The Magician Page 6

  Unfortunately, it was not a recipe that could be copied down; each month the formula was unique, and each recipe only worked once. The Book of Abraham the Mage was written in a language that predated humanity, and in an ever-changing, always-moving script, so that entire libraries of knowledge were held within the slender volume. But every month, on page seven of the copper-bound manuscript, the secret of Life Eternal appeared. The crawling script remained static for less then an hour before it shifted, twisted and trickled away.

  The one and only time the Flamels had tried using the same recipe twice, it had actually sped up the aging process. Luckily, Nicholas had taken only a sip of the colorless, rather ordinary-looking potion when Perenelle noticed that lines were appearing around his eyes and on his forehead and that the hair from his full beard was falling away from his face. She’d knocked the cup from his hand before he’d taken another mouthful. However, the lines remained etched on his face, and the thick beard he had been so proud of had never grown again.

  Nicholas and Perenelle had brewed the most recent batch of the potion at midnight the past Sunday, just under a week ago. He pressed the left-hand button on the watch and called up the stopwatch function: 116 hours and 21 minutes had passed. Another press of the button brought up the time remaining: 603 hours, 39 minutes, or about 25 days. As he watched, another minute ticked away: 38 minutes. He and Perenelle would age and weaken, and of course, every time either of them used their powers, that would only quicken the onset of old age. If he did not retrieve the Book before the end of the month and create a new batch of the potion, then they would both rapidly age and die.

  And the world would die with them.

  Unless…

  A police car roared past, siren howling. It was followed by a second and a third. Like everyone else on the street, Flamel turned to follow their progress. The last thing he needed to do was to attract attention to himself by standing out from the crowd.

  He had to retrieve the Codex. The rest of the Codex, he reminded himself, his hand absently touching his chest. Hidden beneath his T-shirt, dangling on a leather cord, he wore a simple square cotton bag that Perenelle had stitched for him half a millennium ago, when he had first found the Book. She had created it to hold the ancient volume; now all it contained were two pages Josh had managed to tear out. The book was still incredibly dangerous in the hands of Dee, but it was the last two pages, which contained the spell known as the Final Summoning, that Dee needed to bring his Dark Elder masters back to this world.

  And Flamel would not—could not—allow that.

  Two police officers turned a corner and strolled down the center of the street. They stared hard at some of the pedestrians and peered into the shop windows, but they walked past Nicholas without even looking at him.

  Nicholas knew that his priority now was to find a safe haven for the twins. And that meant he had to find an immortal living in Paris. Every city in the world had its share of humans with life spans that extended into centuries or even millennia, and Paris was no exception. He knew that immortals liked the big anonymous cities, where it was easier to disappear amongst an ever-changing population.

  Long ago, Nicholas and Perenelle had come to realize that at the heart of every myth and legend was a grain of truth. And every race told stories of people who lived exceptionally long lives: the immortals.

  Over the centuries, the Flamels had come into contact with three entirely different types of immortal humans. There were the Ancients—of whom there were now perhaps no more than a handful still alive—who hailed from earth’s very distant past. Some had witnessed the entire span of human history, and it had made them more, and less, than human.

  Then there were a few others who, like Nicholas and Perenelle, had discovered for themselves how to become immortal. Down through the millennia, the secrets of alchemy had been discovered, lost and rediscovered countless times. One of the greatest secrets of alchemy was the formula for immortality. And all alchemy—and possibly even modern science—had one single source: the Book of Abraham the Mage.

  Then there were those who had been given the gift of immortality. These were humans who had, either accidentally or deliberately, come to the attention of one or other of the Elders who had remained in this world after the Fall of Danu Talis. The Elders were always on the lookout for people of exceptional or unusual ability to recruit to their cause. And in return for their service, the Elders granted their followers extended life. It was a gift very few humans could refuse. It was also a gift that ensured absolute, unswerving loyalty…because it could be withdrawn as quickly as it had been given. Nicholas knew that if he encountered immortals in Paris—even if he had known them in the past—there would now be a very real danger that they were in the service of the Dark Elders.

  He was passing an all-night video store that advertised high-speed Internet when he noticed the sign in the window, written in ten languages: NATIONAL & INTERNATIONAL CALLS. CHEAPEST RATES. Pushing open the door, he suddenly breathed in the sour odor of unwashed bodies, stale perfume, greasy food and the ozone of too many computers packed tightly together. The store was surprisingly busy: a group of students who looked like they’d been up all night clustered around three computers displaying the World of Warcraft logo, while most of the other machines were taken up by serious-faced young men and women staring intently at the screens. As he made his way to the counter at the back of the shop, Nicholas could see that most of the young people were e-mailing and instant-messaging. He smiled briefly; only a few days ago, on Monday afternoon, when the bookshop was quiet, Josh had spent an hour explaining to him the difference between the two methods of communication. Josh had even set him up with his own e-mail account—which Nicholas doubted he would ever use—though he could see a use for the instant-messaging programs.

