The Necromancer (14 page)

“I have never had your dangerous curiosity,” she said.

The Magician smiled. “We learn through curiosity.” Leaning his elbows on the metal rail, he looked at the barred entrance to the pool. “If I could use my powers, I could—”

“If you even think about using your powers, you will draw everything in this city right here,” Dare reminded him, “and this time, I won’t rescue you.”

Dee looked at her quickly. “You? Rescued me? Is that what you think you did?”

Virginia twirled the flute like a baton in her fingers. “I rescued you. You might have been able to fight one or two of them—but there were hundreds of the creatures closing in on you. Every cucubuth clan in Europe must be in the city. I even saw some rogue Torc Madra in there, and you know how dangerous the dogmen are. You would have been captured, and most of you would have been delivered to your masters.”

“Most of me?” Dee swallowed hard at the sudden image.

Virginia’s smile was savage. “I’m sure they’d have taken a few bites out of you on the way. Just a little taste.”

Dee shuddered. “I hate cucubuths.”

“And you can be assured that at this moment, they hate you too. Your enemies are multiplying by the hour.”

“You’re their enemy too,” Dee said.

“Not I.” Virginia twirled the flute again. “They never even saw me. They’ll blame you.”

Dee shook his head in admiration. “I had forgotten what a ruthless foe you are. We should have joined forces generations ago; together we could have ruled the world.”

“We still can,” Dare agreed, “but right now you need to work out a way to open the gates. We’re being watched.”

Dee didn’t move; only the sudden tightening of his shoulders betrayed his tension. “Where? Who?”

The woman nodded into the reflective black water in front of them.

Dee looked, staring hard, before finally saying, “Two birds, flying high … and yet birds don’t fly at night, and certainly not in perfect circles.”

“Too high to see what they are,” Virginia said, “but I’ll wager they’re ravens.”

“Ravens?” Dee licked his lips nervously. “Well, there are ravens in the Tower of London …”

“Whose wings are clipped so they cannot fly,” Virginia reminded him. “These birds are not natural. Which means …”

“Odin’s birds,” Dee whispered.

“Which also means that Odin’s wolves, Geri and Freki, are probably not far behind.” Virginia smiled sweetly. “What are they called, again? Oh, yes: Ravenous and Greedy. I’m so glad they’re not hunting me.”

Abruptly, the English Magician’s aura blazed bright yellow around him, painting the walls in amber light and black shadow; the stench of sulfur polluted the night air.

“What are you doing?” Virginia Dare cried in alarm. “You’ve betrayed our location!” Even as she was speaking, the sound of distant howls and triumphant screaming filled the sky. The cucubuths had awakened.

“I killed Hekate and destroyed the World Tree,” Dee snapped. “Odin loved her. He won’t want to capture me for the Elders, he’ll want to destroy me, and he’ll take a long time doing it. The time for subtlety and subterfuge is past: we need to get out of here now!” Dee’s yellow aura rolled off his body and onto the dark water, instantly freezing it to foul yellow ice. The Magician leapt over the edge of the rail and landed surefootedly on the frozen surface. It creaked, and a tiny network of cracks appeared beneath his feet, but it held. The Magician looked up at the woman. “Last chance to make up your mind.”

“Have I a choice now?” Dare’s pretty face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. “I’m tainted with your stink.” She sailed lightly over the edge of the rail and landed beside the Magician. Stepping close, she pressed the end of the flute against Dee’s throat, pushing hard against his Adam’s apple, driving his chin up and his head back. The Magician tried to swallow, but failed. “Do not betray me, John Dee,” Virginia Dare whispered. “Do not make the mistake of adding me to your list of enemies.”

“I made you promises,” Dee gasped out.

“Make sure you keep those promises: I want to rule this world.”

Dee started to nod … but suddenly became aware of the two huge ravens plummeting silently out of the night sky, pointed beaks and razor claws extended.

J
osh sat beside Niten, who steered the black town car with his left hand. His right hand cradled a long dagger in a black-lacquered case that rested on his lap. In the seats behind, Nicholas was slumped beside Perenelle; Sophie and Aoife sat facing them. The Alchemyst’s eyes were closed and his head was resting on Perenelle’s shoulder, his fingers lightly touching the back of her hand.

