06 The Enchantress Page 3

  “Which means Mars and the others must be in trouble,” Prometheus said. The big Elder turned to Nicholas. “We have to help them.”

  Nicholas looked at Perenelle. “What do you think we should do?”

  The Sorceress’s face lit up with a dangerous smile. “I think we should attack the island.”

  “Just the four of us?” he asked lightly.

  Perenelle leaned forward until her forehead touched her husband’s, and looked deep into his eyes. “This is the last day of our lives, Nicholas,” she said softly. “We have always lived quietly, keeping to the shadows, hoarding our energy, rarely using our auras. We don’t have to do that anymore. I think it is time we reminded these Dark Elders why they once feared us.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Rukma vimana shuddered, engine whining. The huge triangular flying ship had been damaged in the fight outside Abraham’s crystal tower. One side of the craft was peppered with scars, portholes were shattered and the door no longer sat flush in the frame. Icy air howled and shrieked through the opening. The screens and control panels along one wall were black, and most of those still working pulsed with a jagged red circular symbol.

  Scathach the Shadow stood behind Prometheus. She knew him as her uncle, but he had no idea who she was. In this time stream, she had not yet been born—and would not be born until after the island fell. The Elder was struggling to control the craft. Scathach had both hands clasped behind her and refused to grip the back of the Elder’s chair. She was also desperately trying to prevent herself from throwing up. “Can I help?” she asked.

  Prometheus grunted. “Have you ever flown a Rukma vimana before?”

  “I’ve flown a smaller one … a long time ago,” Scathach admitted.

  “How long?” Prometheus asked.

  “Hard to tell, really. Ten thousand years, give or take a century or so.”

  “Then you can’t help me.”

  “Why, has the technology changed at all?” she asked.

  William Shakespeare was sitting on the right-hand side of the craft, next to the bulky Saracen Knight, Palamedes. The English immortal looked at Scathach, his bright blue eyes huge behind his overlarge glasses. “You know, I’m a curious person,” he said. “Nosy, some would say.”

  She nodded.

  “Always been my biggest failing … and my greatest strength.” He smiled, revealing his bad teeth. “I find you learn so much more by asking questions.”

  “Just ask the question,” Palamedes muttered.

  Shakespeare ignored him. “Experience has taught me that there are some questions one should never ask.” He pointed toward the circular symbol flashing red on the few working screens. “But I really do think I want to know what that means.”

  Palamedes rumbled a laugh. “I can answer that, William. I’m no expert in ancient languages, but in my experience, when something is red and blinking, that means trouble.”

  “How much trouble?” Shakespeare asked.

  “It means abandon ship,” Prometheus answered. “But you don’t want to pay too much attention to that. These old ships are always throwing up warnings.”

  The left-hand wing dipped and they heard something bang and scrape along the underside of the craft.

  Joan of Arc shifted in her seat to peer through one of the broken portholes on the left side. The vimana was skimming treetops, leaving a trail of leaves and broken branches tumbling in its wake. She glanced sidelong at her husband and raised pencil-thin eyebrows in a silent question.

  The Comte de Saint-Germain shrugged. “I am a great believer in only worrying about those things we have control over,” he said in French. “And we have no control over this craft; therefore, we should not worry.”

  “Very philosophical,” Joan murmured.

  “Very practical.” Saint-Germain shrugged elegantly. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “We crash, we die,” she suggested.

  “And we die together.” He smiled softly. “I would prefer that. I do not want to live in this world—or any other world, for that matter—without you.”

  Joan reached over and the man caught her hand in his. “Why did it take me so long to marry you?”

  “You thought I was an arrogant, ignorant, boastful, dangerous fool.”

  “Who told you that?” she demanded.

  “You did.”

  “And I was right, you know.”

  “I know.” He grinned.

  There was another bang and the entire craft shuddered. Glossy green leaves drifted in through the ill-fitting door.

