Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2 Page 13

  vanilla. Josh grabbed his sister s arm and his own aura crackled alight,

  adding the scent of oranges to the air.

  Sophie Josh , Saint-Germain began. The rich, sweet aroma of lavender filled

  the courtyard as a hissing silver aura grew around the short-haired young

  woman. It hardened and solidified, becoming metallic and reflective, molding

  itself into a breastplate and greaves, gloves and boots, before finally

  solidifying into a complete medieval suit of armor. I would like to

  introduce my wife, Joan

  Your wife! Scatty squealed, shocked.

  whom you and history know as Joan of Arc.

  Breakfast had been laid out on a long polished wooden table in the kitchen.

  The air was rich with the odor of newly baked bread and brewing coffee.

  Plates were piled high with fresh fruit, pancakes and scones, while sausages

  and eggs sizzled in a pan on the old-fashioned iron range.

  Josh s stomach started rumbling the moment he stepped into the room and saw

  the food. His mouth filled with saliva, reminding him just how long it had

  been since he d last eaten. He d only managed a couple of sips of the hot

  chocolate at the caf earlier before the police arrived.

  Eat, eat, Saint-Germain said, grabbing a plate in one hand and a thick

  croissant in the other. He bit into the pastry, spilling wafer-thin flakes

  onto the tiled floor. You must be famished.

  Sophie leaned in close to her brother. Could you get me something to eat? I

  want to talk to Joan. I need to ask her something.

  Josh glanced quickly at the young-looking woman who was pulling cups from the

  dishwasher. Her short haircut made it impossible to guess her age. Do you

  really think she s Joan of Arc?

  Sophie squeezed her brother s arm. After all we ve seen, what do you think?

  She nodded toward the table. I just want fruit and cereal.

  No sausage, no eggs? he asked, surprised. His sister was the only person he

  knew who could eat more sausages than he could.

  No. She frowned, blue eyes clouding. It s funny, but even the thought of

  eating meat is making me feel sick. She grabbed a scone and turned away

  before he could comment, and approached Joan, who was pouring coffee into a

  tall glass cup. Sophie s nostrils flared. Hawaiian Kona coffee? she asked.

  Joan s gray eyes blinked in surprise and she inclined her head. I m

  impressed.

  Sophie grinned and shrugged. I worked in a coffee shop. I d know the smell

  of Kona anywhere.

  I fell in love with it when we were in Hawaii, Joan said. She spoke English

  with the merest hint of an American accent. I keep it for a special treat.

  I love the smell; hate the taste. Too bitter.

  Joan sipped a little more coffee. I ll bet you didn't come here to talk

  about coffee?

  Sophie shook her head. No, I didn't. I just She stopped. She had just met

  this woman, yet she was about to ask her an incredibly personal question.

  Can I ask you something? she said quickly.

  Anything, Joan said sincerely, and Sophie believed her. She took a deep

  breath and her words tumbled out in a rush.

  Scathach once told me you were the last person to have a pure silver aura.

  That s why yours reacted to mine, Joan said, wrapping both hands around the

  cup and staring at the girl over the rim. I do apologize. My aura overloaded

  yours. I can teach you how to prevent that from happening. She smiled,

  revealing straight white teeth. Though the chances of meeting another pure

  silver aura in your lifetime are incredibly slim.

  Sophie nibbled nervously on the blueberry scone. Please excuse me for

  asking, but are you really really Joan of Arc, the Joan of Arc?

  Yes, I really am Jeanne d Arc. The woman gave a short bow. La Pucelle, the

  Maid of Orl ans, at your service.

  But I thought I mean, I always read that you died .

  Joan dipped her head and smiled. Scathach rescued me. She reached out and

  touched Sophie s arm, and immediately, flickering images of Scathach on a

  huge black horse, wearing white and jet armor and wielding two blazing

  swords, danced behind her eyes.

  The Shadow single-handedly fought her way through the huge crowd who had

  gathered to watch my execution. No one could stand against her. In the panic,

  chaos and confusion, she snatched me right out from under the noses of my

  executioners.

  The images flashed in Sophie s head: Joan, wearing ragged and scorched

  clothing, clinging to Scathach as the Warrior maneuvered her armored black

  horse through the panicking crowd, the blazing swords in either hand clearing

  their path.

  Of course, everyone had to say they saw Joan die, Scatty said, joining

  them, carefully slicing a pineapple into neat chunks with a curved knife. No

  one neither English nor French was going to admit that the Maid of Orl ans

  had been snatched out from under the noses of perhaps five hundred heavily

  armed knights, rescued by a single female warrior.

  Joan reached out and took a cube of pineapple from Scathach s fingers and

  popped it into her mouth. Scatty took me to Nicholas and Perenelle, she

  continued. They gave me shelter, looked after me. I d been injured in the

  escape and was weakened from months of captivity. But despite Nicholas s best

  attention, I would have died if it had not been for Scatty. She reached over

  and squeezed her friend s hand again, not seeming to notice the tears on her

  cheeks.

