The Sorceress (42 page)

His situation was desperate and dangerous, but he could fix it. The key to his own survival was simple: he had to find Flamel.

He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of clean clothes, and made himself some tea, then went to look out over the city he controlled. Standing before the window, staring across the sprawling streets, he realized the enormity of the task before
him; he had no idea where the Alchemyst had taken the children.

He did have agents—both human and inhuman—in London. Next Generation and immortal mercenaries were on the streets. They all had the latest descriptions of the Alchemyst and the children, and he would add Palamedes and the Bard to that list. He would double—no, triple—the reward. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted the little group.

But he had no time.

Dee’s cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, then played the opening bars of the theme to
The X-Files.
He made a face; suddenly that didn’t seem so funny anymore. He put the cup of tea down, fished the phone out of his inside pocket and held it clenched in his fist before looking at the screen. It was the impossibly long and ever-changing number he’d been expecting. He was surprised it had taken them until now to get to him; maybe they’d been waiting for him to make a report. His finger hovered over the green Answer button, but he knew that the moment he hit it, the Elders would know his location. He doubted he’d live long enough to finish his tea.

Dr. John Dee returned the phone to his pocket unanswered and picked up his cup.

Then, a moment later, he plucked the phone back out and dialed a number from memory. His call was answered on the first ring. “I need a favor.”

Niccolò Machiavelli shot out of his chair. “
Favore?
” he said, unconsciously slipping into Italian.

“A favor,” Dee said in the same language. “No doubt you have heard about my little difficulty.”

“I’m looking at news of a fire in London,” Machiavelli told Dee cautiously, aware that everything he said could be recorded. “I guessed you were involved.”

“Flamel and the others fled in a car,” Dee continued. “I need to contain them.”

“So you are still pursuing them?” Machiavelli said.

“To my death,” the Magician said. “Which could be sooner than I wish,” he added. “But I am sworn to do my duty to my masters. You understand duty, Machiavelli, do you not?”

The Italian nodded. “I do.” He sat back in the chair. “What do you want me to do?” He glanced at the clock. It was 5:45 a.m. in Paris. “Be aware that I’m flying to San Francisco in a few hours.”

“I need you to make a phone call, that’s all.”

Machiavelli remained silent, unwilling to commit. He knew that this conversation could be very dangerous. His master and Dee’s were somehow opposed, but they both wanted the same thing: the return of the Dark Elders to the earth. And Machiavelli knew he must be seen to support that in every way possible. Once the Dark Elders returned, then the real power struggle for control of the planet would take place. Naturally, he was hoping that his master and his master’s followers would be triumphant, but if Dee’s masters
took control, then it might be useful to have Dee as an ally. Machiavelli grinned and rubbed his hands together; his scheming reminded him of the good old days of the Borgias.

“As head of the French secret service,” Dee continued, “you must have contacts with your British counterparts.”

“Of course.” He started nodding. He suddenly knew what the Magician was about to ask. “Let me contact them,” he said quickly. “I’ll inform them that the terrorists who attacked Paris are now in London. I am sure the British authorities will move swiftly to close the airports and train stations.”

“We need roadblocks and checkpoints, too.”

“That should be possible.” Machiavelli chuckled. “I will make that call now.”

Dee coughed slightly. “I am in your debt.”

“I know that.” Machiavelli grinned.

“Let me ask a final favor, then,” Dee said. “Could you delay informing our Elders of my location? Give me this one last day to find the Alchemyst.”

Machiavelli hesitated; then he said, “I’ll not tell your Elder,” he said, “and you know me to be a man of my word.”

“I do.”

“You have one final day,” the Italian began, but Dee had already hung up. Machiavelli sat back and tapped the phone against his lips. Then he started to dial a number. He had promised the Magician that he would not inform
his
Elder; but Machiavelli’s own Elder master would certainly want to know.