  “We need to put down now,” the Shadow said.

  “Where?” Prometheus demanded.

  Scathach lurched over to one of the portholes and gazed out. They were racing over a dense primeval forest. Enormous leathery winged lizards spiraled lazily through the skies while brilliantly plumaged birds burst through the treetops in splashes of color. Humanoid creatures that looked vaguely simian, though they were coated in feathers, scampered along the crown of the forest, shouting and calling. And from the shadows behind leaves and branches, huge unblinking eyes stared up at the vimana.

  The Rukma vimana lurched again, then plunged, and the right wing ripped a narrow slice out of the canopy. The entire forest screeched, howled and bellowed its disapproval.

  Scathach ducked her head, eyes darting left and right. The forest stretched unbroken in every direction until it was swallowed up by dense billowing clouds on the horizon. “There’s nowhere to land,” she said.

  “I know,” Prometheus said impatiently. “I have flown this route before.”

  “How much farther?” she called.

  “Not far,” Prometheus said grimly. “We need to get to the clouds. We just need to stay in the air for a few more minutes.”

  William Shakespeare turned away from one of the portholes. “Could we settle down atop the trees?” he asked. “Some of them look strong enough to support the weight of the craft. Or perhaps if you were to hover, we could climb down on ropes.”

  “Look again, Bard. Can you see the forest floor? These redwoods are over five hundred feet tall. And even if you did manage to reach the ground unscathed, I doubt you’d get more than a few feet before something with teeth and claws ate you. If you were extremely unlucky, the forest spiders would get to you first and lay their eggs in you.”

  “Why is that considered extremely unlucky?”

  “You’d still be alive when the eggs hatched.”

  “That is probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” Shakespeare muttered. He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil. “I’ve got to make a note of that.”

  A trio of huge black vulture-like creatures flapped up from enormous nests in the trees and flew alongside the vimana. Scathach’s hands fell to her swords, though she knew that if the creatures attacked she’d be able to do nothing about it.

  “They look hungry,” Saint-Germain said, leaning across Joan to stare through the porthole.

  “They’re always hungry,” Prometheus said. “And there are more of them on this side.”

  “Are they dangerous?” the Shadow asked.

  “They’re scavengers,” Prometheus said. “They’re waiting for us to crash so they can feast off the remains.”

  “So they expect us to crash?” Scathach watched the huge birds. They looked like condors, though they were three times the size of any condor she’d ever seen.

  “They know that sooner or later, every vimana crashes,” Prometheus said. “Over the generations they’ve seen so many crashes, the knowledge is now bred into them.”

  Suddenly, the glass screen directly in front of the Elder turned black, and then, one at a time, all but one of the pulsing red screens winked out.

  “Hang on!” Prometheus called. “Strap yourselves in!” He jerked back the controller and the Rukma vimana lurched up into the sky, engine straining. The entire ship started to vibrate once again, and everything that wasn’t tied down went crashing to the back
of the craft. As the ship rose higher and higher, the wispy white clouds turned thick and solid, plunging the interior of the craft into gloom, and the windows were suddenly streaked with curling rivulets of rain. The temperature within the craft plummeted, and a speckling of water droplets covered everything. The single functioning screen bathed everyone in crimson alternating with blackness.

  Scathach flung herself into a seat that had not been designed for a human body and clutched the arms hard enough to crack the ancient leather. “I thought we were going down!”

  “I’m going to take us up, as high as we can go,” the Elder grunted. His broad face was sheened with sweat turned the color of blood in the screen’s light, and his red hair was plastered to his skull.

  “Up?” Scathach’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Up?” she repeated, her voice normal. “Why up?”

  “So that when the engine gives out we can glide,” Prometheus answered.

  “And when you do think that will—” Scathach began.

  There was a loud bang and the interior of the Rukma vimana was suffused with the stench of burning rubber. And then the low buzzing drone of the vimana’s engine cut to silence.

