The Magician

by Michael Scott

  The dragon’s head cracked and exploded into dust.

  “Hot and cold,” Josh shouted, “hot and cold.”

  “Expansion and contraction,” Nicholas said with a shaky laugh. He looked up to where Dee’s head was just visible over the edge of the roof. “One of the basic principles of alchemy.”

  Saint-Germain bathed a boar galloping toward them in scalding heat, and Sophie washed icy air over it. Its legs snapped off.

  “Hotter!” Josh shouted. “It needs to be hotter. And yours need to be colder,” he said to his sister.

  “I’ll try,” she whispered. Her eyes were already leaden with exhaustion. “I don’t know how much more I can do.” She looked at her brother. “Help me,” she said. “Let me draw on your strength.”

  Josh stood behind Sophie and placed both hands on her shoulders. Silver and gold auras sparked alight, mixing, entwining. Realizing what they were doing, Joan immediately gripped her husband’s shoulders and both their auras—red and silver—crackled around them. When Saint-Germain shot a plume of fire over the approaching gargoyles, it was white-hot, strong enough to start melting the stones even before subarctic freezing winds and icy fog rolled from Sophie’s hands. Saint-Germain turned in a slow circle, and Sophie followed him. First stone cracked, ancient brick exploded, and rock melted beneath the intense heat, but when the icy winds followed, the effect was dramatic. The hot stone statues exploded and split apart, shattering into gritty, stinging dust. The first row fell, and then the next and the next, until a wall of shattered and cracked stone built up in a circle around the trapped humans.

  And when Saint-Germain and Joan slumped, Sophie and Josh continued, blasting icy air over the few remaining creatures. Because the gargoyles had spent centuries as water spouts, the stone was soft and porous. Using her brother’s energy to boost her powers, Sophie froze the moisture trapped within the stone and the creatures shattered.

  “The two that are one,” Nicholas Flamel whispered, crouching exhausted on the cobblestones. He looked at Sophie and Josh, their auras blazing wildly about them, silver and gold intermixed, traces of ancient armor visible against their skin. Their power was incredible—and seemingly inexhaustible. He knew that power like this could control, reshape or even destroy the world.

  And as the last monstrous gargoyle exploded to dust and the twins’ auras faded away, the Alchemyst found himself wondering for the first time if Awakening them had been the correct decision.

  On top of Notre Dame, Dee and Machiavelli watched as Flamel and the others picked their way through the smoking piles of masonry, heading in the direction of the bridge.

  “We are in so much trouble,” Machiavelli said through gritted teeth. The arrow had disappeared from his thigh, but his leg was still numb.

  “We?” Dee said lightly. “This, all this, is entirely your fault, Niccolò. Or at least, that’s what my report will say. And you know what will happen then, don’t you?”

  Machiavelli straightened and stood, leaning against the stonework, favoring his injured leg. “My report will differ.”

  “No one will believe you,” Dee said confidently, turning away. “Everyone knows you are the master of lies.”

  Machiavelli reached into his pocket and pulled out a small digital tape recorder. “Well then, it’s lucky I have everything you said on tape.” He tapped the recorder. “Voice activated. It recorded every word you spoke to me.”

  Dee stopped. He slowly turned to face the Italian and looked at the slender tape recorder. “Every word?” he asked.

  “Every word.” Machiavelli said grimly. “I think the Elders will believe my report.”

  Dee stared at the Italian for a heartbeat before nodding. “What do you want?”

  Machiavelli nodded at the devastation below. His smile was terrifying. “Look at what the twins can do…and they’re barely Awakened, and not even fully trained.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Dee asked.

  “Between us, you and I have access to extraordinary resources. Working together—rather than against one another—we should be able to find the twins, capture them and train them.”

  “Train them!”

  Machiavelli’s eyes started to glitter. “They are the twins of legend. ‘The two that are one, the one that is all.’ Once they’ve mastered all the elemental magics, they will be unstoppable.” His smile turned feral. “Whoever controls them controls the world.”