“How long has he left?” Aoife asked bluntly.

Flamel’s pale eyes opened and he straightened. “Long enough,” he answered, his voice cracking. He coughed and tried again, his voice stronger. “And he’s not dead yet, and certainly not deaf.”

Aoife bared her teeth in a quick smile and, in that instant, was the image of her sister.

“Why are you here?” Perenelle snapped.

“I want my sister back,” Aoife said, her voice as icy as the Sorceress’s.

“It seems she may be trapped in the past,” Nicholas said.

“My uncle Prometheus will take me to Chronos; I’ll have him pull Scathach—”

“And Joan,” Perenelle said quickly.

“And Joan,” Aoife added reluctantly. “I’ll have him pull them both from the past and bring them back here.”

Sophie pushed up against the door and turned in her seat to look at the warrior. The name Chronos had filled her head with the Witch’s thoughts. The Witch of Endor knew the Elder Chronos, knew what he was and what he was capable of doing. She had bargained with him before and paid a terrible price. “Will Chronos not want some sort of payment?” she asked carefully, struggling to keep her voice level.

“He will.” Aoife shrugged and pushed her dark glasses up onto her nose again. “My uncle will take care of it. He is one of the most powerful of all the Elders,” she added proudly.

“And you expect Chronos to bring your sister and Joan through time because Prometheus asks him?” Flamel coughed a laugh. He tried to smile, but failed. “And if he refuses?”

Aoife exposed her savage vampire teeth. “Then I will speak with him myself. No one has ever refused me anything.”

“Except Scathach,” Sophie said very softly.

The red-haired warrior turned to look at the girl, and for a long time the only sound in the car was the humming of the tires on the road. “Except Scathach,” she acknowledged finally, a note of terrible loss in her voice.

“What happened?” Sophie asked.

Aoife blinked, and for an instant, her green eyes winked bloodred. Then she swiveled in her seat to look at Josh. “He is your twin,” she said. “What would you do if you lost him?”

“Lost him?” Sophie shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, lost him?”

“If he turned against you, hated you …”

Josh started to laugh, until he realized that the vampire wasn’t joking. “I would never …,” he began.

“That’s what Scathach said,” Aoife interrupted. She fixed her eyes on Sophie. “You did not answer my question: what would you do if you lost your brother, if he suddenly hated you? Would you give up on him?”

“Never,” Sophie whispered. The very thought was chilling and made her feel sick to her stomach.

Aoife nodded slowly, then sat back and closed her eyes, the palms of her hands resting flat on her thighs. “I lost Scathach, but I never gave up on her. I have spent ten thousand years in this Shadowrealm waiting for that single moment to tell her, to show her, that I never stopped loving her.”

The car turned onto the 101 heading north and picked up speed, the only sound the thrumming of the wheels on the road. Then Perenelle leaned forward and touched the vampire’s knee. The air crackled with static.

“You love your sister?”

“Yes.”

“She does not love you,” the Sorceress said quietly.

“It does not matter.”

They continued in silence and then Perenelle spoke very softly, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes shining wetly. “Perhaps we have misjudged you, and if we have, then I apologize.”

Aoife grunted a laugh. “No, you did not misjudge me, Sorceress. I am as bad as I’m made out to be.”

Josh turned in the front seat. “Hey, did you just say you’ve spent ten thousand years on this earth?”

Sophie nodded. She knew exactly what he was about to ask, and knew the answer.

“But you’re Scatty’s twin, and she said she was two thousand five hundred and seventeen years old. How can you be ten thousand?”

“Scathach lies,” Aoife said simply. She shook her head. “She’s a terrible liar. You wouldn’t want to believe a single word she tells you.”

“I
suppose Billy told you not to mention the tail?” Kukulkan said, sitting on a curved stone stool carved with hideous grinning faces. The brightly colored feathered tail coiled around his feet, the tip beating silently against the floor.

Niccolò Machiavelli sat back into an ornate hand-carved wooden throne, rested his elbows on its arms and brought the fingertips of both hands together before his face. A sense of calm settled over him, and the fact that they had not been killed immediately gave him reason to hope. Taking a slow deep breath, he composed himself before answering.

