The Necromancer (9 page)

Josh felt his breath catch in his throat. Although he didn’t trust Nicholas and was unsure how he felt about Perenelle, the thought of them dying filled him with terror. He and Sophie needed the Flamels.

“We must get the Book of Abraham the Mage,” Perenelle repeated.

“Dee has the Codex,” Josh said. “He’s probably passed it on to his masters by now.”

Nicholas shook his head. “I doubt he’s had time to do that. Everything has happened so fast.” He handed Josh the carved wooden box. “Carry that for me, would you?” Josh grunted with the weight of the box; it was surprisingly heavy. “Think—the Magician has been close behind us from the moment he got the Codex last week. I don’t think he would have had time to give it to his Elder masters. And I think it unlikely he would carry it to England with him in his luggage. Logic says it’s probably still here in San Francisco.”

“Where?” Josh asked quickly. “Maybe we could steal it back.…” He stopped. Both Perenelle and Nicholas were shaking their heads.

“Even if we could,” the Sorceress said, “I’ll wager it is protected by more than human guards. Also”—she tapped the box in Josh’s arms—“we have more important things to do.”

“We have to find your sister,” Nicholas said.

“And destroy the creatures on Alcatraz,” Perenelle added.

Josh looked at them both in alarm. “But how are you going to do that? Won’t that use all your powers and age you? And kill you?” He added in a whisper.

“Yes,” Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel said in unison.

“And it is a price we are willing to pay,” Perenelle declared.

S
ophie regained consciousness, but she remained still, her eyes closed. Concentrating on her Awakened senses, she tried to create a mental picture of her surroundings from the sounds, smells and sensations that engulfed her. There was salt in the air, which wasn’t unusual in San Francisco, but this was a bitter, slightly sour odor, as if she was very close to the sea. The salt smell was touched with the tang of diesel fuel, which suggested that she might be in a port. Oddly, there was also the crisp smell of wood and the hint of spices in the warm, close air. Even before she felt the slight shifting movements beneath her and heard the faint slap of water against wood, she knew she was on a boat. She was lying down, not on a bed, but on something soft that held her tightly and raised her head and feet.

“I know you’re awake.”

The voice brought Sophie’s eyes open. Scathach! The shock of red hair was the only point of color in the dark room, and for a single instant, Sophie thought the woman was floating in midair. She struggled to sit up—she’d been lying in a hammock, she realized—and discovered that the woman was sitting cross-legged on a wooden box, her black clothing helping her to blend in with the darkened room. But as Sophie straightened, memories flooded back and she knew that this was not the Shadow. This was Aoife of the Shadows.

Sophie looked around, noting the heavy curtains covering the windows. One of the windows had been boarded up, and the rest were crisscrossed with thick metal bars.

“How did you know I was awake?” she asked, struggling upright in the hammock.

“I heard the change in your breathing,” Aoife answered simply.

Sophie maneuvered herself to the edge of her swinging perch. Dangling her legs, she looked at the figure sitting on the box. The resemblance to Scathach was startling—the same bright red hair, the same brilliant green eyes and pale skin—but there was something about the jut of her jaw that set her apart from her sister. And while Scatty had tiny laugh lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, Aoife’s face was smooth.

“You are not frightened?” Aoife asked, tilting her head slightly to one side.

“No,” Sophie said with sudden realization. “Should I be?”

“Perhaps if you knew me …”

Sophie was about to say that she knew all about Aoife, but that would mean revealing that the Witch of Endor had passed on her memories, and she still didn’t want Aoife to know that. “I know your sister,” she said instead.

“I am not my sister,” Aoife said, her accent changing, revealing hints of her Celtic background.

“Who do you serve?” Sophie asked.

“Myself.”

“Elders or Dark Elders?” Sophie persisted.

Aoife’s hands moved in a dismissive gesture. “The terms are meaningless. Good or bad is a matter of perspective. I met an immortal humani once, a man called William Shakespeare, who wrote that there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”

Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. She wasn’t about to tell Aoife that she’d actually met the famous bard only the day before yesterday. “Why did you kidnap me?”

