The Warlock (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #5) (21 page)

“Returned? Who are you? You’re crazy.…”

“Not anymore.” The man smiled, and Mo discovered that his mouth was filled with huge incisors that curled like savage vampire fangs. A black forked tongue slid out between the fangs. “Tell your friends that Mars Ultor has returned.” Then he grabbed Mo by the front of his shirt, lifted him off the ground and tossed him the length of the alleyway to land on top of his friend. The car alarm died with a squawk.

And Mars Ultor shuffled back onto Broadway, in search of Scott Street and Tsagaglalal.

ophie knew instinctively that what Perenelle was asking of her was wrong, though she was not entirely sure why. The vaguest of thoughts and memories flickered and danced in her mind, but with the Sorceress’s bright green eyes focused on hers, it was hard to concentrate. “You want me to give you my aura?”

“Yes, just a little.…”

“How … why?” Sophie made no move to take the Sorceress’s outstretched hand.

“You are Silver, Sophie, and immensely powerful,” Perenelle explained. “You will put your hand in mine and I will draw upon the strength of your aura to supplement mine while I transfer some of my life force into my husband. I could probably do it on my own, but there are some dangers that my aura could overwhelm me and I would spontaneously
combust. With you and Tsagaglalal by my side, supporting me, I will be safe.”

“Sophie,” Tsagaglalal said very softly, “do it. It is for the best.”

“What will you do?” the young woman asked, still wary.

“Wrap Nicholas in my aura.”

Sophie struggled to focus. She was reminded of how the Witch of Endor had wrapped her in air. Although she’d never thought of it before, she realized now that it must have been more than air—Zephaniah had blanketed Sophie in her aura and had transferred not just a portion of her powers, but her knowledge and memories as well.

“Sophie, we do not have much time,” Perenelle said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “I cannot do this alone.”

“Sophie,” Tsagaglalal said evenly. “Nicholas is dying.”

Still uncomfortable with the idea, Sophie stretched out her right hand and Perenelle took it in hers. Her grip was strong, and there were calluses on her fingertips and palm.

Instantly Sophie experienced a rush of memories she knew were not hers, and it hit her that this was why she’d been reluctant to allow Perenelle to tap into her aura. After the events of the past few days, Sophie did not completely trust the Sorceress. And while there was a lot she wanted to know about Perenelle, there were certain memories, thoughts and ideas that the Witch of Endor had shared with her that she didn’t want the immortal to have access to. There was no reason not to tell her. But if the events of the last few days had taught her anything, they had taught her to trust her instincts.

“The scarab, Tsagaglalal,” Perenelle said.

Sophie turned to watched Aunt Agnes lift the incredibly detailed carved scarab beetle from the wooden shelf and cup it in both hands. The moment she touched it, the object started to glow with a warm green light and Tsagaglalal’s white aura shimmered, streaked with threads of luminescent jade. The beetle throbbed emerald-green and suddenly all traces of age fell away from the old woman and she was once more young and extraordinarily beautiful. It pulsed again and Tsagaglalal reverted to the person Sophie knew as Aunt Agnes.

Sophie looked at the woman, and remembered …

… Tsagaglalal sitting across a checkered table from a man wearing a golden mask over half of his face … except this was no mask. His flesh was hardening to metal. Cupped in his hands—one of flesh, the other gold—was the scarab. He placed it gently into Tsagaglalal’s hands, folding her fingers over it. “You are Tsagaglalal,” he said, his voice a deep rumble, “She Who Watches. Now and forevermore. The future of the humani is here in your hands. Guard it well.”

Sophie blinked and saw …

… Tsagaglalal standing before two almost identical red-haired and green-eyed teenage girls: Aoife and Scathach. The girls were dressed as warriors, in the decorated buckskin of the Great Plains. Behind them, smoke rose over a huge battlefield, which was littered with the bodies of creatures that were neither man nor beast but something caught in between. One of the girls, smaller than her sister, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, stepped forward to accept the jade scarab from the woman known to the tribe as She Who Watches. Then the
girl turned and raised the scarab high, and the gathered army screamed her name: “Scathach!”

Sophie watched the images shift and swirl as …

… Aoife, clad in black and gray, leapt out of a tower window and fell into an icy moat. Just before she disappeared under the slate-gray water, she held aloft the jade carving she’d just stolen
.

Sophie was aware that time was racing by, months and years flickering past in seconds. Now the freckle-faced red-haired girl had become a young woman and …

… Scathach, dressed in furs and leather, raced through a bamboo forest, huge black arrows raining down around her. She held a thickly curved sword in one hand and the scarab in the other. Behind her, Aoife crashed through the bamboo at the head of an army of blue-skinned monsters
.