  The Chinese girl behind the counter was dressed in ragged and torn clothes that Nicholas thought looked fit only for the trash but that he guessed had probably cost a fortune. She was in full goth makeup and was busy painting her nails when Nicholas stepped up to the desk.

  “Three euro for fifteen minutes, five for thirty, seven for forty-five, ten for an hour,” she rattled off in atrocious French without looking up.

  “I want to make an international call.”

  “Cash or credit card?” She still hadn’t raised her head, and Nicholas noticed that she was blackening her nails not with polish but with a felt-tip marker.

  “Credit card.” He wanted to conserve the little cash he had to buy some food. Although he rarely ate, and Scathach never ate, he would need to feed the children.

  “Use booth number one. Instructions are on the wall.”

  Nicholas slipped into the glass-fronted booth and pulled the door closed behind him. The shouts of the students faded, but the booth smelled strongly of stale food. He quickly read the instructions as he fished the credit card he’d used to buy hot chocolate for the twins from the back of his wallet. It was in the name of Nick Fleming, the name he’d been using for the past ten years, and he briefly wondered whether Dee or Machiavelli had the resources to track him through it. He knew that of course they did, but a quick smile curled Flamel’s thin lips; what did it matter? All it would tell them was that he was in Paris, and they already knew that. Following the instructions on the wall, he dialed the international access code and then the number Sophie had recalled from the Witch of Endor’s memories.

  The line crackled and clicked with transatlantic static, and then, more than five and a half thousand miles away, the phone started ringing. It was answered on the second ring. “Ojai Valley News; how can I help?” The young woman’s voice was surprisingly clear.

  Nicholas deliberately affected a thick French accent. “Good morning…or rather, good evening to you. I’m delighted to find you still at the office. This is Monsieur Montmorency, phoning you from Paris, France. I’m a reporter with Le Monde newspaper. I’ve just seen online that you’ve had quite an exciting evening there.”

 
; “Gosh—news does travel fast, Mr….”

  “Montmorency.”

  “Montmorency. Yes, we’ve had quite an evening. How can we help?”

  “We would like to include a piece in this evening’s paper—I was wondering if you had a reporter on the scene?”

  “Actually, all our reporters are downtown at the moment.”

  “Would it be possible to put me through, do you think? I can get a quick on-the-spot description of the scene and a comment.” When there was no immediate response, he added quickly, “There would be a proper credit for your newspaper, of course.”

  “Let me see if I can patch you through to one of our reporters on the street, Mr. Montmorency.”

  “Merci. I am very grateful.”

  The line clicked again, and there was a long pause. Nicholas guessed that the receptionist was talking to the reporter before transferring the call. There was another click, and the girl said, “Putting you through….” He was saying thank you when the phone was answered.

  “Michael Carroll, Ojai Valley News. I understand you’re calling from Paris, France?” There was a note of incredulity in the man’s voice.

  “Indeed I am, Monsieur Carroll.”

  “News travels fast,” the reporter said, echoing the receptionist.

  “The Internet,” Flamel said vaguely, adding, “There’s a video on YouTube.” He had absolutely no doubt that there were videos of the scene in Ojai online. He turned to stare out into the Internet café. From where he was standing he could see half a dozen screens; each one displayed a Web page in a different language. “I’ve been asked to get a quote for our arts and culture page. One of our editors has visited your beautiful city often and bought several amazing glass pieces from an antiques shop on Ojai Avenue. I’m not sure if you know it: the shop sells only mirrors and glassware,” Flamel added.

  “Witcherly Antiques,” Michael Carroll said immediately. “I know it well. I’m afraid it was completely destroyed in an explosion.”

  Flamel felt suddenly breathless. Hekate had died because he had brought the twins into her Shadowrealm; had the Witch of Endor shared Hekate’s fate? He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “And the owner, Mrs. Witcherly? Is she…?”

  “She’s fine,” the reporter said, and Flamel felt a wave of relief wash over him. “I’ve just taken a statement from her. She’s in remarkably good spirits for someone whose shop has just blown up.” He laughed and added, “She said that when you’ve lived as long as she has, nothing much surprises you.”

  “Is she still there?” Flamel asked, trying to contain the eagerness is his voice. “Would she like to make a statement for the French press? Tell her it’s Nicholas Montmorency. We spoke once before; I’m sure she’ll remember me,” he added.

  “I’ll ask….”

  The voice faded away and Flamel heard the reporter calling out for Dora Witcherly. In the background, he also heard the sound of countless police, fire and ambulance sirens and the fainter shouts and cries of distressed people.

  And it was all his fault.

  He shook his head quickly. No, it was not his fault. This was Dee’s doing. Dee knew no sense of proportion; he had almost burned London to the ground in 1666, had devastated Ireland with the Great Famine in the 1840s, had destroyed most of San Francisco in 1906—and now he’d emptied the graveyards around Ojai. No doubt the streets were littered with bones and bodies. Nicholas heard the reporter’s muted voice and then the sound of the cell phone being handed over.

  “Monsieur Montmorency?” Dora said politely in perfect French.

  “Madame. You are unharmed?”