  “Now what?” Scathach demanded.

  The Elder sat back in his chair, which was far too small for him, and folded his arms across his massive armored chest. “Now we glide.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we fall.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we crash.”

  “And then?” Scathach demanded.

  Prometheus grinned. “Then we’ll see.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Niten.” Nicholas turned to the Japanese man. “You are the master strategist. What do you suggest?”

  Niten tilted the binoculars and scanned the island across the bay, moving from right to left and back again. “Did you ever read my book?” he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued. “There are three ways to counter an enemy. There is Tai No Sen, when you wait until he attacks and then counterattack. There is Tai Tai No Sen, when you time your attack to his, so that you enter battle together. And then of course, there is—”

  “Ken No Sen,” Prometheus said. “To attack first.”

  Niten glanced over his shoulder at the Elder. “You did read my book. I’m flattered.”

  Prometheus grinned. “Don’t be. I found some mistakes in it. And of course, Mars disagreed with just about everything you said.”

  “He would.” Niten turned his attention back to the binoculars. “Ken No Sen. I think we should attack first, but we need to know the disposition of our enemy before we make our move. We need eyes on the island.”

  “Can I remind you that there are only four of us?” Prometheus said.

  “Ah.” Niten turned from the binoculars to look at the group. “But I am guessing that our enemies do not know that.” He smiled. “We can encourage them to believe that there are many more.”

  “The ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala is trapped on the island,” Perenelle said, “forever tied to the place. There are other shades there also. They helped me escape. He would help, I’m sure of it. He will do anything to protect his island.”

  Niten smiled. “Ghosts and spirits are a useful distraction. But to battle the monsters we will need something a little more tangible. Preferably something with teeth and claws.”

  Slowly Perenelle’s lips turned up in a smile that was terrifying. “Well, of course, Areop-Enap is on Alcatraz.”

  Prometheus spun around. “Old Spider! I thought she was dead.”

  “When I last saw her, she had been poisoned by the bites of millions of flies. She’d cocooned herself in a hard shell to heal. But she is alive.”

  “If we could awaken her …,” Prometheus murmured. “She is …” He paused, shaking his head. “She is fearsome in battle.”

  “When you say Old Spider …,” Niten began, “are we talking about a big spider?”

  “Big,” Nicholas and Perenelle answered together.

  “Very big,” Perenelle added. “And incredibly powerful.”

  Prometheus shook his head. “I knew her when she was beautiful, before the Change took her. The Change is rarely kind, but I think it was particularly cruel to her.”

  A large party of smiling Japanese tourists gathered nearby and began photographing the island, each other and the swooping red and green parrots overhead. The immortals and the Elder took this as their signal to move farther down the pier.

  “We need to contain the monsters on the island,” Nicholas said quietly as they walked. “If they’re all in one place, it will be easier to defend the city.”

  Prometheus shook his head. “This is about more than just defending the city, Nicholas. We need to destroy these beasts. And time is not our friend. I can guarantee you that every evil thing on the West Coast of America is heading here now. Every Dark Elder and his servant are on their way. We cannot fight them all.”

  “We don’t have to,” Niten said firmly. “We should focus on one enemy at a time. Let us address what is before us first.” He tilted his head toward the island. “The Dark Elders intended those creatures to spread terror and confusion throughout the city. If we can prevent that, then already we have hurt their plans. And yes, I am sure there are others coming, but they are individuals, and we are more than capable of handling them.”

  “And we don’t have to be just four,” Perenelle said. “There are others—immortals like us, or immortals loyal to peaceful Elders or Next Generation—who will stand with us. We should get in touch with them.”

  “How?” Prometheus asked.

  “I have their phone numbers,” Perenelle said.

  “Tsagaglalal will fight with us,” Nicholas continued, “and no one knows the extent of her powers.”

  “She is an old woman,” Niten said, shaking his head.

