The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  Machiavelli nodded. “We’ve met on occasion,” he said quietly. “She is the Crow Goddess, one of the Next Generation.”

  The woman’s head swiveled around like an owl’s to regard the two men. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored wraparound sunglasses. “And my hearing is excellent.”

  Billy grinned. He took two quick steps forward and fell in alongside the woman in black leather. He stuck out his hand. “William Bonney, ma’am. Most people just call me Billy.”

  The Crow Goddess looked at the hand and then she smiled, overlong incisors pressing against her black lips. “Don’t touch me. I bite.”

  Billy was unfazed. “I haven’t been immortal for long, a mite over a hundred twenty-six years, in fact, and I’ve not met that many Elders or Next Generation. Certainly no one like you …”

  “William,” Machiavelli said quietly, “I think you should stop bothering the Crow Goddess.”

  “I’m not bothering her, I’m just asking …”

  “You’re immortal, William, not invulnerable.” Machiavelli smiled. “The Morrigan is worshipped in the Celtic lands as a goddess of death. That should be a clue to her nature.” He suddenly stopped walking. “What was that?”

  Billy the Kid’s hand dipped under his coat and came out with a fifteen-inch-long bowie knife. His face changed, instantly becoming hard. “What?”

  Machiavelli held up his hand, silencing the American. Head tilted to one side, he concentrated. “It sounds like—”

  “—an outboard engine!” Billy took off at a run. Machiavelli cast a quick suspicious glance at the Crow Goddess and turned to race back down the corridor.

  Moments later the sphinx padded around the corner. She spotted the Crow Goddess and stopped, and the two women bowed politely. They were distantly related through a complex web of Elder relationships. “I thought I heard something,” the sphinx said.

  “So did they.” The Crow Goddess’s smile was savage.

  Nicholas had never learned to drive, but Perenelle had finally taken lessons ten years ago and, after six weeks of driving school, passed her test on the first attempt. They had never bought a car, but Perenelle had forgotten none of her lessons. It took her a few moments to work out how to control the small bright yellow motorboat. She turned the key in the ignition and pushed the throttle, and the outboard motor foamed white water. Spinning the wheel, she pushed the throttle farther and the boat roared away from Alcatraz Island, leaving a V of white water in its wake.

  De Ayala’s face coalesced out of the spray spitting in over the bow. “I thought you were going to fight.”

  “Fighting is a last resort,” she shouted above the wind and the roar of the engine. “If Scathach and Joan had joined me, perhaps then I would have gone up against the sphinx and the two immortals. But not on my own.”

  “What about the Spider God?”

  “Areop-Enap can take care of itself,” Perenelle said. “They’d best hope they’re not on the island when it awakes. It’ll be hungry, and the Old Spider has a voracious appetite.”

  A tiny distant shout made her turn. Machiavelli and his companion were on the docks. The Italian was standing still, and the smaller man was waving his arms, sunlight glinting off a knife in his hand.

  “Will they not use their magic?” de Ayala asked.

  “Magic is not really effective over running water.” Perenelle grinned.

  “I fear I must leave you, madame. I need to return to the island.” The ghost’s face started to dissolve into spray.

  “Thank you, Juan, for all that you have done,” Perenelle said sincerely in formal Spanish. “I am in your debt.”

  “Will you be back to Alcatraz?”

  Perenelle looked over her shoulder at the prison. Knowing now that the cells held a collection of nightmares, she thought the island itself looked almost like a sleeping beast. “I will.” Someone would have to do something about the army before it was awakened. “I will be back. And soon,” she promised.

  “I will be waiting,” de Ayala said, and vanished.

  Perenelle angled the boat in toward the pier and eased back on the throttle. A delighted smile crept across her face. She was free.

  Niccolò Machiavelli took a deep breath and calmed himself. Anger clouded judgment, and right now he needed to be thinking clearly. He had underestimated the Sorceress, and she’d made him pay for that mistake. It was unforgivable. He’d been sent to Alcatraz to kill Perenelle and he’d failed. Neither his master nor Dee’s master was going to be happy, though he had a feeling that Dee himself would not be too upset. The English Magician would probably gloat.

