The Magician

by Michael Scott

  Josh hesitated for a moment before replying. He was tempted not to reveal all of his conversation with Dee but then realized that he’d probably said too much already. “Dee said that you only used the spells in the Codex for your own good.”

  Nicholas nodded. “It’s a fair point. I use the immortality spell to keep Perenelle and myself alive, that is true. And I use the philosopher’s stone formulation to turn ordinary metal into gold and coal into diamonds. There’s no money in bookselling, let me tell you. But we only make as much wealth as we need—we’re not greedy.”

  Josh hurried ahead of Flamel, then turned around to face him. “This isn’t about the money,” he snapped. “There is so much else you could be doing with what’s in that book. Dee said it could be used to turn this world into a paradise, that it could cure all disease, even repair the environment.” He found it incomprehensible that someone would not want to do that.

  Flamel stopped in front of Josh. His eyes were almost on a level with the boy’s. “Yes, there are spells in the Book which would do all that and much, much more,” he said seriously. “I’ve glimpsed spells in the Book that could reduce this world to a cinder, others that would make the deserts bloom. But Josh, even if I could work those spells—which I cannot—the material in the Book is not mine to use.” Flamel’s pale eyes bored into Josh’s, and Josh had no doubt now that the Alchemyst was telling the truth. “Perenelle and I are only the Guardians of the Book. We are simply holding it in trust until we can pass it on to its rightful owners. They will know how to use it.”

  “But who are the rightful owners? Where are they?”

  Nicholas Flamel put both hands on Josh’s shoulders and stared into his bright blue eyes. “Well, I was hoping,” he said very softly, “that it might be you and Sophie. In fact, I’m gambling everything—my life, Perenelle’s life, the survival of the entire human race—that you are.”

  Standing on the Rue de Dunkerque, looking into the Alchemyst’s eyes, reading the truth in them, Josh felt the people fade away until it was as if they were standing alone on the street. He swallowed hard. “And you believe that?”

  “With all my heart,” Flamel said simply. “And everything I have done, I’ve done to protect you and Sophie and to prepare you for what is to come. You have to believe me, Josh. You must. I know you’re angry because of what has happened with Sophie, but I would never let her come to harm.”

  “She could have died or fallen into a coma,” Josh muttered.

  Flamel shook his head. “If she were an ordinary human, then yes, that could have happened. But I know she isn’t ordinary. Nor are you,” he added.

  “Because of our auras?” Josh asked, digging for as much information as he could get.

  “Because you are the twins of legend.”

  “And if you’re wrong? Have you thought about that: what happens if you’re wrong?”

  “Then the Dark Elders return.”

  “Would that be so bad?” Josh wondered aloud.

  Nicholas opened his mouth to reply and quickly pressed his lips tightly together, biting back whatever he had been about to say, but not before Josh saw the quick flash of anger that darted across his face. Finally, Nicholas forced his lips into a smile. Gently, he turned Josh around so that he was facing the street. “What do you see?” he asked.

  Josh shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing…just a bunch of people heading off to work. And the police looking for us,” he added.

  Nicholas caught Josh’s shoulder and urged him down the street. “Don’t think of them as a bunch of people,” Flamel admonished sharply. “That’s how Dee and his kind see humankind: what they call the humani. I see individuals, with worries and cares, with family and loved ones, with friends and colleagues. I see people.”

  Josh shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Dee and the Elders he serves look at these people and see only slaves.” He paused, then quietly added, “Or food.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lying flat on her back, Perenelle Flamel stared at the stained stone ceiling directly above her head and wondered how many other prisoners incarcerated on Alcatraz had done the same. How many others had traced the lines and cracks in the stonework, seen shapes in the black water marks, imagined pictures in the brown damp? Almost all of them, she guessed.

  And how many had heard voices? she wondered. She was sure that many of the prisoners had imagined they heard sounds in the dark—whispered words, hushed phrases—but unless they possessed Perenelle’s special gift, what they were hearing did not exist outside their imaginations.

  Perenelle heard the voices of the ghosts of Alcatraz.

  Listening intently, she could distinguish hundreds of voices, maybe even thousands. Men and women—children, too—clamoring and shouting, muttering and crying, calling out for lost loved ones, repeating their own names again and again, proclaiming their innocence, cursing their jailers. She frowned; they weren’t what she was looking for.

  Allowing the voices to wash over her, she sorted through the sounds until she picked up one voice louder than all the rest: strong and confident, it cut through the babble, and Perenelle found herself concentrating on it, focusing on the words, identifying the language.

  “This is my island.”

  It was a man, speaking Spanish in an old, very formal accent. Concentrating on the ceiling, Perenelle tuned out the other voices. “Who are you?” In the chill damp of the cell, her words puffed from her mouth like smoke and the myriad ghosts fell silent.

  There was a long pause, as if the ghost was surprised to be spoken to; then he said proudly, “I was the first European to sail into this bay, the first to see this island.”

  A shape began to form on the roof directly over her head, the crude outline of a face appearing in the cracks and spiderwebs, the black damp and the green moss lending it shape and definition.

  “I called this place la Isla de los Alcatraces.”