  Dora’s voice fell to a whisper and she slipped into an archaic form of the French language that would be incomprehensible to any modern eavesdropper. “It’s not that easy to kill me,” she said quickly. “Dee has escaped, cut, bruised, battered and very, very upset. You are all safe? Scathach too?”

  “Scatty is safe. However, we’ve had an encounter with Niccolò Machiavelli.”

  “So he’s still around. Dee must have warned him. Be careful, Nicholas. Machiavelli is more dangerous than you can imagine. He is even more cunning than Dee. Now I must hurry,” she added urgently. “This reporter is getting suspicious. He probably thinks I’m giving you a better story than I gave him. What do you want?”

  “I need your help, Dora. I need to know who I can trust in Paris. I need to get the children off the streets. They’re exhausted.”

  “Hmmm.” The line crackled with the sound of rustling paper. “I don’t know who is in Paris at the moment. But I’ll find out,” she said decisively. “What time is it there?”

  He glanced at his watch and did the math. “Five-thirty in the morning.”

  “Get to the Eiffel Tower. Be there by seven a.m. and wait for ten minutes. If I can find someone trustworthy, I’ll have them meet you there. If no one you recognize arrives, go back at eight and then at nine. If no one is there by nine, then you’ll know there is no one in Paris you can trust, and you will have to make your own arrangements.”

  “Thank you, Madame Dora,” he said quietly. “I’ll not forget this debt.”

  “There are no debts between friends,” she said. “Oh, and Nicholas, try and keep my granddaughter out of trouble.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Flamel said. “But you know what she’s like: she seems to attract trouble. Though right now, she’s watching over the twins in a café not far from here. At least she can’t get into any trouble there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Scathach brought her leg up, pressed the sole of her foot against the seat of a chair and shoved hard. The wooden chair skipped across the floor and slammed into the two police officers as they pushed through the door. They crashed to the ground, a radio flying from the hand of one, a baton from the hand of the other. The squawking radio skidded to a halt at Josh’s feet. He leaned over and poured his hot chocolate on it. It died in a fizz of sparks.

  Scathach surged to her feet. Without turning her head, she raised an arm and pointed at Roux. “You. Stay right where you are. And don’t even think about phoning for the police.”

  Heart hammering, Josh grabbed Sophie and pulled her away from the table, toward the back of the shop, shielding her with his body from the police at the door.

  One of the officers raised a gun. And Scatty’s nunchaku struck it in the barrel with enough force to bend the metal and send the weapon spinning from the man’s hand.

  The second officer scrambled to his feet, pulling out a long black baton. Scathach’s right shoulder dipped and the nunchaku reversed direction in midair, the twelve-inch length of hardened wood striking the police baton just above its short handle. The baton shattered into ragged splinters. Scathach flipped the nunchaku back and it dropped into her outstretched hand.

  “I’m in a really bad mood,” she said in perfect French. “Believe me when I tell you that you really do not want to fight me.”

  “Scatty…,” Josh hissed in alarm.

  “Not now,” the Warrior snapped in English. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Yeah, well, you’re about to get busier,” Josh shouted. “A lot busier. Look outside.”

  A police riot squad, in black body armor, full-face helmets and shields, armed with batons and assault rifles, were racing down the street, straight for the café.

  “RAID,” the shop assistant whispered in horror.

  “Just like SWAT,” Scathach said in English, “only tougher.” She sounded almost pleased. Glancing sidelong at Roux, she snapped in French, “Is there a back door?”

  The shop assistant was shocked into immobility, staring at the approaching squad, and didn’t react until Scathach whipped out the nunchaku and the rounded end whistled past his face, the breeze making him blink.

  “Is there a back door?” she demanded again, but in English.

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Then get my friends out.”

  “No…,” Josh began.

  “Let m
e do something,” Sophie said, a dozen wind spells flickering into her consciousness. “I can help….”

  “No,” Josh protested, and reached for his twin just as her blond hair crackled, sparkling silver.

  “Out!” Scatty shouted, and suddenly it was as if the planes and angles of her face had altered, cheekbones and chin becoming prominent, green eyes turned to reflective glass. For an instant, there was something ancient and primeval—and totally alien—in her face. “I can take care of this.” She started spinning the nunchaku, creating an impenetrable shield between her and the two policemen. One officer picked up a chair and flung it at her, but the nunchaku turned it to matchwood.

  “Roux—get them out now!” Scatty snarled.

  “This way,” the terrified clerk said in American-accented English. He pushed past the twins and led them down a narrow chilly corridor and out into a small foul-smelling yard piled high with trash cans, bits of broken restaurant furniture and the skeleton of a long-abandoned Christmas tree. Behind them came the sound of breaking wood.

  Roux pointed to a red gate and continued in English. His face was the color of chalk. “That leads to the alleyway. Turn left for the Rue de Dunkerque; right will bring you down to the Gare du Nord Metro station.” Behind them there was a tremendous smash, followed by the sound of breaking glass. “Your friend, she is in so much trouble,” he moaned miserably. “And RAID will wreck the shop. How am I going to explain that to the owner?”