  The Magician turned to squint across the square to where Flamel was just visible through the pall of dust and grit. “You think the Alchemyst knows this?”

  Machiavelli’s laugh was bitter. “Of course he knows. Why else do you think he’s training them!”

  MONDAY,

  4th June

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  At precisely 12:13, the Eurostar train pulled out of Gare du Nord station and began the two-hour-twenty-minute journey into London’s St. Pancras International Station.

  Nicholas Flamel sat facing Sophie and Josh across a table in Business Premier Class. Saint-Germain had bought the tickets using an untraceable credit card and had supplied them with French passports that came complete with photographs that looked nothing like the twins, while Nicholas’s passport photograph was that of a young man with a full head of jet-black hair. “Tell them you’ve aged a lot in the past few years,” Saint-Germain said with a grin. Joan of Arc had spent the morning shopping and had presented Sophie and Josh each with a backpack filled with clothes and toiletries. When Josh had opened his, he’d discovered the small laptop Saint-Germain had given him the day before. Was it only yesterday? It seemed so long ago.

  Nicholas spread out the newspapers as the train left the station and pulled on a pair of cheap reading glasses he’d bought at a drugstore. He held up Le Monde so that the twins could see the front page; it carried a picture of the devastation caused by Nidhogg.

  “It says here,” Nicholas read slowly, “that a section of the catacombs collapsed.” He turned the page. There was a half-page picture of piles of shattered stone in the roped-off square before Notre Dame Cathedral. “‘Experts are claiming that the collapse and disintegration of some of Paris’s most famous gargoyles and grotesques was caused by acid rain that weakened the structures. The two events are unconnected,’” he read, and closed the paper.

  “So you were right,” Sophie said, exhaustion etched onto her face even though she’d slept for nearly ten hours. “Dee and Machiavelli have managed to cover it up.” She looked out the window as the train click-clacked across a maze of interconnecting lines. “A monster walked through Paris yesterday, gargoyles climbed down off a building…and yet there’s nothing in the papers. It’s like it never happened.”

  “But it did happen,” Flamel said seriously. “And you learned the Magic of Fire and Josh’s powers were Awakened. And yesterday you discovered just how powerful the two of you are together.”

  “And Scathach died,” Josh said bitterly.

  The blank look of surprise on Flamel’s face confused and annoyed Josh. He looked at his sister, then back at Nicholas. “Scatty,” he said angrily. “Remember her? She was drowned in the Seine.”

  “Drowned?” Flamel smiled, and the new lines at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead deepened. “She’s a vampire, Josh,” he said gently. “She doesn’t need to breathe air. I’ll bet she was mad, though; she hates getting wet,” he added. “Poor Dagon: he didn’t stand a chance.” He sank back into the comfortable seat and closed his eyes. “We’ve one brief stop to make outside London, then we’ll use the map of the ley lines to get back to San Francisco, and Perenelle.”

  “Why are we going to England?” Josh asked.

  “We’re going to see the oldest immortal human in the world,” the Alchemyst said. “I’m going to try and persuade him to train you both in the Magic of Water.”

  “Who is it?” Josh asked, reaching for his laptop. The first-class carriages had a wireless network.

  “Gilgamesh the King.”


  End of Book Two

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS

  The Catacombs of Paris that Sophie and Josh explore really exist, as does the extraordinary sewer system, which comes, as Machiavelli observes, complete with street signs. Although Paris receives millions of visitors a year, many are unaware of the vast network of tunnels below the city.