  “The Isle of the Pelicans,” Perenelle said, her words the merest whispered breath.

  The face in the ceiling solidified briefly. It was that of a handsome man with a long, narrow face and dark eyes. Water droplets formed and the eyes blinked tears.

  “Who are you?” Perenelle asked again.

  “I am Juan Manuel de Ayala. I discovered Alcatraz.”

  Claws click-clacked on the stones outside the cell, and the smell of snake and rancid meat wafted down the corridor. Perenelle remained silent until the scent and the footsteps retreated, and when she looked at the ceiling again, the face had taken on more detail, the cracks in the stonework creating the deep wrinkles on the man’s forehead and around his eyes. A sailor’s face, she realized, the wrinkles caused by squinting toward distant horizons.

  “Why are you here?” she wondered aloud. “Did you die here?”

  “No. Not here.” Narrow lips curled in a smile. “I returned because I fell in love with this place from the very first moment I set eyes on it. It was in the year of Our Lord 1775, and I was on the good ship San Carlos. I even remember the month, August, and the date, the fifth.”

  Perenelle nodded. She had come across ghosts like de Ayala’s before. Men and women who had been so influenced or affected by a place that they returned to it again and again in their dreams, and eventually, when they died, their spirit returned to the same location to become a Guardian ghost.

  “I have watched over this island for generations. I will always watch over it.”

  Perenelle stared up at the face. “It must have saddened you to see your beautiful island become a place of pain and suffering,” she probed.

  Something twisted in the shape’s mouth, and a single drop of water fell from its eye to spatter on Perenelle’s cheek.

  “Dark days, sad days, but gone now…thankfully, gone.” The ghost’s lips moved and the words whispered in Perenelle’s head. “There has not been a human prisoner on Alcatraz since 1963, and the island has been peaceful since 1971.”

  “But now
there is a new prisoner on your beloved island,” Perenelle said evenly. “A prisoner guarded by a warden more terrible than any this island has ever seen before.”

  The face in the ceiling altered, watery eyes narrowing, blinking. “Who? You?”

  “I am held here against my will,” Perenelle said. “I am Alcatraz’s last prisoner, and I am guarded by no human jailor, but by a sphinx.”

  “No!”

  “See for yourself!”

  The plaster crackled and damp dust rained down on Perenelle’s face. When she opened her eyes again, the face in the ceiling had gone, leaving nothing more than a stain in its wake.

  Perenelle allowed herself a smile.

  “What amuses you, humani?” The voice was a slithering hiss, and the language predated the human race.

  Swinging herself into a sitting position, Perenelle focused on the creature standing in the corridor less than six feet from her.

  Generations of ancient humans had tried to capture the image of this creature on cave walls and pots, etching her shape in stone, capturing her likeness on parchments. And none of them had even come close to the true horror of the sphinx.

  The body was that of a hugely muscled lion, the fur scarred and cut with the evidence of old wounds. A pair of eagle’s wings curled out of its shoulders and lay flat against its back, the feathers ragged and filthy. And the small, almost delicate-looking head was that of a beautiful young woman.

  The sphinx stepped up to the bars of the cell, and a black forked tongue wavered in the air in front of Perenelle. “You have no reason to smile, humani. I have learned that your husband and the Warrior are trapped in Paris. Soon they will be prisoners, and this time Dr. Dee will ensure that they never escape again. I understand the Elders have given the doctor permission to finally slay the legendary Alchemyst.”

  Perenelle felt something twist in the pit of her stomach. For generations the Dark Elders had been intent on capturing Nicholas and Perenelle alive. If she was to believe the sphinx and they were prepared to kill Nicholas, then everything had changed. “Nicholas will escape,” she said confidently.

  “Not this time.” The lion’s tail of the sphinx whipped excitedly back and forth, raising plumes of dust. “Paris belongs to the Italian, Machiavelli, and soon he will be joined by the English Magician. The Alchemyst cannot evade them both.”

  “And the children?” Perenelle asked, eyes narrowing dangerously. If anything had happened to Nicholas or the children…

  The sphinx’s feathers ruffled, raising a musty sour smell. “Dee believes the humani children are powerful, that they may indeed be the twins of prophecy and legend. He also believes they can be convinced that they should serve us, rather than following the ramblings of a mad old bookseller.” The sphinx took a deep shuddering breath. “But if they do not do as they are told, then they too will perish.”

  “And what about me?”

  The sphinx’s pretty mouth opened to reveal a maw of savage, needle-pointed teeth. Her long black tongue thrashed wildly in the air. “You are mine, Sorceress,” she hissed. “The Elders have given you to me as a gift for my millennia of service to them. When your husband has been captured and slain, then I will be given permission to eat your memories. What a feast it will be. I intend to savor every last morsel. When I am finished with you, you will remember nothing, not even your own name.” The sphinx started to laugh, the sound hissing and mocking, bouncing off the bare stone walls.

  And then a cell door slammed.

  The sudden sound shocked the sphinx into silence. Her small head turned, her tongue flickering, tasting the air.

  Another door boomed shut.

  And then another.

  And another.