The Italian had been in situations like this before, when all that kept him from certain death were his wits and his skill with words. He had been an ambassador to the glittering courts of France and Spain, where a single wrong word or misplaced look could get a man killed. Later still, he had survived the deathly Papal court and the even more ruthless and dangerous world of the Borgias, where assassination and poisoning were commonplace. The Elder sitting opposite him, looking human in every respect—except for the tail and the solid black eyes—might be ten thousand and more years old, but Machiavelli had discovered that just about every being he had come across either in this world or in the nearby Shadowrealms, was driven by nearly the same needs and desires. Humani’s earliest myths were full of tales that revealed just how petty the gods could be. It was said that the gods had made man in their image. If so, then the humani had inherited all the faults and frailties of those same gods.

Kukulkan’s tail twitched as he waited for an answer.

Finally, Machiavelli smiled and said, “Billy may have suggested that I avoid the subject of the tail.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the American immortal close his eyes in dismay. “Though I have to say,” he added, “it is one of the finest tails I have ever seen.”

Billy the Kid’s eyes and mouth snapped open in horror. He had been standing behind the Italian’s right shoulder, facing the Elder, but now he slowly and carefully stepped aside. He’d been in enough shoot-outs to know that it was not a good idea to stand behind a target.

“And you have seen many tails?” the small man with the white beard said. His almost lipless mouth was a horizontal slash, and his solid black eyes fixed on Machiavelli’s face.

“Many, in both this world and the Shadowrealms. I have always had a fondness for beautiful things,” the Italian added. “I collected antiques for centuries, and for years one of my most prized possessions was an Abelam Yam Mask from Papua New Guinea. It was adorned with the most magnificent bird-of-paradise plumes.”

“A beautiful bird,” Kukulkan agreed.

“Though I do believe yours is the finer plumage,” Machiavelli added.

“If I thought you were attempting to flatter me, I would strike you dead on the spot.” The old man’s face shifted subtly.

Billy took another step away.

“You want to know whether I am lying?” Machiavelli asked.

Kukulkan tilted his head to one side, listening.

“Are your feathers more beautiful than the plumage of the bird-of-paradise?” Machiavelli asked.

“Why, of course,” the Elder agreed.

“So I was merely stating a fact. I have found that the truth is usually the simplest way,” the immortal said. “Fools lie, clever men stick to the truth.”

“Your master said you were … complex,” Kukulkan said after a long pause.

“I was unaware that you knew my master,” Machiavelli said. “Though I should not be surprised; I suppose most of the Elders know one another.”

“Not all,” Kukulkan answered. “I am still occasionally shocked when someone I have not heard of in millennia reappears in this Shadowrealm.” He turned his head to look out the enormous window that took up one wall. From this angle, with his strong chin and hooked nose, he resembled the faces on the stone statues Machiavelli had seen carved into temples across South America. “Your master and I are related,” Kukulkan said softly, glancing over at the Italian, “not by blood or family, but by bonds forged in struggle and adversity. I am honored to call him brother.”

“Can I ask how you know my master?”

“In the terrible days after the sundering of Danu Talis, the survivors took to the remnants of our once-great fleet of metal boats. For many days, we floated adrift on seas boiling with lava, the air foul and stinking with brimstone while the heavens rained burning coals and boiling water. When my ship struck a newly created lava reef and sank, I was the sole survivor. Against his crew’s wishes, your master turned his boat around just to rescue me, even though I was a different clan and caste. He shared his food and water with me, and when I despaired, he regaled with me tales of the World That Was and the World to Come. He taught me that out of the destruction of Danu Talis a new world would form—a world neither better nor worse than the one which had been destroyed. Your master changed me, made me realize the potential in this new humani race. We needed them, he said, in order to survive. I believed him.” Kukulkan rose to his feet and wandered around the room, the tail rasping along on the ground behind him. “I still do.”

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Machiavelli could see that the huge room was filled with countless artifacts from the Aztec, Maya and Olmec cultures: stone carvings, etched squares of gold, elaborate jade masks and bejeweled black obsidian knives. Scattered among the antiques were pieces that were obviously Egyptian, some of them astonishingly similar to their Mayan counterparts.