“Kidnap you?” Aoife’s eyes widened in surprise and then her lips curled. “I suppose I did. I just needed to talk to you without interruption.”

“We could have talked on the street.”

“I wanted to talk in private. You could have invited me in.”

Sophie shook her head. “No, I wasn’t going to do that. My brother will find you,” she added.

Aoife laughed dismissively. “I doubt that. I had a brief encounter with him—he is powerful, but unskilled.” Then, with a touch of what might have been awe in her voice, she asked, “He is Gold?”

“And I’m Silver,” Sophie said proudly.

“The twins of legend.” Aoife sneered disbelievingly.

“You don’t believe that?”

“Do you know how many twins of legend there have been?”

“I know that there’ve been others …,” Sophie said cautiously.

“Many others. And do you know where they are now?”

Sophie started to shake her head, though she knew the answer.

“These gold and silver auras are not gifts. They are a curse,” Aoife snapped. “They will destroy you and everyone around you. I have seen entire cities laid to waste to kill just one twin.”

“The Alchemyst said that the Dark Elders—”

“I have told you: there are no Dark Elders,” Aoife snapped. “There are just Elders, neither good nor bad. Just a race of beings we now call Elders. Some encourage the humani, others despise them: that is the only difference between them. And even those guardians of humanity often change their allegiances. Do you think my sister was always the champion of the new humani race?”

The question shocked Sophie into silence. She wanted to refute the suggestion, but the Witch’s insidious memories trickled into her consciousness and she caught hints and glimpses of the truth—the real truth—about Scathach and why she was called the Shadow.

“I need you to tell me …,” Aoife began.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Sophie asked suddenly.

The question caught Aoife by surprise. “Of course not.”

“Good.” Sophie slipped out of the hammock and dropped to the floor. She swayed slightly. “I need something to eat,” she interrupted. “I’m starving. Do you have any crackers or fruit?”

Aoife blinked. She flowed to her feet and stood in front of the girl. “Well, no, actually. I don’t eat. Not food … not as you would recognize it, anyway.”

“I need some food. Real food. No meat,” she added quickly, her stomach rebelling even at the thought. “And no onions either.”

“What’s wrong with onions?” Aoife asked.

“I don’t like the taste.”

The houseboat was moored in the bay at Sausalito. It was a long rectangular wooden box—like the upper story of a house set directly onto the water. It had been painted and repainted green—each time with a different shade of the color—but the sea air and time had stripped the surface and the paint now hung in long peeling sheets, revealing the mottled wood beneath. There was no engine, and it was clear that the houseboat hadn’t moved from its moorings in years.

Sophie and Aoife sat on the deck in two white plastic chairs. Sophie had already eaten two bananas, an orange and a pear and was now slowly munching her way through a pound of grapes, flicking the seeds into the water.

“I am not your enemy,” Aoife began. “Nor am I your friend,” she added hastily. “I just want to know what has happened to my sister.”

“Why do you care?” Sophie asked curiously, glancing sidelong at the red-haired woman. Although Aoife’s eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, the girl could feel them drill into her. “I thought you haven’t spoken in centuries.”

“She is still my sister. She is … family. She is my responsibility.”

Sophie nodded. She understood that. She’d always felt she had a responsibility to look after her brother—even though he was perfectly capable of looking after himself. “How much do you know about what’s happened in the past few days?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Aoife said, surprising her. “I felt Scathach go and I came here immediately.”

“Where were you?”

“In the Gobi Desert.”

Sophie squeezed a seed between her fingers and watched it arc into the water. “But that’s in Mongolia, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Scatty only disappeared yesterday. You must have used leygates to get here.”

Aoife nodded. “I used a little trick your friend Saint-Germain taught me a long time ago: he showed me how to see the gold and silver leygate spires. I used the gates to leap from Mongolia to the Ise Shine in Japan, to Uluru in Australia, then Easter Island and finally on to Mount Tamalpais.” She leaned forward and tapped Sophie on the knee. “I hate leygates.”

“Scatty said they make her seasick.”

Aoife sat back and nodded. “Aye, that’s just how they make me feel.”

