06 The Enchantress Read online

  Odin’s single eye blinked. “It’s big,” he muttered. “Strong.”

  The beast came slowly down the steps. It was so broad that its flanks rubbed against the wall on either side, coarse hair rasping against the stones.

  “It will rush us,” Mars warned.

  “And we’re not going to be able to stop it,” Odin added. “I’ve hunted boar. It will attack with its head down and then rip upward. The muscles around its neck and shoulders are especially thick. I doubt our swords or spears will be able to do anything against it.”

  “And if we use our auras, that will draw the sphinx and she will feast off our energies,” Mars said. He gently pushed Odin to one side. “Both of us do not have to die here. Let it charge me. I’ll grab its head and hold on. You take it from the side with your spears. See if you can get in underneath. The flesh there is softer.”

  Odin nodded. “It’s a good plan, except …”

  “Except?”

  “You will not be able to hold its head. It will gore you.”

  “Yes. Probably. And then you stab it.”

  “And you saw what it did to the metal door,” Odin said quietly.

  “I’m tough.” Mars grinned.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

  “I’ve spent millennia trapped within a hardened shell, unable to move.” He flicked his wrist and spun the short sword. “I haven’t had this much fun since … well … I can’t remember.”

  The Hus Krommyon’s hooves scrambled on the steps, striking sparks off the stones, and then it charged.

  There was a sudden flash of green and red, and what appeared to be a small parrot darted in front of the beast, claws raking along its snout and up between its ears. The boar squealed, slowed and raised its head, jaws snapping, spraying thick saliva. The bird swooped in again, its powerful beak nipping a chunk out of the creature’s hairy ear. The Hus Krommyon bellowed and reared up on its hind legs to snap and bite at the darting creature.

  And Odin’s spear took the monster through its exposed throat. It was dead before it hit the ground.

  “Way to go!” Billy hollered.

  “Billy, why don’t you shout a little louder. I’m sure you can bring some more monsters down on us,” Machiavelli said quietly.

  The American punched his shoulder. “Sometimes you just have to loosen up and celebrate.” He looked down at Hel. “Did you see the size of that thing!”

  “I’ve seen bigger,” she lisped.

  The parrot flapped down to land on the Hus Krommyon’s head. It tilted its tiny red head to one side, looking first at Mars and then Odin.

  “Who are you, little bird?” Mars asked, and then his nostrils flared. “Mint.” he said in astonishment. “Nicholas?”

  The conure’s beak opened and closed and then it squawked, “Flamel.”

  Mars saluted the little bird with his sword. “Alchemyst. It is good to … ahem … see you. We are alive, as you can see. Our numbers have swelled by two, but we are in dire straits. There are too many of them, far too many, and the sphinx is prowling.” He stopped, then added, “I cannot believe I am giving a report to a parrot.”

  “Areop-Enap,” the bird chirruped.

  Mars looked at the one-eyed Elder. “Did it just say ‘Areop-Enap’?”

  The parrot danced from foot to foot. “Areop-Enap, Areop-Enap, Areop-Enap.”

  Odin nodded. “It said ‘Areop-Enap.’ ”

  “Where? Here?” Mars demanded.

  The bird flew into the air and circled the two Elders. “Here, here, here.”

  “That’s a yes,” Odin said. “What an ally, if she’ll fight with us.” He clapped Mars on the back. “Go get the Old Spider. She can’t be that hard to find. Let me tend to Hel’s injuries.” He grabbed the Hus Krommyon by one massive tusk and dragged it off the steps.

  “What are you doing to do with that?”

  “Hel isn’t a vegetarian.” Odin grinned. “And she loves pork.”

  “Raw?”

  “Especially raw.”

  The Cherry-Headed Conure dropped out of the evening sky toward the Embarcadero, wings flapping tiredly, and alit on the Alchemyst’s head. Its red head dipped and it tapped his skull with its closed beak.