  Although he feared the Sorceress, Machiavelli had really wanted to fight the woman. He had never forgiven her for defeating him on Mount Etna and over the centuries had spent a fortune collecting spells, incantations and cantrips that would destroy her. He was determined to have his revenge. And she had cheated him. Not with magic, or with the power of her aura. But with cunning … and that was supposed to be his specialty.

  “Stop her,” Billy shouted. “Do something!”

  “Will you be quiet for a moment?” he snapped at the American. He pulled out his phone. “I need to make a report, and I’m really not looking forward to it. One should never be the bearer of bad news.”

  And then, across the bay, the Old Man of the Sea exploded out of the water, directly in front of the boat. Octopus tentacles wrapped tightly around the small craft, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Perenelle disappeared, flung back by the sudden stop.

  Machiavelli put his phone back in his pocket; maybe he would have some good news to report after all.

  Nereus’s voice trembled across the water, his words vibrating on the waves. “I knew we would meet again, Sorceress.” Machiavelli and Billy watched as the hideous Elder flowed up out of the sea and squatted across the prow of the boat, legs writhing. Wood creaked and cracked, the small windshield shattered and the weight of the creature in the front of the vessel brought the stern right up out of the waves, its outboard engine still whining.

  Shading his eyes, Machiavelli watched the Sorceress climb to her feet. She was holding a long wooden spear in both hands. Sunlight winked golden off the weapon, which trailed white smoke into the air. He saw her stab once, twice, three times at the creature’s legs before bringing the spear around to jab at Nereus’s chest. Water fountained, spraying high, as the Old Man of the Sea desperately scrambled away from the blade. The Elder fell off the prow of the boat and disappeared back under the waves in an explosion of frothing bubbles. The boat settled back in the water, engine foaming and churning, and then shot forward again. Three long still-wriggling legs peeled off the motorboat and drifted away on the tide. The entire encounter had taken less than a minute.

  Machiavelli sighed and pulled out his phone again. He had no good news to report after all; could this day get any worse? A shadow appeared overhead and he looked up to see the huge shape of the Crow Goddess flying by. She soared high, black cloak spread like wings, then swooped down to land neatly on the back of the yellow motorboat.

  The Italian started to smile. Of course, the Crow Goddess would simply pull the Sorceress out of the boat and then the Nereids could feast. The smile faded as he watched the two women—Next Generation and immortal human—embrace. By the time they turned to wave back at the island, his face was a grim mask.

  “I thought the Crow Goddess was on our side,” Billy the Kid said plaintively.

  “It seems you just cannot trust anyone these days,” Niccolò Machiavelli remarked, walking away.

  he Wild Hunt raced across Salisbury Plain.

  The creatures Sophie and Josh had only briefly glimpsed earlier were closer now. Some were recognizable: black dogs and gray wolves, enormous red-eyed cats, massive bears, curled-tusked boars, goats, stags and horses. Others had joined the Hunt: human-shaped figures carved from stone; creatures with bark for skin, leaves for hair and branches for limbs raced after them. Sophie and Josh recognized more of the Genii Cuc
ullati, the Hooded Ones; they saw shaven skinhead cucubuths wielding chains, and knights in stained and rust-eaten armor. Tattooed warriors in furs and Roman centurions in broken armor limped after red-haired Dearg Due. And running among the monsters were perfectly normal-looking humans, carrying swords, knives and spears; Josh found these the most frightening of all.

  The twins looked to where Stonehenge loomed dark and indistinct in the night, and knew that they were not going to reach it in time. “We’ll stand and fight,” Josh panted, analyzing their situation and their limited options. “I’ve got a little strength left …. Maybe I can call up some more rain… .”

  A savage high-pitched howling echoed across Salisbury Plain. Josh’s heart sank as he saw movement to their right—another group was moving in to cut them off. “Trouble,” he stated.

  “On the contrary.” Palamedes grinned. “Look again.”

  And then Josh recognized the figure leading the group. “Shakespeare!”

  The Bard led the Gabriel Hounds in at an angle. The well-disciplined Ratchets crashed into the mismatched army, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Iron spears and metal swords flashed in the night and a pall of dust quickly rose up over the plain.