The memories were flooding in, images crowding fast one after the other, of …

… Scathach kneeling before a boy wearing the royal robes of Egypt, her arms outstretched to present him with the green jade
.

… and Scathach again, standing over the unmoving body of the same boy. His arms were crossed on his chest, and she gently extricated the scarab from stiff fingers. She brought it to her lips and kissed it and shed bloodred tears for her friend, the boy-king Tutankhamen. There were shouts and the Shadow turned and then leapt out the window even as the king’s Nubian guards burst into the room. They pursued her across the desert for three days before she escaped
.

More images, impossibly fast, fragments of faces and places—and then, abruptly, there was …

… Perenelle, in the elegant costume of the nineteenth century, with Nicholas by her side, accepting a striped ribbon-bound box from Scathach, who was wearing a man’s military costume, a sword on her hip. “Why, you have given me a dung beetle,” the Frenchwoman said with a laugh when she opened the box
.

Sophie blinked and saw …

… Perenelle, now in the costume of the early twentieth century, wearing a cloche hat, presenting the same ribbon-bound box to Tsagaglalal, She Who Watches. Behind them, the ruins of San Francisco smoldered and smoked in the aftermath of a terrible earthquake
.

The memories faded and Sophie opened her eyes and watched as the old woman handed the scarab to Perenelle. “I have known this object for ten thousand years,” Tsagaglalal said, “and although it was often out of my possession, it always returned to me, sooner or later. I’ve often wondered why. Was I—and were all the other Guardians—keeping it safe for just this very moment?”

Perenelle looked up. “I thought you, of all people, would know.”

Tsagaglalal shook her head. “When he gave it to me, he said I was holding the future of the human race in my hands. But he often said things like that. He could be very dramatic at times.”

The Sorceress looked at the carving, turning it to the light to admire the details. “When Scathach gave this to me for my five-hundredth birthday, I teased her that she had given me a dung beetle. The Warrior answered, ‘Dung is more valuable than any precious metal. You cannot grow food in gold.’ ”
Perenelle looked over at Tsagaglalal. “I did not realize then just how valuable and ancient it was.”

Tsagaglalal shook her head. “Neither did I, though he gave it to me on the day before he presented me with the Book.”

Sophie frowned. “Who gave you the scarab and the Book?” A name flickered in her mind. “Was it Abraham the Mage?”

Tsagaglalal nodded sadly, then smiled. “Yes, it was Abraham, though I never called him Mage. It was a title he hated.”

“What did you call him?” Sophie asked. Her heart was suddenly beating so fast, it left her breathless.

“I called him husband.”

illy the Kid darted from one side of the hall to the other, looking into the cells at the menagerie of sleeping creatures. “I mean, I’ve lived on this earth for a very long time, and I’ve never seen anything like that.” He was looking at a muscular blue-skinned man with a mass of wiry black hair and two curled horns growing out of his head. “Have you?” he asked Niccolò Machiavelli.

Machiavelli glanced quickly into the cell. “It’s an oni,” he said. “A Japanese demon,” he added, before Billy could ask. “The blue-skinned ones are very unpleasant, but the red-skinned ones are even worse.” The Italian continued down the grim prison corridors, hands clasped behind his back, cold gray eyes fixed directly ahead of him.

“You’re having those deep thoughts, those dark thoughts again,” Billy said, lowering his voice as he fell into step alongside the dark-suited immortal.

“So you’re a mind reader now.”

“A body reader. Staying alive in the Old West meant watching how people stood and moved, interpreting their little twitches and looks, knowing who was likely to pull a gun and who’d back down. I was very good at it,” the American said proudly. “And I always knew when someone was going to do something stupid,” he added very softly.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Machiavelli said quietly. “I have given my master my word, and I will stick to that: I will awaken the beasts and loose them on the city.”

“But you’re not happy about it, are you?”

Machiavelli flashed a quick look at Billy.

“I mean, seeing what’s in these cells, I’m not sure I want them wandering free in any city,” the Kid said, his voice little more than a whisper. “These are all carnivores and blood drinkers, aren’t they?”

“Never met a vegetarian monster,” Machiavelli said. “But yes, most of these are flesh eaters. Some of the most human-looking, however, feed off the dark energy of dreams and nightmares.”

“Do you want them free in San Francisco?” Billy asked quietly.

Machiavelli remained silent, but he shook his head slightly, and his lips formed a word he did not speak aloud.
No
.