The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  “Home?” Joan asked.

  “I’ve lived on the West Coast for a long time; San Francisco is as much of a home to me as any other place. I was once told I would die in a desert, so I’ve always chosen to live on the coasts.”

  The two women were standing on the side of a gently sloping mountain. After the humid pollution-tainted air of Paris, the cool breeze was sweet, rich with the smell of vegetation, and although it had been early afternoon when they’d left Paris a heartbeat ago, the sun had not yet risen on the West Coast of America. “What time is it?” Scatty wondered aloud.

  Joan checked her watch and then reset it. “It’s ten minutes to five in the morning.” She nodded toward the east, where the heavens were beginning to lighten to purple, though the sky over their heads was black, speckled with misty distant stars. Thick gray-white fog had settled farther down the mountain. “The sun will rise in about an hour.” The Frenchwoman turned to look up the slopes of the mountain, which was barely visible in the gloom. “So this is Mount Tamalpais. I thought it would be … bigger.”

  “Welcome to Mount Tam,” Scatty said with a flash of white teeth, “one of my favorite spots in America.” She pointed into the blanket of thick mist. “We’re about fifteen miles north of San Francisco and Alcatraz.” The Shadow settled her knapsack more comfortably on her back. “We can jog ….”

  “Jog!” Joan laughed. “The last thing Francis said to me was that you would probably want to jog into the city. We’re hiring a car,” she said firmly.

  “It’s really not that far …,” Scatty protested, and then stopped.

  Directly below them, a huge shape moved through the fog, sending it swirling and curling. “Joan …,” she began.

  More figures moved, and abruptly the mist parted like a torn curtain to reveal an enormous herd of woolly mastodons grazing at the foot of the mountain. Then the Warrior spotted two saber-toothed cats lying flat in the tall grass, watching the herd intently, black-tipped tails twitching.

  Joan was still looking up the mountains. She pulled her cell from her pocket and hit a speed dial. “I’ll just let Francis know we’ve arrived ….” She held the phone to her ear and then checked the screen. “Oh, no signal. Scatty, how long will it take us to get to …?” The shocked expression on her friend’s face made her turn to see what she was looking at.

  It took a heartbeat for Joan’s eyes to adjust to the sheer scale of the mastodon herd that was now moving slowly through the shreds of predawn mist. A suggestion of movement caught her attention and she looked up: floating silent and high on invisible thermals, a trio of giant condors soared directly overhead.

  “Scathach?” Joan breathed in a horrified whisper. “Where are we?”

  “Not where, but when.” The Shadow’s face turned sharp and ugly, eyes glittering green and pitiless. “Leygates. I hate them!” One of the huge cats raised its head to look in the direction of the voice and yawned, savage seven-inch-long teeth glinting. The Warrior stared it down. “We may be on Mount Tamalpais, but this is not the twenty-first century.” She indicated the mastodons, tigers and condors with a sweep of her hand. “I know what these are: they’re megafauna. And they belong to the Pleistocene Epoch.”

  “How … how do we get back … to our own time?” Joan whispered, clearly upset.

  “We don’t,” Scathach said grimly. “We’re trapped.”

  Joan’s first thoughts were for the Sorceress. “And what about Perenelle?” She started to cry. “She’s expecting us. She’s waiting on us.”

  Scatty drew Joan into her arms and held her close. “She might have a long wait,” she said grimly. “Jeanne, we’ve gone back in time maybe a million years. The Sorceress is on her own.”

  “And so are we,” Joan sobbed.

  “Not really.” Scatty grinned. “We’ve got one another.”

  “What are we going to do?” the immortal Frenchwoman wondered, angrily brushing her tears away.

  “We will do what we have always done: we will survive.”

  “And what about Perenelle?” Joan asked.

  But Scathach had no answer to that.

  illy the Kid glanced at the black-and-white photograph cupped in the palm of his hand, fixing Machiavelli’s severe appearance in his head. The short white hair should be easy to spot, he decided. Tucking the image into the back pocket of his jeans, he folded his arms across his thin chest and watched the first passengers appear in the arrivals hall of San Francisco International Airport.