  Joan had lost a lot of blood, Scathach said. No matter what Nicholas or

  Perenelle did, she was not getting any better. So Nicholas performed one of

  the first-ever blood transfusions.

  Whose blood Sophie started to ask, until she suddenly realized she knew

  the answer. Your blood?

  Scathach s vampire blood saved me. And kept me alive, too made me immortal.

  Joan grinned. Sophie noted that her teeth were normal, not pointed like

  Scatty s. Luckily, it has none of the vampire side effects. Though I am

  vegetarian, she added. Have been for the last few centuries.

  And you re married, Scathach said accusingly. When did that happen, and

  how, and why wasn't I invited? she demanded, all in one breath.

  We got married four years ago on Sunset Beach in Hawaii, at sunset, of

  course. We looked everywhere for you when we decided, Joan said quickly. I

  really wanted you there; I wanted you to be my maid of honor.

  Scathach s green eyes narrowed, remembering. Four years ago I think I was in

  Nepal chasing down a rogue Nee-gued. An abominable snowman, she added,

  seeing Sophie s and Joan s blank looks.

  We d no way of contacting you. Your cell wasn't working, and e-mails bounced

  back saying your mailbox was full. Joan caught Scathach s hand. Come, I

  have photos I can show you. The woman turned back to Sophie. You should eat

  now. You need to replace the energy you've burned up. Drink plenty of

  liquids. Water, fruit juices, but no caffeine no tea and no coffee, nothing

  that s going to keep you awake. Once you've eaten, Francis will show you to

  your rooms, where you can shower and rest. She slowly looked Sophie up and

  down. I ll get you some clothes. You re about my size. And then later we ll

  talk about your au
ra. Joan held up her left hand and spread her fingers. An

  articulated metal glove sparkled into existence over her flesh. I ll show

  you how to control it, how to shape it, make it into anything you wish. The

  glove turned into a metal raptor's claw complete with curved talons before it

  faded back to Joan s tanned flesh. Only her fingernails remained silver. She

  leaned in and kissed Sophie quickly on each cheek. But first you must rest.

  Now, she said, looking at Scathach, let me show you the photos.

  The two women hurried from the kitchen, and Sophie made her way back down the

  long room to where Saint-Germain was talking earnestly to her brother. Josh

  handed her a plate piled high with fruit and bread. His own plate was heaped

  with eggs and sausages. Sophie felt her stomach object at the sight and she

  forced herself to look away. She nibbled on the fruit, listening to the

  conversation.

  No, I m human, I cannot Awaken your powers, Saint-Germain was saying as she

  joined them. For that you need an Elder or one of the handful of Next

  Generation who could do it. He smiled, showing his misshapen teeth. don't

  worry, Nicholas will find someone to Awaken you.

  Is there anyone here, in Paris, who could do it?

  Saint-Germain took a moment to consider. Machiavelli would know someone, I m

  sure. He knows everything. But I don't. He turned to Sophie, bowing

  slightly. I understand you were lucky enough to be Awakened by the legendary

  Hekate and then trained in the Magic of Air by my old teacher, the Witch of

  Endor. He shook his head. How is the old witch? She never liked me, he

  added.

  Still doesn t, Sophie said quickly, then blushed. I m sorry. I don't know

  why I said that.

  The Count laughed. Oh, Sophie, you didn't say it well, not really. The Witch

  did. It s going to take some time for you to sort through her memories. I got

  a call from her this morning. She told me how she imbued you not only with

  the Magic of Air, but with her entire body of knowledge. The mummy technique

  hasn t been used in living memory; it is incredibly dangerous.

  Sophie glanced quickly at her brother. He was watching Saint-Germain

  carefully, listening to every word. She noted the tension in his neck and jaw

  from how he was squeezing his mouth shut.

  You should have rested for at least twenty-four hours to allow your

  conscious and subconscious time to sort through the sudden influx of alien

  memories, thoughts and ideas.

  There wasn't time, Sophie muttered.

  Well, there is now. Eat up; then I ll show you to your rooms. Sleep as long

  as you like. You re completely safe. No one even knows you re here.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  T hey re in Saint-Germain s town house off the Champs-Elys es. Machiavelli

  pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back in the black leather chair,

  swiveling to look through the tall window. In the distance, across the

  slanted tile rooftops, he could make out the tip of the Eiffel Tower. The

  fireworks had finally stopped, but a pall of rainbow-colored clouds still

  hung in the air. don't worry, Doctor, we have the house under observation.

  Saint-Germain, Scathach and the twins are inside. There are no other

  occupants.

  Machiavelli held the phone away from his ear as static rippled and crackled.

  Dee s jet was just taking off from a small private airfield north of L.A. It

  would stop in New York to refuel, then fly transatlantic to Shannon in

  Ireland and refuel again before continuing on to Paris. The crackling faded

  and Dee s voice, strong and clear, came through the phone.

  And the Alchemyst?

  Lost in Paris. My men had him on the ground at gunpoint, but he somehow

  coated them in sugar and then unleashed every ant in the city onto them. They

  panicked; he escaped.