  Nicholas shuddered and drew in a deep breath, and Prometheus held him while he straightened and shook pins and needles from his fingertips. Then he lifted his right hand and the parrot hopped onto his fingers. “Thank you,” he breathed. Mint-green mist smoked off the red and green feathers. The bird shivered and took to the air, calling, “Areop-Enap, Areop-Enap, Areop-Enap.” Flamel’s eyes followed its path into the evening sky.

  “Within a couple of days every parrot on the Embarcadero will be screaming that,” the Alchemyst said.

  “Did you learn anything?” Perenelle asked.

  Nicholas nodded. “The monsters are in the main cell block. I saw Mars, Odin and Hel. There was no sign of Black Hawk anywhere, and Hel is injured. But we seem to have two new allies: Machiavelli and Billy the Kid were helping her.”

  Perenelle blinked in surprise. “Machiavelli has been no friend of ours.”

  “I know that. But he is an opportunist. Perhaps he realizes that it would be better to throw in with the winning side.”

  “Or maybe he just rediscovered his humanity,” Niten said quietly. “Maybe someone reminded him that he is human first, immortal second.”

  “You sound as if you are speaking from personal experience,” Perenelle said.

  “I am,” he said softly. “There was a time when I was … wild.”

  “What happened?”

  He smiled. “I met a redheaded Irish warrior.”

  “And fell in love?” she teased.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” She turned back to Nicholas. “And what of Dee?”

  “That’s the odd thing: I could smell his aura, but it was old and fading. And it was entwined with Sophie’s vanilla and Josh’s orange. There was the odor of sage, too….”

  “Virginia Dare,” Perenelle said.

  “They were all mixed up together, along with the energies from the four Swords of Power. But I don’t think Dee’s on the island anymore.”

  “Then where?” Niten asked.

  The Alchemyst started to shake his head, then stopped. “There was the impression of the four Swords of Power on the ground,” he said slowly. His hands described a square. “It looked like they were laid end to end, to create a rectangle.”

  “He’s made a gate,” Prometheus said. “I’ve never seen it done myself, though I know it is possible.”

  “A gate to where?” Nicholas asked. He looked at Perenelle and she shook her head.

  “Nowhere in this world, that’s for sure,” Prometheus said. “In fact, I can almost guarantee it will open up somewhere on Danu Talis. Dee has taken the twins back in time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  So this was how it felt to die.

  Dr. John Dee lay back on the silken grass and pulled the red fleece tightly around himself. He was cold, so, so cold, a profound chill that numbed his fingers and toes and settled deep in his stomach. There was a pain in his forehead, as if he’d eaten too much ice cream, and he could actually feel his heart beginning to slow, the beats becoming weak and irregular.

  He’d rolled over onto his back, and although his vision was blurred, he could make out the impossibly bright blue of the sky, and out of the corners of his eyes, the grass was still a shocking green.

  There were worse ways to go, he supposed.

  He’d lived a tumultuous life in a series of dangerous times. He’d survived wars, plagues, court intrigues and betrayal after betrayal. He’d traveled the world, been to just about every country on earth—except Denmark, a place he’d always wanted to visit—and explored many of the vast network of Shadowrealms.

  He’d made and lost fortunes and met with just about every leader, inventor, hero and villain to walk the planet. He’d advised kings and que
ens, fomented wars, brokered peace and been one of the handful of people who had nudged and urged the humani toward civilization. He had shaped the world, first in the Elizabethan Age and then on into the twenty-first century. That was something to be proud of.

  He’d lived almost five hundred years in the Earth Shadowrealm, and at least that lifetime again in some of the other Shadowrealms. So he really didn’t have too much to complain about. But there were still so many things he wanted to do, so many places he needed to visit, so many worlds still to explore.

  He tried to raise his arms, but there was no feeling in them now. No feeling in his legs either, and his sight was beginning to dim. His Elder masters might have aged his body, but his brain was still as alert as ever. Perhaps that was their greatest cruelty. They had left him alert in this useless shell. He suddenly thought of Mars Ultor, trapped for millennia in his hardened aura deep beneath Paris, his body inert but his brain alive, and for the first time in centuries the English Magician experienced the alien emotion of pity.

