Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2

by Michael Scott

  were even a few she had learned to call friends. Over the centuries certain

  spirits had returned to her again and again, drawn to her because they knew

  she could hear, see or help them and often, Perenelle thought, simply because

  they were lonely. Mamom turned up every decade or so just to check up on her.

  But even though they had no presence in the real world, ghosts were not

  powerless.

  Opening her eyes, Perenelle concentrated on the chipped stone wall directly

  in front of her face. The wall ran with green-tinged water that smelled of

  rust and salt, the two elements that had ultimately destroyed Alcatraz the

  prison. Dee had made a mistake, as she had known he would. If Dr. John Dee

  had one great failing, it was arrogance. He obviously thought that if she was

  imprisoned deep below Alcatraz and guarded by a sphinx, then she was

  powerless. He could not be more wrong.

  Alcatraz was a place of ghosts.

  And Perenelle Flamel would show him just how powerful she was.

  Closing her eyes, relaxing, Perenelle listened to the ghosts of Alcatraz, and

  then slowly, her voice barely above a breathed whisper, she began to talk to

  them, to call them and to gather them all to her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I m OK, Sophie murmured sleepily, really I am.

  You don't look OK, Josh muttered through gritted teeth. For the second time

  in as many days, Josh was carrying his sister in his arms, one arm under her

  back, the other beneath her legs. He moved cautiously down the steps of

  Sacre -Coeur, terrified he was going to drop his twin. Flamel told us every

  time you use magic it will steal a little of your energy, he added. You

  look exhausted.

  I m fine , she muttered. Let me down. But then her eyes flickered closed

  once more.

  The small group moved silently through the thick vanilla-scented fog,

  Scathach in the lead with Flamel taking up the rear. All around them they

  could hear the tramp of boots, the jingle of weapons, and the muted commands

  of the French police and special forces as they climbed the steps. Some of

  them came dangerously close, and twice Josh was forced to crouch low as a

  uniformed figure darted by.

  Scathach suddenly loomed up out of the thick fog, a short, stubby finger

  pressed to her lips. Water droplets frosted her spiky red hair, and her white

  skin looked even paler than usual. She pointed to the right with her ornately

  carved nunchaku. The fog swirled and suddenly a gendarme was standing almost

  directly in front of them, close enough to touch, his dark uniform sparkling

  with beads of liquid. Behind him, Josh was able to make out a group of French

  police clustered around what looked like an old-fashioned merry-go-round.

  They were all staring upward, and Josh heard the word brouillard murmured

  again and again. He knew that they were talking about the strange fog that

  had suddenly descended over the church. The gendarme was holding his service

  pistol in his hand, the barrel pointed skyward, but his finger was lightly

  curled over the trigger and Josh was once again reminded just how much danger

  they were in not only from Flamel s nonhuman and inhuman enemies, but from

  his all-too-human foes as well.

  They walked perhaps another dozen steps and suddenly the fog stopped. One

  moment Josh was carrying his sister through the thick mist; then, as if he

  had stepped through a curtain, he was standing in front of a tiny art

  gallery, a caf and a souvenir shop. He turned to look behind him and found

  that he was facing a solid wall of mist. The police were little more than

  indistinct shapes in the yellow-white fog.

  Scathach and Flamel stepped out of the murk. Allow me, Scathach said,

  catching hold of Sophie and lifting her from Josh s arms. He tried to

  protest Sophie was his twin, his responsibility but he was exhausted. The

  backs of his calves were cramping, and the muscles in his arms burned with

  the effort of carrying his sister down what had felt like countless steps.

  Josh looked into Scathach s bright green eyes. She s going to be OK?

  The ancient Celtic warrior opened her mouth to reply, but Nicholas Flamel

  shook his head, silencing her. He rested his left hand on Josh s shoulder,

  but the boy shrugged it off. If Flamel noticed the gesture, he ignored it.

  She just needs to sleep. The effort of raising the fog so soon after melting

  the tulpa has completely drained the last of her physical strength, Flamel

  said.

  You asked her to create fog, Josh said quickly, accusingly.

  Nicholas spread his arms. What else could I do?

  I I don't know, Josh admitted. There must have been something you could

  do. I ve seen you throw spears of green energy.

  The fog allowed us to escape without harming anyone, Flamel said.

  Except Sophie, Josh replied bitterly.

  Flamel looked at him for a long moment and then turned away. Let s go. He

  nodded toward a side street that sloped sharply downward, and they hurried

  into the night, Scathach effortlessly carrying Sophie, Josh struggling to

  keep up. He was not going to leave his sister s side.

  Where to? Scathach asked.

  We need to get off the streets, Flamel murmured. It looks like every

  gendarme in the city has descended on Sacre -Coeur. I also saw special forces

  and plainclothes police that I guess are secret service. Once they realize

  we re not in the church, they ll probably cordon off the area and do a

  street-by-street search.

