The Magician (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #2) (33 page)

John Dee stared through the dirty windshield toward the Seine. A couple of miles downriver, just around the bend, the huge Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris would be slowly taking shape in the early dawn light. “I first met Nicholas and Perenelle in this city almost five hundred years ago. I was their student you didn’t know that, did you? That’s not in your legendary files. Oh, don’t look so surprised”, he said, laughing at Machiavelli’s stunned expression. “I’ve known about your files for decades. And my copies are even more up-to-date”, he added. “But yes, I studied with the legendary Alchemyst, here in this very city. I knew within a very short time that Perenelle was more powerful more dangerous than her husband. Have you ever met her?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes”, Machiavelli said shakily. He was astounded that the Elders or was it just Dee? knew about his secret files. “Yes. I met her just the once. We fought; she won”, he said shortly. “She made quite an impression.”

“She is an extraordinary woman; quite remarkable. Even in her own time, her reputation was formidable. What she would have achieved if only she’d chosen to side with us. I don’t know what she sees in the Alchemyst.”

“You never did understand the human capacity for love, did you?” Machiavelli asked softly.

“I understand that Nicholas survives and thrives because of the Sorceress. To destroy Nicholas, all we have to do is kill Perenelle. My master and I have always known that, but we thought that if we could capture both of them, their accumulated knowledge was worth the risk of leaving them alive.”

“And now?”

“It is no longer worth the risk. Tonight”, he added, very softly, “I finally did something that I should have done a long time ago.” He sounded almost regretful.

“John”, Machiavelli barked urgently, swiveling in the seat to look at the English Magician. “What have you done?”

“I’ve sent the Morrigan to Alcatraz. Perenelle will not see another dawn.”

J
osh finally caught up with the monster on the banks of the Seine.

He didn’t know how far he’d run, miles probably but he knew that he shouldn’t have been able to do it. He’d sprinted the entire length of the last street he’d thought the street sign said Rue de Marignan without any effort, and now, swinging left onto the Avenue Montaigne, he wasn’t even breathless.

It was the sword.

He’d felt it buzz and hum in his hands as he’d run, heard it whisper and sigh what sounded like vague promises. When he held it directly in front of him, toward the monster, the whispers grew louder and it visibly trembled in his hand. When he moved it away, they faded.

The sword was drawing him toward the creature.

Following the monster’s trail of destruction down the narrow street, racing past confused, shocked and horrified Parisians, Josh found strange and disturbing thoughts flickering at the very edges of his consciousness:

…he was in a world without land, swimming in an ocean vast enough to swallow whole planets, filled with creatures that made the monster he was chasing look tiny.

…he was dangling high in the air, wrapped in thick roots that bit into his flesh, looking down over a blasted, fiery wasteland.

…he was lost and confused, in a place filled with small buildings and even tinier creatures, and he was in pain, an incredible fire searing the base of his spine.

…he was…

Nidhogg.

The name snapped into his consciousness, and the shock that he was somehow experiencing the monster’s thoughts almost stopped him in his tracks. He knew the phenomenon had to be connected to the sword. Earlier, when the creature’s tongue had touched the blade, he’d glimpsed a snapshot of an alien world, shocking images of a bizarre landscape, and now, having stabbed the creature again, he caught hints of a life completely beyond his experience.

It dawned on him that he was seeing what the creature Nidhogg had seen at some time in the past. He was experiencing what it was feeling now.

It had to be connected to the sword.

And if this was Excalibur’s twin, Josh suddenly wondered, then did
that
ancient weapon also transfer feelings, emotions, and impressions when it was used? What had Dee felt when he had plunged Excalibur into the ancient Yggdrasill? What sights had he seen, what had he experienced and learned? Josh found himself wondering if that was the real reason Dee had destroyed the Yggdrasill: had he killed it to experience the incredible knowledge it contained?

Josh glanced quickly at the stone sword and a shudder ran through him. A weapon like this gave the wielder unimaginable powers and what a frightening temptation it was. Surely the urge to use it again and again to gain more and more knowledge would become uncontrollable? It was a terrifying thought.

But why had the Alchemyst given it to him?

The answer came immediately: because Flamel didn’t know! The sword was a dead lump of stone until it stabbed or cut something only then did it come alive. Josh nodded to himself; now he knew why Saint-Germain, Joan and Scatty would not touch the weapon.

As he raced down the street toward the river, he wondered what would happen if he managed to kill Nidhogg with Clarent. What would he feel, what would he experience?

What would he know?

Nidhogg burst through a stand of trees and darted across the road and down onto the Port des Champs-Elys es. It stopped in the parking lot on the quayside almost directly in front of Dee and Machiavelli and dropped onto all fours, huge head swaying from side to side, tongue lolling out of its mouth. It was so close they could see Scatty’s limp body caught in its claws and the Disir astride its neck. Nidhogg’s tail lashed, buffeting parked cars and smashing into a long tour bus, staving in the engine. A tire popped with a deep boom.

“I think we should get out of the car”, Dee began, reaching for the door, eyes fixed on the swinging tail as it flipped a heavy BMW onto its roof.

Machiavelli’s arm shot out, fingers closing on the Magician’s arm in a painful viselike grip. “Do not even think about moving. Do nothing that will attract its attention.”

“But the tail”

“It’s in pain, that’s why the tail is thrashing about. But it seems to be slowing down.”

Dee turned his head slightly. Machiavelli was correct: there was something wrong with Nidhogg’s tail. About one-third of its total length had turned black it looked almost stone like. Even as Dee watched, tendrils and veins of bubbling black liquid crept over the creature’s hard flesh, slowly encasing it in a solid crust. Dr. John Dee immediately knew what had happened.