  The sphinx spun away, claws striking sparks off the floor. “Who’s there?” Her voice screeched off the damp stones.

  Abruptly, all the cell doors in the upper gallery rattled open and closed in quick succession, the sound a rumbling detonation that vibrated deep into the heart of the prison, causing dust to rain from the ceiling.

  Snarling and hissing, the sphinx bounded away, looking for the source of the noise.

  With an icy smile, Perenelle swung her feet back up on the bench, lay back and rested her head on her laced fingers. The island of Alcatraz belonged to Juan Manuel de Ayala, and it looked as though he was announcing his presence. Perenelle heard cell doors clang, wood thump and walls rattle and knew what de Ayala had become: a poltergeist.

  A noisy ghost.

  She also knew what de Ayala was doing. The sphinx fed off Perenelle’s magical energies; all the poltergeist had to do was to keep the creature away from the cell for a little time and Perenelle’s powers could begin to regenerate. Raising her left hand, the woman concentrated hard. The tiniest ice white spark danced between her fingers, then fizzled away.

  Soon.

  Soon.

  The Sorceress closed her hand into a fist. When her powers had recovered, she would bring Alcatraz tumbling down around the sphinx’s ears.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The beautifully intricate Eiffel Tower loomed more than nine hundred feet over Josh’s head. There was a time when he’d compiled a list for a school project of the Ten Wonders of the Modern World. The metal tower had been number two on that list, and he’d always promised himself that someday he’d get to see it.

  And now that he was finally in Paris, he didn’t even look up.

  Standing almost directly beneath the center of the tower, he rose on his toes, turning his head left and right, searching for his twin among the surprisingly large number of early-morning tourists. Where was she?

  Josh was scared.

  No, more than scared—he was terrified.

  The last couple of days had taught him the true meaning of fear. Prior to the events of Thursday, Josh had only ever really been afraid of failing a test or being publicly humiliated in class. He had other fears too, those vague, shivery thoughts that came in the dead of night, when he found himself lying awake wondering what would happen if his parents had an accident. Sara and Richard Newman both held PhD’s in archaeology and paleontology, and while that wasn’t the most dangerous line of work, their research sometimes took them into countries in the midst of religious or political turmoil, or they conducted their digs in areas of the world ravaged by hurricanes or in earthquake zones or close to active volcanoes. The sudden movements of the earth’s crust often threw up extraordinary archaeological finds.

  But his deepest, darkest fear was that something would happen to his sister. Although Sophie was twenty-eight seconds older, he always thought of her as his baby sister. He was bigger and stronger, and it was his job to protect her.

  And now, in a way, something terrible had happened to his twin.

  She had changed in ways he could not even begin to comprehend. She had become more like Flamel and Scathach and their kind than like him: she had become more than human.

  For the first time in his life, he felt alone. He was losing his sister. But there was one way to be her equal again: he had to have his own powers Awakened.

  Josh turned—just as Sophie and Scathach appeared, hurrying across a broad bridge that led directly to the tower. Relief washed over him. “They’re here,” he said to Flamel, who was facing the opposite direction.

  “I know,” Nicholas said, his French accent sounding stronger than usual. “And they’re not alone.”

  Josh tore his gaze away from his approaching sister and Scathach. “What do you mean?”

  Nicholas inclined his head slightly and Josh turned. Two tourist buses had just arrived at the Place Joffre and were disgorging their passengers. The tourists—Americans, Josh guessed by their clothing—milled around, chatting and laughing, cameras and videos already whirring while their guides tried to gather them together. A third bus, bright yellow, pulled up, spilling dozens of excited Japanese tourists out on the pavement. Confused, Josh looked at Nicholas: did he mean the buses?

  “In black,” Flamel said
enigmatically, pointing by lifting his chin.

  Josh turned and spotted the man in black striding toward them, moving swiftly through the holiday crowd. None of the tourists even glanced at the stranger weaving his way among them, twisting and turning like a dancer, taking care to not so much as brush against them. Josh guessed the man was probably about his own height, but it was impossible to make out his body shape because he was wearing a three-quarter-length black leather coat that flapped about him as he walked. The collar was turned up, and his hands were pushed deep into the pockets. Josh felt his heart sink: now what?

  Sophie raced up and punched her brother in the arm. “You got here,” she said breathlessly. “Any trouble?”

  Josh tilted his head toward the approaching man in the leather coat. “I’m not sure.”

  Scathach appeared beside the twins. She wasn’t even breathing hard, Josh noted. In fact, she wasn’t breathing at all.

  “Trouble?” Sophie asked, looking at Scathach.

  The Warrior smiled, tight-lipped. “Depends how you define trouble,” she murmured.

  “On the contrary,” Nicholas said, smiling broadly. He heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s a friend. An old friend. A good friend.”

  The man in the black coat was closer now, and the twins could see that he had a small, almost round face, deeply tanned skin and piercing blue eyes. Thick shoulder-length black hair was swept back off his high forehead. Mounting the steps, he pulled both hands out of his pockets and spread his arms wide, silver rings winking on every finger and on his thumbs, matching the silver studs in both ears. A broad smile revealed misshapen, slightly yellowed teeth.