  William Shakespeare, in full modern police body armor and visored helmet, fell into step with Palamedes. “Well met,” he said.

  “I thought I told you not to wait past sundown,” the Saracen Knight said.

  “Oh, everything comes to he who waits,” Shakespeare said. “And you know I never listen to you anyway,” the Bard added with a shy smile. “Besides, with nothing moving on the roads, I guessed you would find a place to hide until dark.”

  Palamedes dumped the unconscious Alchemyst on the ground and started slapping Flamel’s cheeks. “Wake up, Flamel. Wake up. We need to know which stone.”

  Nicholas’s pale eyes blinked open. “Get to the Altar Stone,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Gabriel appeared out of the night. His bare flesh was streaked with black soot. It caked his long hair. “There are just too many of them, and more coming every minute,” he panted. “We can’t hold them.”

  Josh pointed toward the circle of stones. “Pull everyone back to Stonehenge.” The same feeling of peace he’d felt earlier had washed over him again. There were no more decisions left to make. Once again all he had to do was to stand and fight. He would protect his sister to the end. Pressing his hand against his chest, he felt the two pages of the Codex crinkle under his shirt. Maybe it was time to destroy them, though he wasn’t entirely sure how. Maybe he could eat them. “Everyone back,” he shouted. “We’ll make our last stand there.”

  hat may not be necessary,” Shakespeare snapped. “The Wild Hunt and these other creatures are here for you and your sister, drawn by the smell of your auras and the huge reward Dee has put on your heads. They’ve no interest in us. So all we have to do is to get rid of you. Palamedes, Gabriel,” the Bard commanded. “Buy us some time.”

  The Saracen Knight nodded. His dented armor formed and re-formed around his body, turning smooth, black and reflective. Gripping his huge longsword in both his hands, he launched himself toward the wolves and black cats. Gabriel led the surviving Ratchets after him.

  Shakespeare supported the Alchemyst and Josh held Sophie upright, and the four made their way between two tall sandstone columns into the heart of Stonehenge.

  The moment Josh stepped into the circle, he felt the ancient buzz of power. It reminded him of the sensations he’d experienced when he’d held Clarent in his hands, the feeling that there were voices just at the edge of his hearing. He looked around, but it was hard to make out the shapes of the stones in the night.

  “How old is this place?” he asked.

  “The earliest site is perhaps five thousand years old, but it may be older,” Shakespeare answered. He suddenly bumped into a stone lying flat on the ground. “Here’s the Altar Stone,” he said to the Alchemyst.

  Nicholas Flamel sank onto the stone, breathing heavily, one hand pressed against his chest. “Orient me,” he wheezed. “Which way is north?”

  Both Shakespeare and Josh instinctively looked to the heavens, searching for the polestar.

  A huge black cat suddenly leapt through the gates, mouth gaping, paws extended toward the Alchemyst. Flamel threw up his hands and razor-sharp claws scored his palm; then Shakespeare’s police baton snapped out, knocking the creature out of the air. The cat crashed onto the huge stone and dissolved to dust. “Like metal, the stones are poisonous to them,” the Bard said quickly. “They cannot touch them; that’s why they’re not rushing us. Alchemyst, if you are going to do anything, then you need to do it now.” He pointed. “This way is north.”

  “Look for the third perfect trilithon to the left,” Flamel whispered.

  “The third what?” Josh asked, confused.

  “Trilithon. Two uprights and a lintel,” Shakespeare explained. “Greek for ‘three stones.’”

  “I knew that … I think,” Josh whispered. He counted. “This one,” he said decisively, pointing. “Now what?”

  “Help me,” Nicholas said.

  Shakespeare caught the Alchemyst and half carried him to the two huge uprights. Pushing into the narrow gap between the stones, Nicholas put a hand on each, reaching as high as he could, then stretched his legs wide until he had assumed an X shape in the middle of the stone.

  The faintest hint of mint touched the cold night air.

  A huge bear reared up, claws slashing toward the Alchemyst’s head. And then the creature was jerked back by the Saracen Knight and tossed to the Gabriel Hounds. They fell on it with savage howls. Dust billowed.