  Dee wondered how much longer he would survive.

  Night would fall, and this was Danu Talis, a world where creatures long extinct in the Earth Shadowrealm and monsters drawn from the myriad other Shadowrealms wandered freely.

  He didn’t want to be eaten by monsters.

  When he’d imagined his death—and he’d often thought of it, given the nature of what he did and the capricious humor of his employers—he’d always hoped it would be glorious. He wanted it to have meaning. It had always needled him that so much of his work had been done in secret and the world remained ignorant of his genius. During the Elizabethan Age, everyone had known his name. Even the Queen had feared and respected him. When he’d become immortal he had faded into the shadows, and he had lurked there ever since.

  There was not a lot of meaning in lying shriveled and ancient on a Danu Talis hillside.

  He heard movement, a dull thump. Close by. To his right.

  Dee attempted to turn his head, but he could no longer move.

  There was a shadow.

  It was a monster, come to eat him.

  So this was his destiny: to be eaten alive, alone and friendless….

  He attempted to call upon his aura. If he could just gather enough of it, maybe he could frighten the creature away. Or burn himself to a crisp in the process of trying. That wouldn’t be so bad. At least he’d avoid being eaten.

  The shadow moved closer.

  But why would he want to frighten it away? It would only return. He was merely delaying the inevitable. Better to surrender to it, to remember all the good things he had done during his long life … but there were few enough of those.

  The shadow darkened.

  And now that the end was upon him, old fears and almost forgotten doubts washed over him. He found himself humming a line from a song. “Regrets, I’ve had a few …” Well, he had more than a few. He could have—should have—been a better father to his children and a kinder husband to his wives. Perhaps he should not have been so greedy—not just for money, but for knowledge—and certainly he should never have accepted the gift, the curse, of immortality.

  The realization struck him like a blow, making his breath catch in his chest. Immortality had doomed him.

  The shadow stretched over him and he caught a glimpse of metal.

  No animal, then. A human. A brigand. He wondered if there were cannibals on Danu Talis. “Make it quick,” he whispered. “Give me that mercy.”

  “Was that a mercy you offered others?” Suddenly he was scooped up in strong arms. “I’ll not kill you yet, Dr. Dee. I have use for you.”

  “Who are you?” Dee gasped, desperately trying to make out the face of the man towering over him.

  “I am Marethyu. I am Death. But today, Doctor, I am your savior.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was time for Aunt Agnes to die.

  The old woman stood before the bathroom mirror and looked at her reflection. An elderly human stared back, a face that was all angles and planes, sharp cheekbones, jutting chin and pointed nose. Iron-gray hair was combed off her face and held in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Slate-gray eyes were sunken deep in her head. She looked like an eighty-four-year-old woman. But she was Tsagaglalal, She Who Watches, and her age was beyond reckoning.

  Tsagaglalal had adopted the Aunt Agnes disguise for most of the twentieth century. She’d grown fond of this body, and it would be a shame to let it go. But then, she had worn many guises over the millennia. The great trick was knowing when to move on, when to die.

  Tsagaglalal had lived through ages when anyone who was different—in any way—was suspect. The humans had many wonderful characteristics, but they had always been and would continue to be suspicious and fearful of those who stood out from the crowd. Even in the best of times, they were constantly alert for something wrong, or on the lookout for someone who seemed a little out of the ordinary. And there had been a time when a person who remained far too young-looking was always going to be suspect.

  Tsagaglalal had lived during the decades when men and women were burned as witches simply for looking odd or being outspoken and independent. But long before those terrible years in Europe, and later, briefly, in America, she had learned that if she was to survive, she had to blend in, to be such a part of the humans that she became invisible.

  Tsagaglalal learned to age appropriately.

  Every century had a different perception of what was right and proper. There were eras when thirty was old and forty was ancient. In some of the more primitive and isolated cultures, in which old age was revered as a sign of wisdom, she could become sixty or seventy before she “died” and moved on.