  Transmutation, Dee remarked. Water is composed of two parts hydrogen and

  one part oxygen: sucrose has the same ratio. He changed the water into sugar;

  it s a parlor trick I would have expected more of him.

  Machiavelli ran his hand across his short snow white hair. I though it was

  rather clever myself, he said mildly. He hospitalized six police officers.

  He will return to the twins, Dee snapped. He needs them. He s been waiting

  all his life to find them.

  We ve all been waiting, Machiavelli reminded the Magician quietly. And

  right now, we know where they are, which means we know where Flamel will go.

  Do nothing until I get there, Dee commanded.

  And have you any idea when that might Machiavelli began, but the line was

  dead. He was unsure whether Dee had hung up or the call had dropped. Knowing

  Dee, he guessed he d hung up; that was his usual style. The tall, elegant man

  tapped the phone against his thin lips before replacing the handset. He had

  no intention of following Dee s orders; he was going to capture Flamel and

  the twins before Dee s plane touched down in Paris. He would do what Dee had

  failed to do for centuries, and in return, the Elders would grant him

  anything he desired.

  Machiavelli s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at

  the screen. An unusually long string of numbers scrolled across it, looking

  like no other number he d ever seen before. The head of the DGSE frowned.

  Only the president of France, a few highly placed cabinet ministers and his

  own personal staff had this number. He hit Answer but didn't speak.

  The English Magician believes you will try and capture Flamel and the twins

  before he arrives. The voice on the other end spoke Greek in a dialect that

  had not been used in millennia.

  Niccol Machiavelli sat bolt upright in his chair. Master? he said.

  Give Dee your full support. Do not move against Flamel until he arrives.

  The line went dead.

  Machiavelli carefully placed his cell phone on the bare desk and sat back.

  Holding both hands up before his face, he was unsurprised to find that they

  were shaking slightly. The last time he d spoken to the Elder he called

  Master had been more than a century and a half ago. This was the Elder who

  had granted him immortality at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Had

  Dee somehow contacted him? Machiavelli shook his head. Highly unlikely;

  probably Dee had contacted his own master and asked him to make the request.

  But Machiavelli s master was one of the most powerful of the Dark Elders .

  That brought him back to a question that had troubled him down through the

  centuries: who was Dee s master?

  Every human granted immortality by an Elder was bound to that Elder. An Elder

  who bestowed immortality could just as easily revoke it. Machiavelli had even

  seen it happen: he d watched a healthy-looking young man wither and age in a

  matter of heartbeats, eventually collapsing into a pile of crackling bones

  and dusty skin.

  Machiavelli s dossier of immortal humans was cross-linked to the Elder or

  Dark Elder they served. There were only a very few humani like Flamel,

  Perenelle and Saint-Germain who owed no loyalty to an Elder, because they had

  become immortal by their own efforts.

  No one knew whom Dee served. But it was obviously someone more powerful than

  Ma
chiavelli s own Dark Elder master. And that made Dee all the more

  dangerous.

  Leaning forward, Machiavelli pressed a button on his desk phone. The door

  immediately opened and Dagon stepped into the room, his mirrored sunglasses

  reflecting the bare walls.

  Any reports on the Alchemyst?

  Nothing. We've accessed the video from the security cameras in the Pont de

  l Alma station and every station it connects with and we re analyzing it now,

  but it s going to take time.

  Machiavelli nodded. Time was something he did not have. He waved a

  long-fingered hand in the air. Well, we might not know where he is now, but

  we know where he s going: to Saint-Germain s house.

  Dagon s lips parted stickily. The house is under observation. All entrances

  and exits are secured; there are even men in the sewers beneath the building.

  No one can get in or out without us observing them. There are two RAID units

  in vans in nearby side streets and a third unit in the house next to

  Saint-Germain s property. They can be over the wall in moments.

  Machiavelli stood up and stepped out from behind the desk. With his hands

  behind his back, he walked around the tiny anonymous office. Although it was

  his official address, he rarely used this room, and it held nothing but the

  desk, two chairs, and the telephone. But is it enough, I wonder? Flamel has

  escaped from six highly trained officers who were holding him at gunpoint,

  facedown on the pavement. And we know Saint-Germain the Master of Fire is

  inside this property. We had a little example of his abilities this morning.

  The fireworks were harmless, Dagon said.

  I m sure he could have just as easily turned the tower to liquid. Remember,

  he makes diamonds from coal.

  Dagon nodded.

  Machiavelli continued. We also know that the American girl s powers have

  been Awakened, and we ve seen a little of what she can do. The fog at

  Sacre -Coeur was an impressive feat for someone untrained and so young.

  And then there is the Shadow, Dagon added.

  Niccol Machiavelli s face turned into an ugly mask. And then there is the

  Shadow, he agreed.

  She took out twelve heavily armed officers in the coffee shop this morning,

  Dagon said emotionlessly. I ve watched her face down entire armies, and she

  survived for centuries in an Underworld Shadowrealm. Flamel is obviously