The Sorceress sotinf-3

by Michael Scott

  Shakespeare listened to the words and nodded very slowly. "Dee and I were not in Stratford when that happened, and I only learned about it much, much later," he said in a raw whisper. "And by then it was too late, of course. I was deep under Dee's spell: he had convinced me that I could become the writer I wanted to be. Even though it sounded impossible, I believed him. My father was a glove maker and wool merchant; there were no writers, no poets or playwrights or even actors in my family." He shook his head slightly. "Perhaps I should have followed my father into the family business."

  "The world would have been a poorer place," Palamedes said quietly. The Saracen Knight was watching Shakespeare and the Alchemyst closely.

  "I married. I had children," Shakespeare continued, speaking more quickly now, focused only on Flamel. "A girl first, my beautiful Susanna, then two years later, the twins, Hamnet and Judith."

  Sophie and Josh straightened, glancing quickly at one another; they hadn't ever heard about Shakespeare's twins.

  There was a long pause and finally the immortal Bard sucked in a deep shuddering breath. He spread his long-fingered hands on the wooden table and stared hard at them. "I discovered then why Dee was interested in me. He had somehow known that I would have twins, and he believed that they were the legendary twins prophesied in the Codex. In 1596, I was in London and no longer living at home in Stratford. Dee visited my wife and offered to educate the twins. She foolishly agreed, even though by that time, ugly rumors were beginning to circulate about the doctor. A few days later, he attempted to have Hamnet Awakened. The Awakening killed him," he finished simply. "My son was eleven years old."

  No one spoke into the long silence that followed, the only sound the pattering of rain on the metal roof.

  Finally, Shakespeare looked up and stared at Flamel. His eyes were brimming and there were tears on his cheeks. He came around the table until he was standing directly in front of the Alchemyst. "A foolish boy betrayed you out of ignorance and stupidity. Ultimately, I paid for that action with the life of my son. Nicholas, I am not your enemy. I hate Dee in ways you cannot even begin to understand." Shakespeare gripped the Alchemyst's arm, fingers tightening. "I have waited a long time to meet you. Between us, we know more about the Magician than anyone else on this planet. I am tired of running and hiding. It is time to pool our knowledge, to work together. It is time to take the fight to Dee and his Dark Elders. What say you?" he demanded.

  "It's a good strategy," Josh said, before Flamel could answer. He was aware, even as he spoke, that he had no idea what he was talking about. It was Mars speaking. "You've spent a lifetime running; Dee won't expect you to change tactics."

  Palamedes rested his huge forearms on the table. "The boy is right," he sighed. "The Magician has effectively trapped you here in London. If you run, he will capture you."

  "And if we stay here, he'll capture us," Josh said quickly.

  Nicholas Flamel looked around the table, obviously troubled by what he'd heard. "I'm not sure…," he said finally. "If only I could speak to Perenelle; she would know what to do."

  Shakespeare grinned delightedly for the first time since they'd arrived. "I think we can arrange that." erenelle Flamel stood framed in the doorway and stared down into the gloom. The heavy metal door that had once sealed this opening lay on the ground behind her, battered and twisted, ripped off its hinges by the weight of the spiders that had surged out of the prison cells below. With Areop-Enap's retreat to its cocoon, the surviving arachnids had vanished, and all that remained on the surface of Alcatraz were the dried-up husks of dead flies and the shells of spiders. She wondered who-or what-had sent the flies. Someone powerful, certainly; someone who was probably even now plotting their next move.

  Perenelle tilted her head to one side and pushed her long black hair back over her ear, closed her eyes and listened. Her hearing was acute, but she could pick up nothing moving. And yet the Sorceress knew the cells were not empty. The island's prison was full of blood drinkers and flesh eaters, vetala, minotaur, Windigo and oni, trolls and cluricauns-and, of course, the deadly sphinx. The sunlight had recharged Perenelle's aura, and she knew she could handle the lesser creatures-though the minotaur and the Windigo would give her some problems-but she was fully aware that she could not deal with the sphinx. The eagle-winged lion fed off magical energy; just being close to it would drain her aura, leaving her helpless.