  And when she aged, she did it completely, altering her skin texture, her posture, even her muscle mass, to mimic the passage of time. Generations ago—in Egypt, or was it Babylon?—she had perfected the technique of making her knuckles, wrists and knees swell to indicate arthritis. Later she’d learned to adjust her flesh so that her veins stood out thick and blue against paper-thin skin. She’d mastered techniques that turned the skin of her neck soft and loose and even managed to yellow her teeth. To complete the illusion, she had deliberately allowed her hearing to dull and her eyesight to fade. She became old, and therefore did not spend every waking moment pretending. It was safer that way.

  Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, Tsagaglalal lifted her hands to her head, fiddled with the antique pins that held her bun in place and shook loose her gray hair.

  The latter half of the twentieth century had been the easiest to live in. This was the era of cosmetics and plastic surgery. This was the era when people worked hard not to age, when movie and pop stars looked younger with the passing years.

  Tsagaglalal pushed upward and the wig came off her head. She dropped the mess of gray hair into the bath and ran her hands vigorously across her smooth skull. She hated the wig; it always itched.

  There were dangers particular to this century, of course. This was the age of the camera—personal cameras, street cameras, security cameras, and now most cell phones had cameras too. This was also the age of photo identification: passports, driver’s licenses, identity cards. Everything had a photo, and the immortal in those photos had to change, to subtly alter and age. A mistake brought attention from the authorities, and immortals were particularly vulnerable to any investigation that questioned their past. Tsagaglalal hadn’t left the country in decades and her American passport had lapsed. However, there was an immortal human working in New York who had once specialized in forged Renaissance masterpieces. He had a little sideline business in forged passports and driver’s licenses. She’d need to visit him when this was over. If she survived.

  Tsagaglalal ran the tap hot, then cold, and filled the sink. Bending her head, she scooped water into her hands and washed her face with L’Occitane Shea Butter Soap, wiping away the makeup she’d put on for the gathering of immortals and Elders who’d picnicked in her backyard earlie
r that day.

  Dying was always the hard part. There was always so much to do in the weeks and months leading up to dying: making sure all the bills were paid and the life insurance was up to date, canceling any newspaper and magazine subscriptions and, of course, making a will leaving everything to a “relative.” Male immortals usually bequeathed everything to a nephew, female immortals to a niece. Others, like Dr. John Dee, willed everything to a series of corporations, and Tsagaglalal knew that Machiavelli had left all his worldly goods to his “son.” The Flamels willed everything to one another and a nephew named Perrier, whom she doubted had ever existed.

  Tsagaglalal looked into the mirror again. Without hair and with her face wiped clean of makeup, she thought she looked even older than usual. Leaning closer to the glass, she allowed a little of her rarely used aura to blossom deep in her chest. The faintest hint of jasmine filled the small bathroom, mingling with the rich warmth of the shea butter. Heat flowed up her body, across her neck and into her face. She stared at her gray eyes. The sclera—the whites of her eyes—were yellow, threaded with veins, the right eye slightly milky with the hint of a cataract. She’d always thought that was a really nice touch.

  The scent of jasmine strengthened. Heat flowed into Tsagaglalal’s throat and mouth, up across her cheeks and into her eyes: and the sclera turned white.

  The woman breathed in, filling her lungs, then holding her breath. The skin of her face rippled and smoothed, soft plump flesh flowing along the hard bony lines of her cheeks, filling out her nose, rounding out her chin. Lines vanished, crow’s-feet filled in, the deep bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes disappeared.

  Tsagaglalal was immortal, but she was not human. She was clay. She had been born in the Nameless City on the edge of the world when Prometheus’s fiery aura had imbued ancient clay statues with life and consciousness. Deep within her she carried a tiny portion of the Elder’s aura: it kept her alive. She and her brother, Gilgamesh, were the first of the First People to be born or achieve a consciousness. Every time she renewed herself, she could remember with absolute clarity the moment she had opened her eyes and drawn her first breath.