Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2 Page 14

  using her to protect the twins. She must be destroyed before we move against

  any of the others.

  Indeed.

  You will need an army.

  Perhaps not. Remember, Cunning and deceit will every time serve a man

  better than force, he quoted.

  Who said that? Dagon asked.

  I did, in a book, a long time ago. It was true in the court of the Medicis,

  and it is true now. He looked up. Did you send for the Disir?

  They re on their way. Dagon s voice turned sticky. I don't trust them.

  No one trusts the Disir. There was no humor in Machiavelli s smile. Did

  you ever hear the story of how Hekate trapped Scathach in that Underworld?

  Dagon remained unmoving.

  Hekate used the Disir. Their feud with the Shadow goes back to the time just

  after the sinking of Danu Talis. Putting his hands on the creature s

  shoulders, Machiavelli stepped close to Dagon, taking care to breathe through

  his mouth. Dagon exuded a fishy odor; it coated his pale skin like oily,

  rancid sweat. I know you hate the Shadow, and I have never asked you why,

  though I have my suspicions. It is obvious that she has caused you much pain.

  However, I want you to put aside your feelings; hate is the most useless of

  all emotions. Success is the best revenge. I need you focused and by my side.

  We are close now, so close to victory, close to returning the Elder Race to

  this world. Leave Scathach to the Disir. But if they fail, then she is yours.

  I promise you.

  Dagon opened his mouth to reveal the circle of needle-pointed teeth. They

  will not fail. The Disir intend to bring Nidhogg.

  Niccol Machiavelli blinked in surprise. Nidhogg it s free? How?

  The World Tree was destroyed.

  If they loose Nidhogg on Scathach, then you are right. They will not fail.

  They cannot.

  Dagon reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. His huge bulbous fish eyes

  were wide and staring. And if they lose control of Nidhogg, it could devour

  the entire city.

  Machiavelli took a moment to consider. Then he nodded. It would be a small

  price to pay to destroy the Shadow.

  You sound just like Dee.

  Oh, I am nothing like the English Magician, Machiavelli said feelingly.

  Dee is a dangerous fanatic.

  And you re not? Dagon asked.

  I m only dangerous.

  Dr. John Dee sat back into the soft leather seat and watched the sparkling

  grid of L.A. s lights fall away beneath him. Checking an ornate pocket watch,

  he wondered if Machiavelli had received the phone call from his master yet.

  He imagined he had. Dee grinned, wondering what the Italian would make of

  that. If nothing else, it would at least show Machiavelli who was in charge.

  It didn't take a genius to realize that the Italian would go after Flamel and

  the children himself. But Dee had spent too long chasing the Alchemyst to

  lose him at the very end especially to someone like Niccol Machiavelli.

  He closed his eyes as the plane rose and his stomach twitched. He

  automatically reached for the paper bag on the seat beside him: he loved

  flying, but his stomach always protested. If everything went as planned, then

  he would soon be the ruler of the entire planet and he d never need to fly

  again. Everyone would come to him.

  The jet climbed at a steep angle and he swallowed hard; he d had a chicken

  wrap in the airport and was regretting it now. The fizzy drink had been a

  definite mistake.

  Dee was looking forward to the time when the Elders returned. Perhaps they

  could reestablish the network of leygates across the world and make flying

  unnecessary. Closing his eyes, Dee concentrated on the Elders and the many

  benefits they would bring to the planet. In the distant past, he knew the

  Elders had created a paradise on earth. All the ancient books and scrolls,

  the myths and legends of every race, spoke about that glorious time. His

  master had promised him that the Elders would use their powerful magic to

  return the planet to that paradise. They would reverse the effects of global

  warming, repair the hole in the ozone layer and bring the deserts to life.

  The Sahara would bloom; the polar ice caps would melt away, revealing the

  rich land beneath. Dee thought he would found his capital city in Antarctica

  on the shores of Lake Vanda. The Elders could reestablish their ancient

  kingdoms in Sumer, Egypt, Central America and Angkor, and with the knowledge

  contained in the Book of Abraham, it would be possible to raise Danu Talis

  again.

  Of course, Dee knew that the human population would become slaves, and some

  would become food for those Elders who still needed to eat, but that was a

  small price to pay for the many other benefits.

  The jet leveled and he felt his stomach settle. Opening his eyes, he breathed

  deeply and checked his watch again. He found it hard to believe that he was

  hours literally hours away from finally capturing the Alchemyst, Scathach

  and, now, the twins. They were an added bonus. Once he had Flamel and the

  pages from the Codex, the world would change.

