lips outlined in blue. The shadows under his eyes turned the color of old bruises. Josh and Dare looked at one another in alarm.

  “Doctor?” Virginia asked again. She reached out to lay a gentle hand on his forearm. “John, are you all right?”

  Dee blinked, and then blinked again, but although he was looking directly at Virginia Dare, it was clear that he didn’t see her.

  “John,” Virginia said, a hint of alarm in her voice. Drawing back her arm, she quickly cracked him across the face with the palm of her hand.

  Dee staggered back, then pressed his hand to his cheek, where the imprint of Dare’s fingers was outlined in red. When he looked at Virginia, his eyes were quite, quite mad—pupils huge and black, and against his ashen face, they looked like holes burned into paper. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, I’m fine. Really. I’m fine.”

  Before Josh could piece together what had happened, footsteps echoed from an archway to their right and the threesome spun around, hands falling to weapons. Two figures appeared, hurrying toward them.

  “Now, here’s an odd couple,” Dee murmured.

  Niccolò Machiavelli, still managing to look elegant in a soiled black suit, stopped before the English Magician. The Italian looked over the trio, nodding briefly at Josh, before he turned his attention to Dee. “Did I hear you correctly, or did my ears deceive me? No, you are not fine, Dr. Dee,” the Italian said in his precise and accentless English. “You have that look in your eyes.”

  “What look?” Dee challenged.

  “The look you always get when you’re about to do something incredibly stupid and unnaturally destructive.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Dee said. “I’ve had a touch of seasickness.”

  “Oh, he was seasick,” Virginia Dare said with a quick grin. Striding forward, she stretched out her hand to the Italian. “Since the doctor has completely forgotten his manners and is too rude to do the introductions, I’ll do them myself. I am Virginia Dare.”

  Machiavelli took her hand in his, then leaned over it, almost, but not quite, pressing his lips to the back of her fingers. “An honor to meet you, Miss Dare. Your reputation precedes you.”

  Virginia turned to Billy and her smile widened. “Good to see you again, old friend. How are you doing?”

  “Just fine, Miss Dare,” Billy said. He stepped forward to give her a friendly hug. “And all the better for seeing you.”

  “You two know one another?” Dee said in surprise, asking the question Josh was thinking. Then Dee realized that of course, it made sense—the American immortals would have met one another at some stage over the centuries.

  “Oh, the Kid and I have had some adventures together,” Virginia said, winking at the young man. “Isn’t that right, Billy?”

  “Not sure I’d call them adventures,” Billy said with an almost shy smile. “They usually ended up with me getting shot or stuck with something sharp.”

  “And me rescuing you,” Virginia reminded him.

  “Funny, I always thought it was the other way around,” Billy said.

  Machiavelli turned his attention back to Josh and stretched out his hand. Josh took it, feeling the strength of the Italian’s grip. “I am pleased to see you again,” Machiavelli said softly, and it took Josh a moment before he realized that the man had spoken to him in Italian and that he had fully understood it. “I’m surprised to find that you remain with our English friend.”

  “I heard that,” Dee snapped. “I do speak Italian!”

  “I know.” Machiavelli smiled. “I was just reminding young Mr. Newman that he still has choices.”

  Josh bit the inside of his cheek and struggled to keep a straight face. “It’s good to see you, too,” Josh replied in English. He genuinely liked the Italian, much more than he liked Dee. Machiavelli possessed the humanity that Dee lacked. “How did you get here?” he asked. “Leygate or …”

  “Airplane.” Machiavelli turned to Billy and beckoned him closer. “This,” he said, “is Josh Newman. A Gold,” he added significantly. “And one of the prophesied twins.”

  Billy shook Josh’s hand, and Josh was surprised by how cold and rough the Kid’s hands were. Josh also discovered that he was slightly taller than the Kid.

  “Never thought I’d meet a Gold,” Billy said.

  “Never thought I’d get to meet a legend,” Josh said. He suddenly found himself grinning like a fool, and he made a desperate attempt to keep calm. He’d only vaguely known about Dare and Machiavelli before he met them, and had never heard of Dee, but Billy the Kid was different. This was a genuine American legend. Someone he’d grown up hearing stories about.

  The Kid looked almost embarrassed. “I’m not that much of a legend, really. Now, Wild Bill, Jesse James, Geronimo or Cochise, on the other hand—they were legends.”

  “Well, I think you’re a legend,” Josh insisted.

  Billy grinned. “Well, you’re a bit of a legend yourself, aren’t you. One of the legendary twins—one to save the world, one to destroy it,” he drawled. “Which one are you?”

  “I have no idea,” Josh said seriously. Although he’d been hearing about the prophecy for the past week, he’d never really stopped to consider the words. One to save the world, one to destroy it. He hoped he was the one to save it … but that would mean that his sister destroyed the world. The thought left him stunned.

  “Come,” Machiavelli interrupted, “we should hurry.” The Italian turned and motioned to the group to follow him. He strode back toward an archway over a path that led to the water tower. “Nereus is about to awaken the Lotan,” he said, the brickwork echoing and reechoing his voice. “I want to be there to see it happen.”

  Josh fell into step alongside Billy the Kid. “What’s a Lotan?” he asked.

  Billy grinned. “A seven-headed sea monster.”

  Josh turned to look back across the bay. A seven-headed sea monster would destroy t
he city. And then the pieces clicked together in his head. Was he the twin destined to destroy the world? “Seven heads?” he mumbled. “That I gotta see.”

  “Me too,” Billy said. “I wanted him to awaken a kraken, but apparently they’re too small.”

  Virginia Dare waited behind the two young men for Dr. John Dee to catch up. “You’re plotting,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “John, I too saw what Machiavelli observed.”

  “I was thinking.” Dee smiled with genuine good humor, and for a moment he looked almost youthful. “Fortis Fortuna adiuvat,” he said.

  “You’ll have to say that again in English. I didn’t get much of a classical education living wild in the woods of North Carolina.”

  “Fortune favors the brave.” He absently rubbed his cheek, which was still red from her blow. “An idea is bubbling. Something truly daring and audacious.”

  “Your last daring and audacious idea did not end too well,” Virginia reminded him.

  “This time it will be different.”

  “The last time you said that, you almost burned London to the ground.”

  Dee ignored her. He rubbed his cheek again. “Did you have to hit me so hard? I think I lost a filling.”

  “Trust me,” Virginia laughed, “that was not hard.”

  ten, the Lord of Danu Talis, stood on the roof of the Palace of the Sun and watched the vimanas rise out of the mouth of Huracan, the volcano prison.

  “And none escaped?” he asked, raising his head slightly.

  “None, brother. My anpu captured them easily.”

  “And the hook-handed man?”

  “Separated from the others, as you ordered.”

  Aten turned to face his companion. Once, it would have been impossible to tell them apart, but recently the Change that overtook all the Elders had started to work on Aten, elongating his skull, nose and jaw, thickening his lips and pulling his eyes back into his head, giving them a pronounced slant. He now wore a heavy metal robe with a deep hood and long sleeves to hide his deformities.