  Scathach smiled quickly, her long incisors briefly visible against her lips.

  And let s face it: we re not exactly inconspicuous.

  We need to find a place to Nicholas Flamel began.

  The police officer who came racing around the corner looked to be no more

  than nineteen tall, thin and gangly with bright red cheeks and the fuzzy

  beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. One hand was on his holster; the

  other was holding on to his hat. He skidded to a halt directly in front of

  them and managed a quick yelp of surprise as he fumbled for the gun in its

  holster. Hey! Arr tez!

  Nicholas lunged forward and Josh actually saw the green mist flow from the

  Alchemyst s hand before his fingers brushed against the gendarme s chest.

  Emerald light flared around the police officer s body, outlining it in

  brilliant green, and then the man simply folded to the ground.

  What did you do? Josh asked in a horrified whisper. He looked at the young

  police officer lying still, and was suddenly chilled and sickened. You

  didn't you didn't kill him?

  No, Flamel said tiredly. Just overloaded his aura. Bit like an electric

  shock. He ll awaken shortly with a headache. He pressed his fingertips to

  his forehead, massaging just over his left eye. I hope it ll not be as bad

  as mine, he added.

  You do know, Scathach said grimly, that your little display will have

  alerted Machiavelli to our position. Her nostrils flared and Josh breathed

  deeply; the air around them stank of peppermint: the distinctive odor of

  Nicholas Flamel s power.

  What else could I do? Nicholas protested. You had your hands full.

  Scatty curled her lips in disgust. I could have taken him
. Remember, who got

  you out of Lubyanka Prison with both hands manacled behind my back?

  What are you talking about? Where s Lubyanka? Josh asked, confused.

  Moscow. Nicholas glanced sidelong at Josh. don't ask; it s a long story,

  he murmured.

  He was going to be shot as a spy, Scathach said gleefully.

  A very long story, Flamel repeated.

  Following Scathach and Flamel through the winding streets of Montmartre, Josh

  thought back to how John Dee had described Nicholas Flamel to him only the

  day before.

  He has been many things in his time: a physician and a cook, a bookseller, a

  soldier, a teacher of languages and chemistry, both an officer of the law and

  a thief. But he is now, and has always been, a liar, a charlatan and a

  crook.

  And a spy, Josh added. He wondered if Dee knew that. He peered at the rather

  ordinary-looking man: with his close-cropped hair and his pale eyes, in his

  black jeans and T-shirt under a battered black leather jacket, he would have

  passed unnoticed on any street in any city in the world. And yet he was

  anything but ordinary: born in the year 1330, he claimed to be working for

  the good of humanity, by keeping the Codex away from Dee and the shadowy and

  terrifying creatures he served, the Dark Elders.

  But whom did Flamel serve? Josh wondered. Just who was the immortal Nicholas

  Flamel?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  K eeping a tight rein on his temper, Niccol Machiavelli strode down the

  steps of Sacre -Coeur, the fog curling and swirling behind him like a cloak.

  Although the air was beginning to clear, it was still touched with the odor

  of vanilla. Machiavelli threw his head back and breathed deeply, drawing the

  smell into his nostrils. He would remember this scent; it was as distinctive

  as a fingerprint. Everyone on the planet possessed an aura the electrical

  field that surrounded the human body and when that electrical field was

  focused and directed, it interacted with the user s endorphin system and

  adrenal glands to produce a distinctive odor unique to that person: a

  signature scent. Machiavelli took a final breath. He could almost taste the

  vanilla on the air, crisp, clear and pure: the scent of raw untrained power.

  And in that moment, Machiavelli knew beyond a doubt that Dee was correct:

  this was the odor of one of the legendary twins.

  I want the entire area sealed off, Machiavelli snapped to the semicircle of

  high-ranking police who had gathered at the bottom of the steps in the Square

  Willette. Cordon off every street, alleyway and lane from the Rue Custine to

  the Rue Caulaincourt, from the Boulevard de Clichy to the Boulevard de

  Rochechouart and the Rue de Clignancourt. I want these people found!

  You are suggesting closing down Montmartre, a deeply tanned police officer

  said in the silence that followed. He looked to his colleagues for support,

  but none of them would meet his eye. It s the height of the tourist season,

  he protested, turning back to Machiavelli.

  Machiavelli rounded on the captain, his face as impassive as the masks he

  collected. His cold gray eyes bored into the man, but when he spoke his voice

  was even and controlled, barely above a whisper. You know who I am? he

  asked mildly.