  The tourists were easy to pick out; they were casually dressed in jeans or shorts and T-shirts, most with baggage carts piled high with far too many suitcases full of clothes they would never wear. Then there were the businessmen in light-colored suits, or slacks and sports jackets, carrying briefcases or pulling small overnight bags, striding out purposefully, already checking their cell phones, Bluetooth earpieces blinking in their ears. Billy paid particular attention to the families: elderly parents or grandparents greeting grandchildren, young men and women—maybe students—returning home to their parents, couples reuniting. There were lots of tears, shouts of joy, smiles and handshakes. Billy wondered what it would be like to be met like that, to step out into an airport arrivals hall and scan the faces, knowing that you would find someone genuinely pleased to see you—a parent, a sibling, even a friend, someone with whom you shared a history and a past.

  He had no one. There hadn’t been anyone for a very long time. Even during his natural life, he’d had few friends, and most of those had tried to kill him. None had ever succeeded.

  Finally, tall and elegant in a smart black suit, a black leather computer bag over his shoulder, the white-haired man in the photograph came into the hall. Billy bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling: maybe in some European airport Machiavelli would pass unnoticed, but here, amid all the color and casual clothes, he stood out. Even if Billy hadn’t seen the photograph, he would have known that this was the European immortal. He watched Machiavelli put on a pair of plain black sunglasses and scan the crowd, and even though he showed no sign of recognition, the Italian turned and made his way toward Billy. The American wondered if he would shake hands. Many immortals were reluctant to touch other humans, and especially other immortals. Though he’d met the English Magician a few times, Billy had never seen Dee take off his gray gloves.

  Machiavelli stretched out his hand.

  Billy smiled, quickly rubbed his palm on the leg of his jeans and stretched out his hand in turn. “How did you know it was me?” he asked in passable French. The Italian’s grip was firm, his flesh cool and dry.

  “I usually just follow my nose,” Machiavelli replied in the same language, and then slipped into accentless English. He breathed deeply. “The hint of cayenne pepper, I believe.”

  “Just so,” Billy agreed. He tried breathing in to catch the Italian’s scent, but all he could smell were the myriad odors of the airport, plus—bizarrely—the faint odor that every cowboy associated with rattlesnakes.

  “And of course I looked you up online,” Machiavelli added with a wry smile. “You still resemble the famous photograph. Curious, though; you knew me the moment I stepped through the door. I could feel your eyes on me.”

  “I knew who I was looking for.”

  Machiavelli’s eyebrows raised in a silent question. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his high forehead, gray eyes flashing as he looked down. He was at least a head taller than the American. “I take great care to ensure that no photographs of me appear online or in print.”

  “Our employers sent this to me.” Billy fished the photo out of his back pocket and handed it over. Machiavelli looked at it, then the tiniest of smiles creased his mouth. They both knew what it meant. The Dark Elders were spying on Machiavelli … which probably meant that they were also watching Billy. Machiavelli went to return the photo, but Billy shook his head. Looking into the Italian’s eyes, he said, “It served it’s purpose. You might find another use for it.”

 
Machiavelli’s head moved in a slight bow that dropped his sunglasses back onto his long nose. “I am sure I will.” They both knew that when the Italian returned to Paris, he would do everything in his power to find out who had taken the photograph.

  The American looked at the single bag in Machiavelli’s hand. “Is that all your luggage?”

  “Yes. I had packed a larger case, but then I realized I would not be here long enough to use even a tenth of the clothing I intended to bring. So I left it all behind and just brought a change of socks and underwear. And my laptop, of course.”

  The two men made an odd couple as they headed for the exit, Machiavelli in his tailor-made black suit, Billy in a faded denim shirt, battered jeans and down-at-heel boots. Although the airport was packed, no one came close enough to brush against them, and the crowd unconsciously parted before them.

  “So this is just a quick in-and-out trip?” Billy asked.

  “I hope to be on the first available flight home.” Machiavelli smiled.