  He would never understand why Flamel and his wife had worked so hard to

  prevent the Elders from bringing civilization back to earth. But he d be sure

  to ask him just before he killed him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  N icholas Flamel paused on the Rue Beaubourg and turned slowly, pale eyes

  scanning the street. He didn't think he was being followed, but he needed to

  be certain. He d taken the train to the Saint-Michel Notre-Dame station and

  crossed the Seine on the Pont d Arcole, heading in the direction of the

  glass-and-steel monstrosity that was the Pompidou Center. Taking his time,

  stopping often, darting from one side of the road to the other, pausing at a

  newsstand to buy the morning paper, stopping again for some foul coffee in a

  cardboard cup, he kept checking for anyone paying close attention to his

  movements. But as far as he could determine, there was no one following him.

  Paris had changed since he d last been in the city, and though he now called

  San Francisco home, this was the city of his birth and would always be his

  city. Only a couple of weeks ago, Josh had loaded Google Earth onto the

  computer in the bookshop s back room and shown him how to use it. Nicholas

  had spent hours looking down on the streets he d once walked, finding

  buildings he d known in his youth, even discovering the location of the

  Church of the Holy Innocents, where he d supposedly been buried.

  He had been particularly interested in one street. He d found it on the map

  program and virtually walked down it, never realizing that he would soon do

  so in reality.

  Nicholas Flamel turned left off the Rue Beaubourg onto the Rue de

  Montmorency and stopped as suddenly as if he had walked into a wall.

  He drew a deep shuddering breath, conscious that his heart was pounding. The

  wash of emotions was extraordinarily powerful. The street was so narrow that

  the morning sunlight didn't reach it, leaving it in shadow. It was lined on

  both sides with tall, mostly white-and-cream-colored buildings, many of them

  with hanging baskets spilling flowers and greenery across the w
alls.

  Round-topped black metal poles had been inserted into the sidewalk on both

  sides of the street to prevent cars from stopping.

  Nicholas walked slowly down the street, seeing it as it had once been.

  Remembering.

  More than six hundred years ago, he and Perenelle had lived on this street.

  Images of medieval Paris flickered behind his eyes, a jumbled mismatched mess

  of wooden and stone houses; narrow winding lanes; rotten bridges; tumbled

  listing buildings and streets that were little better than open sewers. The

  noise, the incredible, incessant noise, and the foul miasma that hung over

  the city a mixture of unwashed disease-ridden humans and filthy animals were

  things he would never forget.

  At the bottom of the Rue de Montmorency, he found the building he had been

  looking for.

  It hadn't changed much. The stone had once been cream; now it was ancient,

  chipped and weathered, stained black with soot. The three wooden windows and

  doors were new, but the building itself was one of the oldest in Paris.

  Directly above the middle door was a number in blue metal 51 and above that

  was a tired-looking stone sign announcing that this had once been the MAISON

  DE NICOLAS FLAMEL ET DE PERENELLE, SA FEMME. A red sign in the shape of a

  shield announced that this was the AUBERGE NICOLAS FLAMEL. Now it was a

  restaurant.

  Once it had been his home.

  Stepping up to the window, he pretended to read the menu as he peered inside.

  The interior had been completely remodeled, of course, countless times

  probably, but the dark beams that stretched across the white ceiling appeared

  to be the same beams he d so often looked up at more than six hundred years

  ago.

  He and Perenelle had been happy here, he realized.

  And safe.

  Their lives had been simpler then: they hadn't known about the Elders or the

  Dark Elders; they d known nothing of the Codex, or of the immortals who

  guarded and fought over it.

  And both he and Perenelle had still been fully human.

  The ancient stones of the house had been carved with an assortment of images,

  symbols and letters that he knew had puzzled and intrigued scholars down

  through the ages. Most were meaningless, little more than the shop signs of

  their day, but there were one or two that had special significance. Quickly

  glancing left and right and finding the narrow street empty, he reached up

  with his right hand and traced the outline of the letter N, which was cut

  into the stone to the left of the middle window. Green power curled around

  the letter. Then he traced the ornate F on the opposite side of the window,

  leaving a shimmering outline of the letter in the air. Catching hold of the

  window frame with his left hand, he hauled himself up onto the ledge and

  reached over his head with his right hand, his fingers finding the shapes of

  letters in the ancient stone. Allowing the tiniest trickle of his aura to

  flow through his fingers, he pressed a sequence of letters and the stone

  beneath his flesh turned warm and soft. He pushed and his fingers sank into

  the stone. They wrapped around the object he had secreted within the solid

  block of granite back in the fifteenth century. Pulling it free, he stepped

  off the window ledge and dropped lightly to the ground, quickly wrapping his

  copy of Le Monde around the object. Then he turned and headed down the street

  without so much as a backward glance.

  Before he stepped out onto the Rue Beaubourg, Nicholas turned over his left

  hand. Nestled in the center of his palm was the perfect impression of the

  black butterfly Saint-Germain had pressed into his skin. It will lead you

  back to me, he d said.

  Nicholas Flamel brushed his right forefinger over the tattoo. Take me back

  to Saint-Germain, he murmured. Bring me to him.