In London, bands of orange and pink shot through with purples and blacks appeared on the horizon. The Magician stared hard at the sky, his gray eyes picking up the colors, watching them intently while his tea grew cold in his hands. He knew that if he did not find the Alchemyst and the twins, then this could be the last sunrise he would ever see.

nce the sun had set, temperatures had fallen quickly, and the breeze whipping in off San Francisco Bay was cold and salty. From her position in the watchtower over the wharf, Perenelle peered down on the island. Although she was wearing bundles of clothing and had gathered all the blankets from the cells to wrap around her, she was still freezing. Her fingers and toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and she’d actually bitten down hard on a moldy blanket to keep her teeth from chattering.

She dared not use her aura to warm up—the sphinx had freed itself from its icy tomb and was prowling the island.

Perenelle had been standing before Areop-Enap’s cocoon looking for any sign of movement when she had smelled the distinctive scent of the creature on the salt air, a rancid mixture of snake and lion and musty feathers. A heartbeat later, de Ayala had blinked into existence before her.

“I know,” she said before he could speak. “Is all in readiness?”

“Yes,”
the ghost said shortly.
“But we tried this before …”

Perenelle’s smile was brilliant. “The sphinx are powerful and terrifying … but not terribly bright.” She wrapped a blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered with the chill. “Where is it now?”

“Moving through the shell of the Warden’s House. A hint of your odor must remain there. No offense intended, madame,”
he added quickly.

“None taken. That’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen to stay outdoors tonight. I’m hoping that the gusting wind will blow away any scent.”

“It is a good plan,”
de Ayala agreed.

“And how does the creature look?” the Sorceress wondered out loud. She patted Areop-Enap’s thick cocoon, then turned and hurried away.

The ghost smiled delightedly.
“Unhappy.”

The sphinx lifted a huge paw and put it down carefully, wincing as the most extraordinary sensation—pain—shot up her leg. She had not been injured in three centuries. Any wound would heal, cuts and bruises would quickly fade, but the memory of her injured pride would never go away.

She had been bested. By a
humani
.

Throwing back her slender neck, she breathed deeply and a long black forked tongue protruded from humanlike lips. The tongue flickered, tasting the air. And there it was: a hint, the merest suggestion of a humani. But this building was
roofless and open to the elements, constantly scoured by the sea breezes, and the trace was very faint. The female humani had been here. The creature padded over to a window. Right here, but not recently. A forked tongue tasted the bricks. She had rested her hand here. The head turned toward the huge opening in the wall. And then the humani had gone out into the night.

The sphinx’s beautiful human face creased in a frown. Folding tattered eagle’s wings tightly against her body, she pushed through the ruined house and out into the cool night.

She could not sense the humani’s aura. Nor could she smell her flesh.

And yet the Sorceress had to be on the island; she could not have escaped. The sphinx had seen the Nereids in the water and had smelled the fishy odor of the Old Man of the Sea lingering on the air. She had spotted the Crow Goddess perched like a hideous weathervane on top of the lighthouse, and though the sphinx had called out to her in a variety of languages, including the lost language of Danu Talis, the creature had not responded. The sphinx was unconcerned; some of the Next Generation, like herself, preferred the night; others walked in the sunlight. The Crow Goddess had probably been sleeping.

Despite her bulk, the sphinx moved swiftly down to the wharf, claws clicking on the stones. And here she caught the faintest wisp of the odor of a humani, the smell of salt and meat.

And then she saw her.

A movement, a shadow, a hint of long hair and a flowing dress.

With a terrifying screech of triumph, the sphinx set off after the woman. This time she would not escape.

From her high vantage point in the watchtower, Perenelle watched the sphinx race off after the ghost of a long-dead warden’s wife.

The merest suggestion of de Ayala’s face appeared out of the night, little more than a shimmering disturbance in the air.
“The ghosts of Alcatraz are in place. They will lead the sphinx away to the far end of the island and keep it busy down there for the rest of the night. Rest now, madame; sleep if you can. Who knows what the morrow will bring?”