  “I admire your confidence,” the American said, keeping his voice neutral, “I’m just of the opinion that Mrs. Flamel may not be so easily defeated.” He pulled an ancient pair of Ray Bans from his shirt pocket as they stepped out into the brilliant early-afternoon sunshine.

  “Is everything in readiness?” Machiavelli asked as they walked into the dimness of the parking garage.

  Billy tugged his car keys out of his pocket. “I’ve hired a boat. It will be waiting for us at Pier Thirty-nine.” He stopped, suddenly realizing that the Italian was no longer standing beside him. He turned, the key to the bright red Thunderbird in his hand, and looked back to find the Italian staring admiringly at the convertible, which was a dramatic splash of color and style in the middle of all the other ordinary cars.

  “Nineteen fifty-nine Thunderbird convertible—no, nineteen sixty,” Machiavelli amended. He ran a hand across the gleaming hood and over the lights. “Magnificent.”

  Billy grinned. He’d been prepared to dislike Niccolò Machiavelli, but the Italian had just gone up a notch in his estimation. “It’s my pride and joy.”

  The immortal walked around the car, stooping to examine the wheels and the exhaust. “And so it should be: everything looks original.”

  “Everything is,” Billy said proudly. “I’ve replaced the exhaust twice, but I made sure the replacements were from an identical model.” He climbed into the car and waited while Machiavelli strapped himself in. “I’d have pegged you for a Lamborghini driver, or an Alfa Romeo, maybe.”

  “Ferarri, maybe, but never an Alfa!”

  “Do you own many cars?” Billy asked.

  “None. I have a company car and a driver. I don’t drive,” the Italian admitted.

  “Don’t or can’t?”

  “I do not like to drive. I’m a really bad driver,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But then, I did learn to drive in a three-wheeled car.”

  “When was that?” Billy asked.

  “In 1885.”

  “I died in 1881.” Billy shook his head. “I can’t imagine not being able to drive,” he murmured as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Like not being able to ride.” He hit the accelerator and the car surged forward and slotted into the heavy airport traffic. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked. “There’s some good French and Italian restaurants ….”

  Machiavelli shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Unless you want to eat.”

  “I don’t eat much these days,” Billy admitted.

  Machiavelli’s cell phone pinged. “Excuse me.” He pulled out the wafer-thin phone and stared at the screen. “Ah,” he said in delight.

  “Good news?” Billy asked.

  Machiavelli sat back in the seat and grinned. “I set a trap yesterday; it was sprung a couple of hours ago.”

  Billy glanced sidelong but remained silent.

  “The moment I discovered the Alchemyst’s wife was being detained in San Francisco, I knew that either he or some of his allies would attempt to make their way back here. They had two alternatives: the flight on which I’ve just come in, or the Notre Dame leygate.”

  “I’m going to guess you did something to this leygate.” Billy grinned. “That sounds like the sort of thing I’d do.”

  “The gate is activated at Point Zero in Paris. I simply coated the stones with an alchemical concoction made from ground-up mammoth bones—bones from the Pleistocene Epoch—and added a simple Attraction spell to the mix.”

  The light changed to red and Billy brought the car to a stop. Tugging on the hand brake, he swiveled in his seat to look at the Italian with something like awe. “So whoever used the leygate …”

  “… was pulled back in time to the Pleistocene Epoch.”

  “Which was when?” Billy asked. “I never did get much schooling.”

  “Anywhere between one point eight million and maybe eleven thousand five hundred years ago.” Machiavelli smiled.

  “Oh, you’re good.” Billy shook his head. “So, do you have any idea who activated the gate?”

  “A security camera has been trained on the spot for the past twenty-four hours.” Machiavelli held up his phone. It showed an image of two women standing back to back in the middle of a rock-strewn square. “I’ve no idea who the smaller woman is,” Machiavelli said, “but the one to the left is Scathach.”

  “The Shadow?” Billy whispered, leaning forward to look at the screen. “That’s the Warrior Maid?” He looked unimpressed. “I thought she’d be taller.”

