The Sorceress (10 page)

Wind.

Wind had carried the insects onto the island … could Perenelle also use it to drive them away?

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Perenelle realized that she didn’t know enough of wind lore to control the element with precision. Perhaps if she’d had time to prepare and her aura were fully charged, she would have attempted to raise some type of wind—a typhoon, maybe, or a small tornado—in the heart of the island and sweep it clean of flies, and probably spiders, too. But she couldn’t risk it now. She needed to do something simple … and she needed to do it quickly. All the spiders had stopped moving. Millions of flies had died, but millions more remained, and they were swarming over Areop-Enap.

So if she couldn’t drive the flies off the island, could she lure them away? Someone was controlling the insects—a Dark Elder or immortal, who must have first poisoned them, then set the tiny mindless insects on the island. Something had drawn them here. Perenelle’s eyes snapped wide in realization. So something would have to draw them away. What would attract millions of flies?

What did flies like?

Behind the gauze web, Perenelle smiled. For her five hundredth birthday on the thirteenth of October in 1820, Scathach had presented her with a spectacular pendant, a single piece of jade carved into the shape of a scarab beetle.
More than three thousand years previously, the Shadow had brought it back from Japan for the boy king Tutankhamen, but he’d died a day after she’d presented it to him. Scathach had despised Tutankhamen’s wife, Ankhesenamen, and hadn’t wanted her to have it, so she’d broken in to the royal palace late one night just before the boy king was embalmed and taken it back. When Scathach had given her the jade, Perenelle had joked, “You’re giving me a dung beetle.”

Scathach had nodded seriously. “Dung is more valuable than any precious metal. You cannot grow food in gold.”

And flies were attracted to dung.

But there was no dung pile on the island, and to catch the flies’ attention, she would have to create an exceptionally strong odor. Perenelle immediately thought of the beautiful plants of the arum family. Some of them stank abominably of dung. There was the cactuslike desert herb the carrion flower: beautiful to look at, but it reeked of something long dead. And there was skunk cabbage, and the world’s largest flower, the giant rafflesia, the stinking corpse lily, with its putrid odor of rotting meat. If she could replicate that scent, she might be able to lure the flies away.

Perenelle knew that at the heart of all magic and sorcery was imagination. It was this gift for intense concentration that characterized the most powerful magicians; before attempting any great piece of magic, they had to clearly
see
the end result. So before she concentrated on creating the smell, she needed to think about a location that she could see in every detail. Places flickered at the edges of Perenelle’s consciousness. Places she had lived, places she knew. In her long
life she’d had the opportunity to visit so much of the world. But what she needed now was someplace reasonably close, a location she knew well, and one where there was not a huge human population.

The San Francisco Dump.

She’d only been to the dump on one previous occasion. Months ago, she’d helped one of the bookshop’s employees move to a new apartment. Afterward, they’d driven south toward Monster Park and the dump on Recycle Road. Always sensitive to smells, Perenelle had caught the distinctively acrid—though not entirely unpleasant—smell of the dump when they’d turned onto Tunnel Avenue. As they’d got closer, the stink had become eye-watering and the air had filled with the sound of countless seabirds calling.

Perenelle drew upon that memory now. Fixing the dump clearly in her imagination, she visualized a huge clump of stinking, corpse-smelling flowers in the very heart of the refuse and then she imagined a wind carrying the foul stink northward toward Alcatraz.

The stench of something long rotten wafted over the island and a rippling wave coursed through the massed flies.

Perenelle focused her will. She visualized the sprawling dump scattered with blooms: calla and carrion flowers poking through the rubbish, giant red and white spotted rafflesia thriving amid the junk, and the air filling with the noxious scents, mingling with the dump’s own fetid odor. Then she imagined a wind pushing the scent north.

The smell that washed over the island was eye-wateringly foul. A wave pulsed through the thick carpet of flies. Some
rose buzzing into the air, circled aimlessly but then dropped back onto Areop-Enap.

Perenelle was tiring, and she knew that the effort was aging her. Drawing in a deep breath, she made one final effort. She had to move the flies before the second swarm joined them. She concentrated so hard on the foul stench that her normally odorless ice white aura shimmered and took on the hint of putrefaction.

The sickening stink that flowed over the island was a nauseating mixture of fresh dung mixed with long-spoiled meat and the rancid odor of sour milk.

The flies rose from Alcatraz in a solid black blanket. They hummed and buzzed like a power station and then, as one, set off heading south toward the source of the stench. The departing insects encountered the second huge swarm as it was just about to descend on the island and both groups mingled in an enormous solid black ball; then the entire mass turned and flowed south, following the rich soupy scent.

Within moments, there was not a living fly left on the island.

Areop-Enap shook itself free of tiny carcasses and then slowly and stiffly climbed the wall, sliced the web holding Perenelle in place and lowered her gently to the ground on a narrow spiral of thread. Perenelle allowed her aura to flare for a millisecond and the cocoon of spiderweb, now dotted and speckled with trapped flies, crisped to dust. She threw back her head, pushed her damp hair back off her forehead and neck and breathed deeply. It had been suffocatingly warm in the web.

“Are you all right?” she asked, reaching out to stroke one of the Elder’s huge legs.

Areop-Enap swayed to and fro. Only one of its eyes was open, and when it spoke, its normally lisping speech was slurred almost beyond comprehension. “Poison?” it asked.