  The captain, a decorated veteran of the French Foreign Legion, felt something

  cold and sour at the back of his throat as he looked into the man s stony

  eyes. Licking suddenly dry lips, he said, You are Monsieur Machiavelli, the

  new head of the Direction G n rale de la S curit Ext rieure. But this is a

  police matter, sir, not an external security matter. You have no authority

  I am making this a DGSE matter, Machiavelli interrupted softly. My powers

  come directly from the president. I will shut down this entire city if

  necessary. I want these people found. Tonight, a catastrophe was averted. He

  waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Sacre -Coeur, now beginning to

  appear out of the thinning mist. Who knows what other terrors they have

  planned? I want a progress report on the hour, every hour, he finished, and

  without waiting for a response turned and marched over to his car, where his

  dark-suited driver waited, arms folded across his massive chest. The driver,

  face half hidden behind wraparound mirrored sunglasses, opened the door and

  then closed it gently behind Machiavelli. After he had climbed into the car,

  the driver sat patiently, black gloved hands resting lightly on the leather

  steering wheel, and awaited instructions. The sheet of privacy glass that

  separated the driver s section from the back of the car buzzed down.

  Flamel is in Paris. Where would he go? Machiavelli asked without preamble.

  The creature known as Dagon had served Machiavelli for close to four hundred

  years. It was the name by which he had been known for millennia, and despite

  his appearance, he had never been even remotely human. Turning in the seat,

  he pulled off his mirrored sunglasses. In the dim car interior, his eyes were

  bulbous and fishlike, huge and liquid behind a clear, glassy film: he had no

  eyelids. When he spoke, two rows of tiny ragged teeth were visible behind his

  thin lips. Who are his allies? Dagon asked, shifting from deplorable French

  to appalling Italian before dropping back to the bubbling, liquid language of

  his long-lost youth.

  Flamel and his wife have always been loners, Machiavelli said. That is why

  they have survived for so long. To the best of my knowledge, they have not

  lived in this city since the end of the eighteenth century. He pulled out

  his slender black laptop and ran his index finger over the integrated

  fingerprint reader. The machine blipped and the screen blinked to life.

  If they came through a leygate, then they came unprepared, Dagon said

  wetly. No money, no passports, no clothes other than those they were

  wearing.

  Exactly, Machiavelli whispered. So they re going to need to find

  themselves an ally.

  Humani or immortal? Dagon asked.

  Machiavelli took a moment to consider. An immortal, he said finally. I m

  not sure they know many humani in this city.

  So which immortals are currently living in Paris? Dagon asked.

  The Italian s fingers hit a complicated series of keystrokes and the screen

  scrolled to reveal a directory called Temp. There were dozens of .jpg, .bmp

  and .tmp files in the directory. Machiavelli highlighted one and hit Enter. A

  box appeared in the center of the screen.

  Enter Password.

  His slender fingers clicked across the keyboard as he typed in the password

  Del modo di trattare i sudditi della Val di Chiana ribellati, and a database

  encoded with unbreakable 256-bit AES encryption, the same encryption used by

  most governments for their top-secret files, blinked open. Over the course of

  his long life, Niccol Machiavelli had amassed a huge fortune, but he

  considered this single file to be his most valuable treasure. It was a

  complete dossier on every immortal human still living in the twenty-first

  century, compiled by his network of spies across the globe most of whom

  didn't even know they were working for him. He scrolled through the names.

&nb
sp; Not even his own Dark Elder masters knew he possessed this list, and he was

  sure some would be very unhappy if they were to discover that he also knew

  the locations and attributes of almost all the Elders and Dark Elders still

  walking the earth or in the Shadowrealms that bordered this world.

  Knowledge, as Machiavelli well knew, was power.

  Although there were three screens devoted to Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel,

  hard information was scarce. There were hundreds of entries, each one a

  reported sighting of the Flamels since their supposed deaths in 1418. They

  had been seen on just about every continent in the world except Australia.

  For the past 150 years, they had lived on the North American continent, with

  the first confirmed and verified sighting of the last century taking place in

  Buffalo, New York, in September 1901. He skipped to the section marked Known

  Immortal Associates. It was blank.

  Nothing. I have no records of the Flamels associating with other

  immortals.

  But now he is back in Paris, Dagon said, bubbles of liquid forming on his

  lips as he spoke. He will seek out old friends. People behave differently at

  home, he added; their guard comes down. And no matter how long Flamel has

  lived away from this city, he will still consider it his home.

  Niccol Machiavelli looked over the top of the computer screen. He was

  reminded yet again of how little he knew about his faithful employee. And

  where is your home, Dagon? he asked.

  Gone. Long gone. A translucent skin flickered across the huge globes of his

  eyes.

  Why have you remained with me? Machiavelli wondered aloud. Why have you

  not sought out others of your kind?

  They too are gone. I am the last of my kind, and besides, you are not that

  dissimilar to me.

  But you are not human, Machiavelli said softly.

  Are you? Dagon asked, eyes wide and unblinking.

  Machiavelli took a long moment before finally nodding and returning to the

  screen. So we re looking for someone the Flamels would have known when they

  were still living here. And we know they haven t been in the city since the

  eighteenth century, so let us limit our search to immortals who were around

  then. His fingers tapped the keys, filtering the results. Seven only. Five

  are loyal to us.

  And the other two?