Sophie twisted around to where the Japanese man who had driven the limo was scraping paint from the wall of the houseboat. “Did he come with you from Japan?”

“Who? Niten? No, he lives here in San Francisco. He is an immortal human and we are old friends,” she added with a hint of a genuine smile. “This is his houseboat.”

“Looks like he hasn’t been here for a while.”

“Niten travels,” Aoife said simply. “He wanders the Shadowrealms.”

Sophie looked again at the Asian man. She had initially assumed he was in his late teens or early twenties, but now she could make out the faint lines around his eyes, and she noticed that his wrists and knuckles were thick: the sure signs of a martial artist. He was stripping old paint from the wood with smooth, fluid movements.

“Tell me what happened to my sister.”

Sophie turned back to Aoife and put down the grapes. “All I can tell you is what Nicholas told me and Josh yesterday, and he heard it from Saint-Germain. Scathach and Joan of Arc were preparing to jump from Paris to Mount Tamalpais to attempt to rescue Perenelle, who was trapped on Alcatraz …”

Aoife held up her hand. “What has Joan of Arc got to do with this?”

“She’s married to Saint-Germain.” Sophie grinned at the look of surprise on Aoife’s face. “You didn’t know? I think they got married recently.”

“Joan of Arc and Saint-Germain,” Aoife murmured, shaking her head. “Did you hear that?” she said, without raising her voice.

“I thought you knew,” Niten said, and although his voice was barely above a whisper, it carried clearly. He continued to peel long strips of flaking paint off the side of the houseboat.

“How would I know?” Aoife snapped. “No one tells me anything.” She twisted in her seat to look at Niten. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never liked the Frenchman, and I knew you would dislike the Frenchwoman even more because your sister made her immortal with her blood.”

“She did?” Aoife looked horrified. “Joan carries my sister’s blood within her?”

“You didn’t know about this?” Sophie asked, surprised.

The red-haired woman shook her head. “I did not. What happened?”

“Joan was condemned to be burned at the stake. Scathach single-handedly rode into the city and rescued her, but Joan was injured in the escape. The only way to save her life was to give her a blood transfusion,” Sophie explained.

Aoife leaned forward, elbows on her knees, long pale fingers locked together. “Tell me about my sister. What happened to her?”

“I don’t know much more,” Sophie said. “Apparently, they were going to use the leygate at Notre Dame, but it was sabotaged. Saint-Germain found traces of mammoth dust around the spot. Nicholas thinks Machiavelli was responsible. Instead of landing on Mount Tamalpais today, it looks as if they’ve been dropped sometime in the past.”

“How far in the past?”

“Nicholas and Saint-Germain think the mammoth bones mean the Pleistocene era. So that could be anywhere from one point eight million years ago to just over eleven thousand years ago.”

Sophie watched in astonishment as Aoife visibly relaxed. “Oh, that’s not too bad, then. If that’s all that’s happened, we can go back and rescue them.”

“How?” Sophie demanded.

“There are ways.” Aoife looked over at Niten. “Perhaps it’s time we talked to the Alchemyst and his wife, to see if they have any further information. Do you know where they are?”

“Yes,” Niten said simply as he scraped away the paint.

“Would you like to tell me?” Sophie could clearly hear the annoyance in her voice.

The slender man raised his chin toward the shore, and Sophie and Aoife turned to see a bright red Thunderbird pull up to the dock in a cloud of dust. “Right here.”

W
ith his long hair tied back in a tight ponytail, head covered in a stained Dodgers baseball cap, eyes huge behind thick glasses, and wearing clothes at least two sizes too large for him, the Comte de Saint-Germain shuffled unnoticed through the Arrivals Hall at London’s Heathrow airport. Stepping out into the cool damp evening air, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

There was one message. Number withheld. It said simply: Level 3, space 243.

He turned and headed into the parking structure, taking the stairs up to level three. He was moving quickly, checking the numbers, when a dark shape detached itself from the shadows and fell into step alongside him. “Looking for a taxi, sir?”

“Palamedes,” Saint-Germain whispered, “don’t do that. You could have given me a heart attack.”

“Hardly. You knew I was there, didn’t you?”