Perenelle nodded. She looked around. The ruins were thick with the husks of flies and spiders. She suddenly realized she was standing ankle-deep in the tiny corpses. When all this was over, she’d have to burn her shoes, she decided. “The flies were deadly. Your spiders died when they bit into them. They were sent here to kill your army.”

“And they succeeded,” Areop-Enap said sadly. “So many dead, so many …”

“The flies that attacked you also carried poison,” Perenelle continued. “Individually, their bites were unnoticeable, but Old Spider, you have been bitten millions—perhaps even billions—of times.”

Areop-Enap’s single open eye blinked slowly closed. “Madame Perenelle, I must heal. Which means I must sleep.”

Perenelle stepped closer to the huge spider and brushed the husks of dead flies from its purple hair. They crackled to dust at her touch. “Sleep, Old Spider,” she said gently. “I will watch over you.”

Areop-Enap staggered awkwardly into the corner of the room. Two huge legs swept a section of the floor clean of dead spiders and flies, and then it attempted to spin a web. But the silk was thin, threadlike and slightly discolored. “What did you do with the flies?” Areop-Enap asked, struggling to create more web.

“Sent them south on a wild-scent chase.” Perenelle smiled. Her right hand flashed out, her aura flared and Areop-Enap’s thin spider web suddenly grew and thickened. The Old Spider settled itself into the corner of the room in its nest and began again to spin a web around itself.

“Where?” Areop-Enap asked suddenly. Its single open eye was almost closed, and Perenelle could see where incalculable numbers of weeping sores had appeared on the creature’s body from the poisonous bites.

“The San Francisco Dump.”

“Few will make it there …,” Areop-Enap mumbled, “and those who do will find plenty to distract them. You saved my life, Madame Perenelle.”

“And you saved mine, Old Spider.” The huge ball of web was almost complete. The silk had already started to turn rocklike, and only a small hole at the top remained. “Sleep now,” Perenelle commanded, “sleep and grow strong. We are going to need your strength and wisdom in the days to come.”

With a tremendous effort, Areop-Enap opened all its eyes. “I am sorry to leave you alone and defenseless.”

Perenelle sealed the spider Elder into the huge cocoon of web, then turned and strode across the room. The tiniest breeze swept the floor clean before her. “I am Perenelle Flamel, the Sorceress,” she said aloud, unsure whether Areop-Enap could hear her. “And I am never defenseless.”

But even as she was saying the words, she clearly heard the note of doubt creep into her own voice.

n
the western shore of Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, a young-looking man sat on the hood of a bright red 1960 Thunderbird convertible. Short and slight, he was wearing blue jeans with the ends ragged and frayed and both knees worn to threads. The wolf’s-head graphic on his T-shirt was faded to little more than a ghostly pattern, and his cowboy boots were scuffed and needed new soles and heels. His unkempt appearance, long hair and stubbly beard were in stark contrast to the gleaming car he was sitting on, which looked as if it had just been driven out of the showroom. The young man had twenty-nine dollars and change in his wallet; the car was worth at least one thousand times that.

Next to him on the hood of the car was an ancient antique Anasazi pottery bowl, decorated in elegant black-and-white angular geometric patterns. A thick liquid filled the bowl, a mixture of honey, flaxseed oil and water, and reflected
in the liquid was the figure of Perenelle Flamel striding across Alcatraz, the black blanket of spider and fly corpses opening up before her in a wave.

So this was the legendary Perenelle Flamel. The young man moved his finger clockwise over the liquid and his bright blue eyes sparkled, turning briefly crimson, the hint of cayenne filling the air. The image of Perenelle zoomed in. He watched her stop and frown, the lines in her forehead deepening, and she looked around quickly, almost as if she knew that someone was watching her. He waved his hand and the liquid trembled, the image dissolving. Folding his arms across his thin chest, the man turned his face to the west, where Alcatraz was hidden in the gloom. It seemed as if everything he had heard about the woman was true: Perenelle was that most lethal of combinations, both beautiful and deadly.

He was momentarily at a loss. Should he attack again, or should he wait? Lifting his hand to his face, he breathed deeply and his aura glowed a deep purple-red, a shade darker than the Thunderbird, and the salt sea air was tainted with the odor of red pepper. He still had enough power left to do … what?

Calling the flies had been relatively easy; an Indian shaman had taught him that trick, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Poisoning the flies had been his Elder master’s suggestion, and his master had even supplied the pool of poisoned water in Solano County, north of the city. The plan was to destroy Areop-Enap’s army of spiders and murder the Elder. And it had almost succeeded. The mass of spiders were dead, and the Old Spider was very close
to death. But at the last minute something had drawn the flies away from Alcatraz in a great pulsing cloud. In the oily liquid in the scrying bowl, the young man had seen the silver-white flicker of Perenelle’s aura, and knew she’d been responsible. His thin face twisted in a grimace and he bit nervously into his bottom lip. He’d been assured that she was weakened, incapable of any display of her powers. Obviously, that information had been incorrect.

The thick liquid began to bubble and cloud, then to hiss and steam away; the scrying spell had a limited life span. Slipping off the hood of the car, the young man tossed the sticky remnants onto the ground, then carefully washed out the bowl with a bottle of water and dried it with a chamois cloth before putting it in the trunk of the car, nestling it in a small foam-filled metal suitcase. The bowl was one of the most precious objects he owned, and even when he’d been desperately poor, he’d never thought about selling it.