  Officially, they are called “les carrières de Paris,” the quarries of Paris, but they are commonly called the catacombs, and they are one of the wonders of the city. The sights the twins encounter in the catacombs—the walls of bones, the spectacular arrangements of skulls—are open to the public. They date to the eighteenth century, when all the bodies and bones in the overflowing Cimetière des Innocents were exhumed and transported to the limestone tunnels and caverns. More bodies from other cemeteries followed, and it is now estimated that there are as many as seven million bodies in this bizarre graveyard. No one knows who created the extraordinary and artistic arrangements of bones; perhaps a workman wanted to fashion a monument to the dead who would no longer have tombstones to mark their graves. The walls, made entirely of human bones, many inset with a pattern of skulls, are suitably eerie and, in some cases, have been lit for dramatic effect.

  The Romans were probably the first to quarry limestone from the ground to build what would become Lutetia, the earliest Roman settlement on the Ile de la Cité. Where Notre Dame Cathedral now stands, there was once a monument to the Roman god Jupiter. From about the tenth century onward, limestone was extensively mined from the quarries to create the city walls and to build Notre Dame and the original Louvre palace. The catacombs have long been used for storage by smugglers and have provided shelter for many homeless. More recently, both the German army and the French Resistance had bases in the tunnels during World War II. In this century, illegal art galleries and even a movie theater have been found deep underground by the cataflics, the police unit who patrol underground.

  Officially, the catacombs are called the Ossuary of Denfert Rochereau, and the entrance is directly across from the Denfert Rochereau Metro station. Only a small section is open to the public; the tunnels are treacherous, narrow, and prone to flooding and are riddled with potholes and wells.

  And are the ideal hiding place for a Sleeping God.

  A special preview of

  THE

  SORCERESS

  Book Three of

  Excerpt copyright © 2008 by Michael Scott

  Published by Delacorte Press

  I am tired now, so tired.

  And I am aging fast. There is a stiffness in my joints, my sight is no longer sharp and I find I have to strain to hear. Over the past five days I have been forced to use my powers, and that has speeded the aging process. I estimate that I have aged by at least a decade—perhaps more—since last Thursday. If I am to live, I have to retrieve the Book of Abraham, and I cannot—I dare not—risk using my powers.

  But Dee has the Codex, and I know that I will be forced yet again to use my waning aura.

  We are about to enter London. I fear this city above all others, for it is at the very heart of Dee’s power. London has attracted Elders from across the globe: there are more of them in this city than in any other on earth. Elders and Next Generation move freely and unnoticed through the streets, and I know of at least a dozen Shadowrealms scattered across the British Isles. The last time Perenelle and I were in this city, in September 1666, the Magician almost burned it to the ground trying to capture us. We’ve never been back.

  However, a great number of ley lines meet and converge over these Celtic lands, and I pray that with the twins’ Awakened powers, we can use those lines to return to San Francisco and my Perenelle.

  And here too is Gilgamesh the King, the oldest immortal human in the world. His knowledge is incalculable and encyclopedic. It is said that he was once the guardian of the Codex, that he even knew the mythical Abraham who created the Book. Gilgamesh also knows all the elemental magics, though strangely, he never possessed the power to use them. The King has no aura. I’ve often wondered what that must be like: to be aware of so many incredible things, to have access to the wisdom of the ancients…and yet be unable to use it.

  I have told Sophie and Josh that I need Gilgamesh to train them in the Magic of Water and find us a ley line that will take us home. What they do not know is that it is a desperate gamble: if the King refuses, then we will be trapped in the very heart of Dee’s domain, with no possibility of escape.

  Nor have I told them that Gilgamesh is quite, quite insane.

  From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst

  Writ this day, Monday, 4th June,

  in London, the city of my enemies

  MONDAY,

  4th June

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I think I see them.”

  The young man in the green parka standing directly beneath the huge circular clock in St. Pancras station took the phone away from his ear and checked a blurred image on the screen. The English Magician had sent the image: the picture was grainy, the colors washed and faded, and it looked liked it had been taken from an overhead security camera. It showed an older man with short gray hair, accompanied by two blond-haired teens, climbing onto a train.

  Rising up on his toes, the young man swiveled his head, looking for the trio he’d glimpsed. For a moment, he thought he’d lost them in the milling crowd, but even if he had, they wouldn’t get far: one of his sisters was downstairs; another was in the street outside, watching the entrance.