  Perenelle pressed her hand to her growling stomach. She was hungry. The Sorceress rarely needed to eat anymore, but she recognized that she was burning a lot of energy and needed calories to fuel it. If Nicholas were there it would not be a problem; many times on their travels, he had used his alchemical skills to transmute stones into bread, and water into soup. She knew a couple of horn-of-plenty spells she'd learned in Greece that would give her enough to eat, but casting them would mean using her aura, whose distinctive signature would draw the sphinx upon her.

  She'd encountered no humans on the island-she doubted any could have survived a single night on Alcatraz with their sanity or body intact. She remembered reading a newspaper report recently-about six months ago-that had said Alcatraz had been acquired by a private corporation and was closing to the public. The state park was going to be turned into a multimedia living history museum. Now that she knew Dee owned the island, she guessed that that wasn't the truth. Worse, though, with no humans having been on the island for at least six months, it was looking less and less likely she'd discover anything edible left behind. It wouldn't be the first time she'd gone hungry in her long life.

  The Magician had gathered an army in the cells, creatures from every nation and the myths of every race. Without exception, they were the monsters who had been the source of human nightmares for millennia. And if there was an army, that meant a war was coming. Perenelle's full lips curled in a wry smile. So it looked as if she was the only human on Alcatraz… along with assorted mythical beasts, nightmare monsters, vampires and werebeasts. There were Nereids in the sea, a vengeful Crow Goddess locked up in a cell deep below the island and an incredibly powerful Elder or Next Generation attacking her from somewhere on the mainland.

  Perenelle's smile faded; she was sure she'd been in worse situations at some time in her past, but right now she couldn't remember when. And she'd always had Nicholas with her. Together, they were unbeatable.

  The tiniest breeze blew up from below, ruffling her hair, and then dust motes whirled and a shape flickered in the gloom. Perenelle darted back out into the sunlight, where she was strongest. She doubted it was the sphinx; she would have smelled its unmistakable odor: the musky scent of lion, bird and serpent.

  A shape materialized in the doorway, taking on depth and substance as the light hit it, a figure composed of red rust particles and the shining scraps of spiderweb: it was the ghost, Juan Manuel de Ayala, the discoverer and Guardian of Alcatraz. The specter bowed deeply. "It is good to see you hale and well, madame," he said in archaic, formal Spanish.

  Perenelle smiled. "Why, did you think I would be joining you as a spirit?"

  A semitransparent de Ayala floated in the air and considered the question carefully; then he shook his head. "I knew that if you had fallen on the island, you would not have remained here. Your spirit would have gone wandering."

  Perenelle nodded in agreement, eyes clouding in sorrow. "I would have gone to find Nicholas."

  The perfect teeth that the ghost sailor had never possessed in life flashed in a grin. "Come, madame, come: I think there is something you should see." He turned and floated back down the stairs. Perenelle hesitated; she trusted de Ayala, but ghosts were not the brightest creatures and were easily fooled. And then, thinly and faintly, Perenelle caught the scent of mint-little more than a suggestion-on the damp salty air. Without a second's hesitation, the Sorceress followed the ghost into the shadows. icholas Flamel sat in front of the two matching LCD computer screens. William Shakespeare sat on his left while Josh hovered over their shoulders, trying to keep as far away from the En
glish immortal as possible and breathe only through his mouth. When Shakespeare moved, he trailed an odor in his wake, but when he sat still, the stink gathered around him in a thick cloud. Palamedes and Sophie had gone outside to feed the dogs.

  "Trust me; it is quite simple," Shakespeare explained patiently, eyes huge behind his glasses, "the merest variation of the scrying spell Dee taught me over four hundred years ago."

  "Should I mention at this point that the computer is turned off?" Josh interjected, suddenly realizing what apparently no one else had. "Only the screens are on."

  "But we only need the screens," Shakespeare said enigmatically. He looked at the Alchemyst. "Dee always used a reflective surface for scrying…"

  "Scrying?" Josh frowned. He'd heard Flamel use the same word. "What do you mean?"