  “Everyone does,” Machiavelli said. “That’s usually their first mistake.”

  Car horns blared behind the Thunderbird as the lights changed, and someone shouted.

  Machiavelli glanced at the American immortal curiously, wondering how he’d react. But Billy the Kid had tamed his famous temper decades ago. He raised his hand and waved an apology in the air, then took off.

  “So with the Shadow out of the picture, I take it that our job is much easier.”

  “Infinitely,” Machiavelli agreed. “I had a vague suspicion that she’d somehow turn up on Alcatraz and spoil the party.”

  “Well, that ain’t going to happen now.” Billy grinned, then got serious. “Under your seat you’ll find an envelope. It contains a printout of an e-mail I received from Enoch Enterprises sometime yesterday afternoon, giving us permission to land on Alcatraz. Dee’s company currently owns the island. You’ll also find a photograph that came attached to an anonymous e-mail that arrived this morning. I’m guessing it’s for you. Means nothing to me.”

  Machiavelli shook out the two pages. On Enoch Enterprises letterhead was a long legal-looking document giving the bearer permission to land on the island and carry out “historical research.” It was signed John Dee, PhD. The second sheet was a high-resolution color photo of the images on the wall of an Egyptian pyramid.

  “Do you know what it means?” Billy asked.

  Machiavelli turned the page sideways. “This is taken from the pyramid of Unas, who reigned in Egypt over four thousand years ago,” he said slowly. A perfectly manicured nail traced a line of hieroglyphs. “These used to be called Pyramid Texts; nowadays we call them the Book of the Dead.” He tapped the photograph and laughed softly. “I do believe this is the formula of words for awakening all the creatures sleeping on the island.” He slipped the pages back into the envelope and looked over at the younger man. “Let’s get out to Alcatraz. It is time to kill Perenelle Flamel.”

  r. John Dee examined the business card in his hand. It was exceptionally beautiful, silver ink embossed on thick handmade rag paper. He turned it over; there was no name on the card, only the stylized representation of a stag with flaring antlers enclosed in a double circle. Leaning forward, he pressed the intercom button. “Send the gentleman in; I will see him now.”

  His office door opened almost immediately, and a nervous-looking male secretary appeared and ushered a tall sharp-faced man into the room. “Mr. Hunter, sir.”

  “H
old my calls,” Dee snapped. “I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

  “That will be all. Tell the staff they can go home now.” Dee had insisted that everyone remain long after normal office hours.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  Dee’s look sent the secretary scurrying. The Magician knew the entire office were on tenterhooks because he had turned up unexpectedly. Rumors were flying around the building that he was going to close the London branch of Enoch Enterprises. Even though it was now ten o’clock in the evening, no one had complained about staying late.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Hunter.” Dee indicated the low leather and metal chair before him. He remained seated behind his desk of polished black marble, watching the newcomer carefully. There was something wrong about him, the Magician decided. The planes and angles of his face were awry; his eyes were slightly too high, each one was a different color and his mouth a little too low and wide. It was almost as if he had been created by someone who had not seen a human for a long time. He was dressed in a pale blue pinstripe suit, but the trousers were just a little too short and showed a flash of white flesh just above his black socks, while the sleeves of his jacket ended below his knuckles. His shoes were filthy, thickly caked with mud.

  Hunter folded himself into the seat, the movement awkward and stiff, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to with his arms and legs.

  Dee allowed his fingers to brush against Excalibur, which was propped under his desk. He also knew half a dozen auric spells, any one of which was designed to overload an aura and bring it to blazing life. Then the only problem would be cleaning the dust out of the carpet. The chair would probably melt.

  “How did you know I was here?” Dee asked suddenly. “I rarely visit this office. And it is a little late in the evening for a meeting.”

  The tall pale-faced man tried to smile, but instead twisted his lips oddly. “My employer knew you were in the city. He presumed you would make your way to this office inasmuch as it gives you access to your communications network.” The man spoke English with clipped precision, but in a slightly high-pitched voice that made everything sound faintly ridiculous.