  Now, where had the old man and the teenagers gone?

  Narrow, pinched nostrils opened wide as the young man sorted through the countless scents in the station. He identified and dismissed the mixed stink of too many humani, the myriad perfumes and deodorants, the gels and pastes, the greasy odor of fried food from the station’s restaurants, the richer aroma of coffee and the metallic oily tang of the train engines and carriages. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The odors he was seeking were older, wilder, unnatural….

  There!

  Mint: just the merest suggestion.

  Orange: no more than the vaguest hint.

  Vanilla: little more than a trace.

  Hidden behind small rectangular sunglasses, blue-black eyes opened wide and his head swiveled, following the gossamer threads of scent through the vast train station. He had them now!

  The gray-haired older man, wearing black jeans and a scuffed leather jacket, was striding down the station concourse directly toward him. There was a small overnight case in his left hand. He was followed by the two teenagers, alike enough to be brother and sister. The boy was taller than the girl, and they were both wearing backpacks.

  The young man snapped a quick picture with his cell phone camera and sent it to Dr. John Dee. Although he had nothing but contempt for the English Magician, there was no point in making an enemy of him. Dee was the agent of the most dangerous of all the Elders.

  Pulling the hood of his parka over his head, he turned away as the trio drew level with him, and dialed his sister, who was waiting downstairs. “It’s definitely Flamel and the twins,” he murmured into the phone, speaking the ancient language that had eventually become Gaelic. “They’re heading in your direction. We’ll take them when they get onto the Euston Road.”

  The young man in the hooded parka set off after the Alchemyst and the American twins. He moved easily through the early-afternoon crowd, looking like just another teenager, anonymous and unnoticed in his sloppy jeans, scuffed sneakers and overlarge coat, his head and face concealed by the hood, his eyes invisible behind the sunglasses.

  Despite his form, the young man had never been remotely human. He and his sisters had first come to this land when it was still joined to the European continent, and for generations they had been worshipped as gods. He bitterly resented being ordered about by Dee—who was, after all, nothing more than a humani. But the English Magician had promised the hooded boy a delectable
prize: Nicholas Flamel, the legendary Alchemyst. Dee’s instructions were clear; he and his sisters could have Flamel, but the twins must not be touched. The boy’s thin lips twisted. His sisters would take the boy and girl, while he would have the honor of killing Flamel. A coal-black tongue licked cracked dry lips. He and his sisters would feast for weeks. And, of course, they would keep the tastiest morsels for Mother.

  Nicholas Flamel slowed, allowing Sophie and Josh to catch up with him. Forcing a smile, he pointed to the thirty-foot-tall bronze statue of a couple embracing beneath the clock. “It’s called The Meeting Place,” he said loudly, and then added in a whisper, “We’re being followed.” Flamel grasped Josh’s arm with iron-hard fingers. “Don’t even think about turning around.”

  “Who?” Sophie asked.

  “What?” Josh said tightly. He was feeling nauseated; his newly Awakened senses were overwhelmed by the scents and sounds of the train station. The light was so sharp he wished he had a pair of sunglasses to shield his eyes.

  “‘What?’ is the better question,” Nicholas said grimly. He raised a finger to point up to the clock, as if he were talking about it. “I’m not sure what it is,” he admitted. “Something ancient. I felt it the moment we stepped off the train.”

  “Felt it?” Josh asked.

  “A tingle, like an itch. My aura reacted to the aura of whoever—whatever—is here. When you have a little more control of your own auras, you’ll be able to do the same.”

  Tilting her head back, as if she were admiring the latticework of the metal-and-glass ceiling, Sophie slowly turned. Crowds swirled around them. Most seemed to be locals, though there were plenty of tourists, many stopping to have their photographs taken in front of The Meeting Place or the huge clock. No one seemed to be paying them any particular attention.