  "From the ancient French word deserter," Shakespeare murmured, "meaning 'to proclaim' or 'to show.' In Dee's case, it meant 'to reveal.' When I was with him, he carried a mirror everywhere."

  Flamel nodded. "His famous 'shew-stone,' or magical lens. I've read about it."

  "He demonstrated it to Queen Elizabeth herself at his home at Mortlake," Shakespeare said. "She was so terrified by what she saw that she ran from the house and never returned. The doctor could look into the lens and focus in on people and places across the world."

  Flamel nodded. "I've often wondered what it was."

  "That sounds like TV," Josh said quickly. And then he realized he was talking about something in the seventeenth century.

  "Yes, very like television, but without a camera at the other end to transmit the picture. It was a scrap of Elder technology," Shakespeare added, "a gift from his master. I believe it was an organic lens activated by the power of his aura."

  "Whatever happened to it?" Flamel wondered aloud.

  Shakespeare smiled, tight-lipped. "I stole it from him the night I ran away. I had a mind to keep it for myself and mayhap even use it against him. But then I realized that if it linked Dee to his master, it probably linked his master to me. I dropped it in the Thames at Southwark, close to where we later built the Globe Theatre."

  "I wonder if it's still there," Flamel muttered.

  "No doubt it is lost beneath centuries of silt and mud. But never mind that; Dee could-and did-use any highly polished surface to scry-mirrors, windows, glass, polished crystals-but then he discovered that liquids worked better. By applying his aura to a liquid, he could alter its properties, turn it reflective and use it to look at people and places from across the globe or from other times and places. With enough time and preparation, he could even look into the closest Shadowrealms. He could also use it to see through the eyes of animals or birds. They became his spies."

  "He is astonishing," Flamel agreed, shaking his head in wonder. "If only he'd chosen to work with us, against the Dark Elders."

  "The doctor usually used pure springwater, though I have known him to use snow, ice, wine or even beer. Any liquid will do." Leaning forward, Shakespeare tapped the black plastic frame around the computer screen. "And what do we have here… but liquid crystal?"

  The Alchemyst's pale eyes widened and he nodded slowly. From under the neck of his T-shirt, he pulled the tiny pair of pince-nez he wore around his neck on a string and popped them onto his nose. "Of course," he whispered. "And the properties of liquid crystal can be altered by applying an electrical or a magnetic charge. That changes the orientation of the crystals." He snapped his fingers and a tiny green spark no bigger than a pinprick appeared on his index finger. The foul-smelling hut was touched by the sharp fragrance of mint, and a curling smokelike pattern immediately rolled down both screens. Flamel moved his finger and both screens flashed white, then green, then abruptly turned into dull mirrors that reflected his face, framed by Shakespeare and Josh. "I would never have thought of that. That's genius!"

  "Thank you," Shakespeare muttered, sounding a little embarrassed by the praise, blotches of color on his pale cheeks.

  "What will you use as a mirror on the other end?" Flamel asked.

  "Spiderweb," the Bard said, surprisingly. "I've found that whether it be in a palace or a hovel, there are always spiderwebs. The threads are always sticky with liquid, and they make excellent magical mirrors."

  Flamel nodded again, obviously impressed.

  "Now all we need is something that links you to Madame Perenelle."

  Nicholas peeled off the heavy silver bracelet that wrapped around his right wrist. "Perenelle made this for me herself," he explained, laying it on the table. "A little more than a century ago, a masked bounty hunter chased us across America. His guns were loaded with silver bullets. I think he thought us werewolves."

  "Werewolves and silver bullets!" Shakespeare coughed a quick laugh and shook his head. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

  "I thought silver bullets worked against werewolves," Josh said, "but I'm guessing not?"

  "No," Flamel said. "I've always preferred vinegar."

  "Or lemon," Shakespeare said, "and pepper is a very reasonable alternative." He saw Josh's puzzled look and added, "Spray it on them or throw it into their eyes and nose. They will stop and sneeze and that will give you time to escape."

  "Vinegar, lemon and pepper," Josh muttered. "I'll remember to add them to my werewolf-hunting kit. And if I don't find any werewolves, I can always make a salad," Josh said sarcastically.