  The tattoo shivered on his skin, black wings rippling. Then it suddenly

  peeled away from his flesh and hung flapping in the air before him. A moment

  later, it danced and wove down the street. Clever, Nicholas muttered, very

  clever. And he set off after it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  P erenelle Flamel stepped out of the prison cell.

  The door had never been locked. There was no need: nothing could get past the

  sphinx. But now the sphinx was gone. Perenelle breathed deeply: the sour odor

  of the creature, the musty combination of snake, lion and bird, had lessened,

  allowing the usual smells of Alcatraz salt and rusting metal, seaweed and

  crumbling stone to take over. She turned to the left, moving swiftly down a

  long cell-lined corridor. She was on the Rock, but she had no idea where she

  was within the huge crumbling complex. Although she and Nicholas had lived in

  San Francisco for years, she had never been tempted to visit the

  ghost-haunted island. All she knew was that she was deep below the surface of

  the earth. The only light came from an irregular scattering of low-wattage

  bulbs set behind wire cages. Perenelle s lips twisted in a wry smile; the

  light was not for her benefit. The sphinx was afraid of the dark; the

  creature came from a time and place where there really were monsters in the

  shadows.

  The sphinx had been lured away by the ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala. She had

  gone in search of the mysterious noises, the rattling bars and slamming doors

  that had suddenly filled the building. Every moment the sphinx was away from

  her cell, Perenelle s aura recharged. She wasn't back up to full strength she

  would need to sleep and eat first but at least she was no longer defenseless.

  All she had to do was to keep out of the creature s way.

  A door slammed somewhere high above her, and Perenelle froze as claws

  click-clacked. Then a bell began to toll, slow and solemn, lonely and

  distant. There was a sudden clatter of iron-hard nails on stone as the sphinx

  raced off to investigate.

  Perenelle folded her arms across her body and ran her hands up and down them,

  shivering slightly. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress, and normally

  she d be able to regulate her temperature by adjusting her aura, but she had

  very little power left and she was reluctant to use it in any way. One of the

  sphinx s special talents was her ability to sense and then feed off magical

  energy.

  Perenelle s flat sandals made no sound on the damp stones as she moved down

  the corridor. She was wary, but not frightened. Perenelle Flamel had lived

  for more than six hundred years, and while Nicholas had been fascinated with

  alchemy, she had concentrated on sorcery. Her research had taken her into

  some very dark and dangerous places, not only on this earth, but also in some

  of the adjoining Shadowrealms.

  Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered and tinkled to the ground. She

  heard the sphinx hiss and howl in frustration, but that sound too was far

  away. Perenelle smiled: de Ayala was keeping the sphinx busy, and no matter

  how hard she looked, she would never find him. Even a creature as powerful as

  a sphinx had no power over a ghost or a poltergeist.

  Perenelle knew that she needed to get to an upper level and out into the

  sunshine, where her
aura would recharge more quickly. Once she was in the

  open air, she could use any of a dozen simple spells, cantrips and

  incantations she knew that would make the sphinx s existence a misery. A

  Scythian mage, who d claimed to have helped build the pyramids for the

  survivors of Danu Talis who had settled in Egypt, had taught her a very

  useful spell for melting stone. Perenelle would not hesitate to use it to

  bring the entire building down on top of the sphinx. It would probably

  survive sphinxes were practically impossible to kill but it would certainly

  be slowed down.

  Perenelle spotted rusting metal stairs and darted toward them. She was just

  about to put her foot on the bottom step when she noticed the gray thread

  spilling across the metal. Perenelle froze, foot raised in the air and then

  she slowly and carefully stepped back. Crouching down, she looked at the

  metal steps. From this angle, she could see the threads of spiderwebs

  crisscrossing and weaving through the stairs. Anyone who stepped onto the

  metal staircase would be caught. She backed away, staring hard into the

  gloomy shadows. The threads were too thick to have been made by any normal

  spider and were dotted with tiny globules of liquid silver. Perenelle knew a

  dozen creatures that could have spun the webs, and she didn't want to meet

  any of them, not here and now, while she was so drained of her power.

  Turning, she darted down a long corridor lit only by a single bulb at either

  end. Now that she knew what she was looking for, she could see the silver

  webs everywhere, stretched across the ceiling, spreading across the walls,

  and there were huge nests knotted in corners, growing in the deepest shadows.

  The webs presence might explain why she had encountered no vermin in the

  prison no ants, flies, mosquitoes or rats. Once the nests hatched, the

  building would come alive with spiders if indeed that s what the spinners

  were. Over the centuries, Perenelle had encountered Elders who were

  associated with spiders, including Arachne and the mysterious and terrifying

  Spider Woman, but as far as she knew, none of them was aligned with Dee and

  the Dark Elders.

  Perenelle was hurrying past an open door, a perfect spiderweb framed in the

  opening, when she caught the hint of a sour bitter stench. She slowed, then