  “Tsagaglalal is many things,” Perenelle said, “but it would be a mistake to think that she is just an old woman.”

  “If you have contacts, then call them,” Niten said decisively. “Get them all here.” He turned to the Elder. “Prometheus, you are a Master of Fire. Could you rain fire onto the island?”

  The big Elder shook his head sadly. “I could, but it would be a thin rain, and would utterly destroy me. I am old, Niten, and I am dying. My Shadowrealm is lost and I have little aura left … enough perhaps for one final blaze of glory.” He bared his teeth in a grim smile. “And I want to save that until the very end.”

  The Japanese immortal nodded. “That I understand.”

  “So we focus our efforts on the island,” Nicholas announced. “But before we do that, we need to know what’s going on over there.”

  “We could try scrying,” Perenelle suggested.

  Nicholas shook his head. “Too limiting and too time-consuming. We would only be able to see whatever was reflected in glass or pools of water. We need a bigger picture.” He stopped suddenly and grinned. “Do you remember Pedro?” he asked.

  Perenelle looked blankly at him, and then her face lit up with a smile. “Pedro. Of course I remember Pedro.”

  “Who is Pedro?” Niten asked.

  “Was. Pedro is no more. Gone almost a hundred years,” Perenelle said.

  “King Pedro of Brazil?” Prometheus asked. “Pedro of Portugal? The explorer, the inventor?”

  “The parrot,” Perenelle said, “named in honor of our great friend, Periquillo Sarniento. For decades we had a Timor Sulphur Crested Cockatoo. I say ‘we,’ though in truth, he was bonded to Nicholas and only tolerated me. We found him as an abandoned chick when we were searching the ruins of Nan Madol in the eighteen hundreds. He was with us for almost eighty years.”

  Prometheus shook his head. “I really do not see—” he began.

  “Parrots are the most remarkable birds,” Nicholas continued, ignoring him. He stretched out his left arm and the merest hint of mint touched the salt air. His lips moved, his breath hissing softl
y between them. There was a sudden flutter of wings and a spectacular red-headed green-bodied parrot settled onto his outstretched hand. It tilted its head to one side, and a large silver and gold eye regarded him quizzically; then it slowly began to sidle up his arm. The Alchemyst ran the back of his finger down its breast. “Parrots are extraordinarily intelligent. And their eyesight is marvelous. There are some species whose eyes weigh more than their brains. They can see into the infrared and ultraviolet spectra; they can even see waves of light.”

  “Alchemyst …,” Prometheus said.

  Nicholas focused on the parrot, blowing gently across its iridescent plumage. The parrot rubbed the top of its head across Flamel’s forehead and started to groom his bushy eyebrows.

  “Alchemyst,” Prometheus repeated, a note of irritation in his voice.

  “John Dee and his kind use rats and mice as eyes to spy for them,” Perenelle explained. “But over the years, Nicholas learned to see through Pedro’s eyes. It’s a simple transference process. You wrap the creature in your aura and then gently direct it.”

  “Pedro saved our lives on more than one occasion,” Nicholas said quietly. “It got so that he would scream at even the hint of Dee’s sulfur stench.” He brought his face close to the Cherry-Headed Conure and it ran its beak back and forth across his forehead, now grooming his close-cropped hair. “Prometheus, would you hold on to me now?” he continued. “I’m going to get a little dizzy.”

  “Why?” Niten asked, puzzled.

  “I’m going flying,” the Alchemyst whispered. He cocked his head and the parrot mimicked the movement. For an instant, they were eye to eye. The salt air turned sharp with mint and the conure shivered. As he stroked the bird, Flamel’s fingers left shimmering trails of green that were almost invisible against the parrot’s feathers. Nicholas closed his eyes … and the parrot’s yellow eyes turned pale, almost colorless.

  Then, with a sudden flapping of wings, the bird took to the air, and Prometheus caught the Alchemyst as he slumped to the ground.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Are you really our parents?” Sophie asked.