  Shakespeare shook his head. "No, no, you would need a good olive oil for a salad," he said seriously, "and olive oil is ineffective against any of the Wereclans."

  "Though very useful against bruxa and strega," Flamel murmured absently as he created swirling fractal-like patterns on the two LCD screens.

  "I was not aware of that," Shakespeare said. "And how would one use-"

  "What happened to the bounty hunter?" Josh interrupted, frustrated, trying to bring the conversation back on track.

  "Oh, Perenelle ended up rescuing him from a tribe of Oh-mah."

  "Oh-mah?" Josh and Shakespeare asked together.

  "Sasquatch… Saskehavis," Flamel said, and for an instant, an image of a tall, primitive-looking, powerfully built human appeared on the screen. It was covered in long reddish hair and carried a huge club made from a gnarled tree root. "Big Foot," he added.

  "Big Foot. Of course." Josh shook his head. "So you're saying there are Big Foot-Big Feet-in America?"

  "Of course," Flamel said dismissively. "When Perenelle rescued the bounty hunter from the Oh-mah," he continued, stroking the bracelet, "he presented her with his silver bullets as a gift." A green spark crawled across the metal. "I watched her melt down the silver bullets with her aura and shape each link…" The scent of mint filled the hut again. Picking up the bracelet, the Alchemyst closed his fist around the metal band. "She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet."

  And abruptly both LCD screens blinked and the trio found they were looking at Perenelle Flamel. ven without de Ayala to guide her, the smell of mint would have drawn Perenelle deeper into the cells. Crisp and clean, it blanketed the stench of the decaying building and the ever-present tang of salt. There was another scent in Alcatraz now: the zoolike stench of too many animals crowded together.

  De Ayala stopped before the entrance to a cell and drifted to one side, revealing a huge intricate spiderweb filling the opening. The circular web glistened with trembling liquid droplets. The odor of mint was strongest here.

  "Nicholas?" Perenelle whispered, puzzled. It was the distinctive deliciously familiar scent of her husband's aura… but what was it doing here? She tried to peer beyond the web, into the cell. "Nicholas?" she whispered again.

  Abruptly, each individual droplet in the web shimmered and coalesced. The spider web turned briefly reflective, so that it was as if she were looking into a huge mirror, and then it faded and darkened, revealing the intricate pattern beneath. A crackling green thread curled across each delicate strand and she distinctly heard Nicholas's voice-"She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet"-th
e instant before the web came to glowing life again and three astonished-looking faces appeared out of the gloom, staring at her.

  "Nicholas!" Perenelle's voice was a ragged whisper. She fought hard to keep her aura from blazing. This was impossible-but then, that was the world she lived in. Instinctively, she knew this was a form of scrying, using the liquid on the spiderweb as a viewing source… and she also knew that her husband should not have been able to do this; he'd never mastered this particular art. But Nicholas was always surprising her, even after more than six hundred years of marriage. "Nicholas," she whispered. "It is you!"

  "Perenelle! Oh, Perenelle!"

  The joy in Nicholas's voice took her breath away. The Sorceress blinked back tears, then focused hard on her husband, examining him critically. The lines on his forehead had deepened, and there were new wrinkles around his eyes and nose, the bags under his eyes were bruise black and his hair was silvered, but it didn't matter: he was alive. She felt something shudder and relax inside her. The sphinx had taunted her that Nicholas was doomed; the Morrigan had said the Nidhogg was loose in Paris. Perenelle had been almost afraid to even think about Nicholas and what might have happened to him. But here he was: looking older, certainly; tired, definitely; but very much alive!

  The boy, Josh, was there also, just behind Nicholas. He too looked tired. His forehead was smudged and his hair wild, but otherwise he seemed well. She could see no sign of Sophie. And where was Scathach? Perenelle kept her face expressionless as she shifted her gaze to the man sitting beside her husband. He was vaguely familiar.

  "I've missed you," Nicholas said. He lifted his right hand, fingers spread wide. Half a world away, Perenelle unconsciously mimicked the gesture, her fingers matching his. She was careful not to touch the spider web, conscious that she might break the connection.