“The boy stabbed it with Clarent”, he said, not even turning his head to look at Machiavelli. “That’s what caused the reaction.”

“I thought you said Clarent was the Sword of Fire, not the Sword of Stone.”

“There are many different forms of fire”, Dee said. “Who knows how the blade’s energy reacted with something like Nidhogg?” He stared at the tail, watching as more of the thick black crust grew on the skin. As it hardened, he caught a brief glimpse of red fire. “Lava crust”, he said, voice hushed in wonder. “It’s lava crust. The fire is burning
within
the creature’s skin.”

“No wonder it’s in pain”, Machiavelli muttered.

“You sound almost sorry for it”, Dee snapped.

“I never traded my humanity for my long life, Doctor. I’ve always remembered my roots.” His voice hardened, turned contemptuous. “You worked so hard to be like your Elder master that you’ve forgotten what it is like to feel human to be human. And we
humans”
he stressed the last word “have the capacity to feel another creature’s pain. It is what lifted humani above the Elders, it is what made them great.”

“And it’s the weakness that will ultimately destroy them”, Dee said simply. “Let me remind you that this creature is not human. It could crush you underfoot and not even notice. However, let us not argue now; not when we’re about to be victorious. The boy might have solved our problem for us”, Dee said. “Nidhogg is slowly turning to stone.” He laughed delightedly. “If it jumps into the river now, the weight of its tail will drag it to the bottom and take Scathach with it.” He looked slyly at Machiavelli. “I take it your humanity does not extend to feeling sorry for the Shadow.”

Machiavelli grimaced. “Knowing Scathach is lying at the bottom of the Seine wrapped in the creature’s claws would make me very happy indeed.”

The two immortals sat unmoving in the car, watching as the creature lurched forward, moving more slowly now, the weight of its tail dragging behind it. All that stood between it and the water was one of the glass-enclosed boats the bateaux-mouches that took tourists up and down the river.

Dee nodded toward the boat. “Once it climbs onto that, the boat will sink, and Nidhogg and Scathach will disappear into the Seine forever.”

“And what about the Disir?”

“I’m sure she can swim.”

Machiavelli allowed himself a wry smile. “So all we’re waiting for now…”

“…is for it to reach the boat”, Dee finished, just as Josh appeared through the gaping hole in the tree-lined quayside and darted across the parking lot.

As Josh raced up to the creature, the sword in his right hand began to burn, long streamers of orange fire curling off the blade. His aura started to crackle a matching golden color, suffusing the air with the smell of oranges.

Abruptly, the Disir slid off the monster’s back, flickering back into her white chain mail in the instant before her feet touched the ground. She rounded on Josh, her features locked into an ugly, savage mask. “You are becoming a nuisance”, boy, she snarled in barely comprehensible English. Lifting her great broadsword in both hands, she threw herself toward Josh. “This will just take a moment.”

H
uge sweeping banks of fog rolled across
San Francisco
Bay
.

Perenelle Flamel folded her arms across her chest and watched the night sky fill with birds. A great wheeling flock rose over the city, gathered in a thick moving cloud, and then, like tendrils of spilled ink, three separate streams of birds set out across the bay, heading directly for the island. And she knew that somewhere in the heart of the great flock was the Crow Goddess. The Morrigan was coming to Alcatraz.

Perenelle was standing in the burned-out ruins of the warden’s house, where she’d finally managed to escape the masses of spiders. Although it had burned more than three decades ago, she could smell the ghost-odors of charred wood, cracked plaster and melted piping lingering in the air. The Sorceress knew that if she lowered her defenses and concentrated, she would be able to hear the voices of the wardens and their families who had occupied the building through the years.

Shading her bright green eyes and squinting hard, Perenelle concentrated on the approaching birds, trying to distinguish them from the night and work out just how much time she had before they arrived. The flock was huge, and the thickening fog made it impossible to guess either size or distance. But she guessed she had perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before they reached the island. She brought her little finger and thumb close together. A single white spark cracked between them. Perenelle nodded. Her powers were returning, just not fast enough. They would continue to strengthen now that she was away from the sphinx, but her aura would recharge more slowly at night. She also knew that she was still nowhere near strong enough to defeat the Morrigan and her pets.

But that didn’t mean she was defenseless; a lifetime of study had taught her many useful things.

The Sorceress felt a chill breeze ruffle her long hair in the instant before the ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala flickered into existence beside her. The ghost hung in the air, taking substance and definition from a host of dust particles and water droplets in the gathering fog. Like many of the ghosts she’d encountered, he was wearing the clothes he had felt most comfortable in while he was alive: a loose white linen shirt tucked into knee-length trousers. His legs tapered away below his knees, and, like a lot of spirits, he had no feet. While they were alive, people rarely looked down at their feet.
“This was once the most beautiful spot on this earth, was it not?”
he asked, flat moist eyes fixed on the city of San Francisco.

“It still is”, she said, turning to look across the bay to where the city sparkled and glittered with countless tiny lights. “Nicholas and I have called it home for many years.”

“Oh, not the city!”
de Ayala said dismissively.

Perenelle glanced sidelong at the ghost. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “It looks beautiful.”

“I once stood here, close to this very spot, and watched perhaps a thousand fires burning on the shores. Each fire represented a family. In time I came to know all of them.”
The Spaniard’s long face grimaced in what might have been pain.
“They taught me about the land, and about this place, spoke to me of their gods and spirits. I think it was those people who bound me to this land. All I see now are lights; I cannot see the stars, I cannot see the tribes or individuals huddling around their fires. Where is the place I loved?”