  A trio of wolves raced toward Flamel. Josh caught one with the shamshir sword and Gabriel brought down another. Josh sliced out at the third wolf and it ducked the blow, but in avoiding the blade it brushed against the tall stone—and crumbled to powder.

  Josh suddenly realized that there were less than a handful of Gabriel Hounds still alive and they were being driven back into the circle of standing stones. A skeletal horse ridden by a headless horseman reared up, flailing hooves catching one of the hounds, sending it crashing back onto a stone. The hound vanished, leaving only a dusty outline in the air.

  “Alchemyst,” Shakespeare warned, “do something.”

  Nicholas slumped to the ground. “I cannot.”

  “Are you sure it’s the right gate?” Josh asked.

  “I’m sure. I’ve nothing left.” He looked up at the twins, and for an instant Josh thought he saw something in the immortal’s eyes. “Sophie, Josh, you will have to do it.”

  “The girl is drained,” the Bard said quickly. “Use her and she will burst aflame.”

  Nicholas reached out and took Josh’s hand, pulling him forward. “Then it will have to be you.”

  “Me? But I’m …”

  “You’re the only one with the aura to do this.”

  “What’s the alternative?” Josh asked. He had the distinct impression that this was what the Alchemyst had planned all along. Flamel had never had the power to activate the gate.

  “There is none.” The Alchemyst indicated the creatures crowding just outside the stones. Then he pointed to the heavens. A spotlight was picking its way across the landscape toward them. There were two others close behind. “Police helicopters,” he said. “They’ll be here in minutes.”

  Josh handed Flamel the battered and slightly bent shamshir sword. “What do I do?”

  “Stand between the uprights with your arms and legs outstretched. Visualize your aura flowing out of your body into the stones. That should be enough to activate them.”

  “And be quick about it,” Shakespeare said. Less than half a dozen Gabriel Hounds remained, and Palamedes was now cut off, surrounded by bogmen who flailed at him with flint daggers that screamed and struck sparks from his armor. Wolves and cats prowled just outside the stone circle.

  “Let me help my brother,” Sophie whispered.

  “No,” Shakespeare sai
d. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Josh’s aura started to steam the moment he squeezed between the stones, lifting off his flesh like golden smoke. Reaching out, he placed his palms flat against the smooth sandstone and the fragrance of oranges grew stronger.

  The smell sent the creatures outside the circle into a frenzy. They redoubled their efforts to get to the twins. Shakespeare and Gabriel took up positions on either side of the stone, desperately trying to keep them away from Josh.

  Josh stretched his left foot to touch one upright, and as soon as his right foot touched the other upright stone, the voices he’d been hearing in his head from the moment he had stepped into the ancient circle clarified. He suddenly realized why they had sounded so familiar. They were all one voice—the voice of Clarent. He realized then that Clarent and Excalibur had been shaped from the same igneous rock as the great blue stones that had once composed the ancient circle. He saw the faces, both human and inhuman, and some that were a terrible mixture of both, of the original creators of the Henge. Stonehenge was not five thousand years old; it was older than that, much, much older. He glimpsed Cernunnos, shining and beautiful, without its horns, dressed entirely in white, standing in the center of the circle, a simple undistinguished sword held high in both hands.

  But while the pillar to Josh’s left crackled and blazed with golden light, the right pillar remained dark.

  Flamel cut down a boar that had broken through the circle. He turned to Sophie. “You need to help your brother.”

  The girl was so exhausted she could barely stand. She looked at the Alchemyst, trying to shape words in her head. “But Will said if I use any more of my aura, I could burst into flames.”

  “And if the gate doesn’t open, then we’re all dead,” Flamel snarled. Catching Sophie by the shoulder, he propelled her toward the stone. She stumbled on the uneven ground, tripped and fell forward, arms outstretched … and her fingertips brushed the stone. There was a burst of vanilla, and then the stone started to glow. Muted silver mist curled off the stone and then it lit up from within, until the pillars of the trilithon throbbed gold and silver, the lintel over them glowing orange.