The Necromancer (29 page)

“Where is he now?” Flamel rasped, trying to make sense of the images, the snatched glimpses of streets and landmarks.

Niten leaned over Aoife’s shoulder, squinting at the flickering color image. “Turning off Van Ness Avenue onto Bay Street.”

Perenelle looked up at Prometheus. “Who is he going to? There must be some Dark Elders in San Francisco.”

“Several,” he said matter-of-factly. “Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent, keeps a house here, but this is too subtle for him. Eris is here; she used to hang out in Haight-Ashbury and still keeps an apartment there, but her glory days are over. She hasn’t got this sort of power.” The Elder suddenly leaned forward. “Sophie, have you any control over your twin?”

She looked at him, her eyes dull with fatigue.

“Can you make him turn or look in a certain direction?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“See if you can get him to adjust the mirror. I want to see his eyes.”

Josh fiddled with the heater.

He turned on the radio but there was only static, so he rooted through the collection of CDs, but they were all by people he’d never heard of: Isao Tomita, Kodo and Kitaro. He adjusted the seat back and forth, up and down, checked the glove compartment, found a tin of mints that were two years past the expiration but ate them anyway, fiddled with the air conditioner, adjusted the electric side mirrors and then, finally, reached for the rearview mirror.…

His eyes were bloodred.

Reflected in the mirror, they hung in the air over the crystal skull, unblinking, unmoving, without a trace of pupil.

The wave of horror that struck Sophie was palpable. She was looking at her brother’s face, but these were the eyes of …

“Mars Ultor,” Prometheus said firmly. “The boy is in thrall to the Sleeping God.”

“Mars Awakened Josh,” Nicholas whispered, aghast.

“And so he controls him,” the Elder said.

“But where is he taking him?” the Alchemyst said.

“They’ve just turned onto Lombard Street,” Niten announced. “He’s going to Telegraph Hill.”

“Dee’s company, Enoch Enterprises has offices just below Coit Tower,” Perenelle said quickly, then added, as if she was thinking out loud, “but Dee is trapped in England. There is no way he could have gotten here.…”

“Are you sure?” Prometheus asked. “This is Dee we’re talking about now.”

Nicholas nodded. “Even if he booked a flight this morning, he’d still be in the air. He’s not in the city.”

“What about a leygate?” Aoife asked.

“There are only a few that could bring him here. And he hasn’t got the power to charge up the Stonehenge gate. Also, using his power would betray his location to his Dark Elder masters. And I’m not sure he’d want to do that.”

“He’s turned up Telegraph Hill,” Niten said. “That’s a dead end.”

In his dream state, Josh really had no idea where he was.

He’d driven through San Francisco, turning left and right, only vaguely aware of the street names—Van Ness Avenue, Bay Street, Columbus and Lombard. Some were almost familiar, but when he finally turned the car onto Telegraph Hill, he suddenly realized where he was: close to Coit Tower. Although the tower was within walking distance of Aunt Agnes’s house, he and Sophie had never managed to find the time to visit it. To his left, he could see the Bay Bridge, while on his right he saw expensive-looking houses and apartments. He drove on, and as the road rose, he could see the city, which was beginning to appear out of the fog.

The view was stunning, but he was completely bored with this dream. He wanted it to end so he could wake up. He was half tempted to drive the car off the road just to see what would happen.

Sophie wouldn’t like that.

Josh shook the thought from his head. When he looked back to the road, however, a woman had appeared. The instant he saw her, Josh knew she was there to meet him, and he was already slowing and turning into the curb as she raised a hand and smiled. He stopped and hit the switch that rolled down the window. She was young and pretty and was dressed in jeans and a fringed black suede jacket. A thick mane of jet-black hair flowed to the small of her back. And when the woman leaned in the window and smiled at him, Josh noticed that her eyes were the same color as his aunt Agnes’s, the same color as Dr. John Dee’s. He took a deep breath and was overwhelmed by the distinctive odor of sage.

And because this was a dream, the woman knew his name. “Hello, Josh Newman. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Virginia Dare,” Prometheus said grimly. “The killer.”

Sophie was the only one not to turn to look at the Elder. She focused on the woman’s face, seeing it through Josh’s eyes.

“Her master was a friend of mine,” Prometheus continued. “Because of her, he is dead.”

Nicholas looked at his wife. “Wasn’t Dare once associated with Dee?” he asked.

“A long time ago, but I don’t believe they’ve seen one another in centuries. Still, it cannot be a coincidence that she is here.”

“I agree,” the Alchemyst answered grimly. “There are no such things as coincidences.”

The images were flickering wildly now, fading in and out like a badly tuned television set. “I’m losing the connection,” Sophie whispered. She turned her head to look up at Aoife. “Help me. Please.”

The warrior’s strong hands tightened on the girl’s shoulders, holding her upright, pouring strength into her.

Josh followed the woman up to a smoked-glass door with the words Enoch Enterprises in fancy gold script on the glass. He saw her reach for the intercom button, but the door swung open wide before she had a chance to press it. And because this was still a dream, he was unsurprised to find a smiling Dr. John Dee waiting for him.

“Josh Newman, it is good to see you again. You’re looking well, and I understand you’re a Master of Fire now.” Dee stepped back. “Enter freely and of your own will.”

Without hesitation, Josh stepped through the door.

Nearly seventy miles away, in the last flickering ghostlike images, the silent watchers heard Dee ask, “So, Josh, how would you like to learn one of the most powerful of all the magics—something not even the legendary Nicholas Flamel could teach you?”

“That would be cool,” Josh said.

And then the door clicked shut and the image died.

Sophie drew in a deep shuddering breath and peeled her hands off the now-warm crystal skull. She slumped forward and would have fallen if Aoife had not been holding her. She looked at the Alchemyst. “What can Dee teach him that you can’t?” she rasped hoarsely, sick with worry.

Nicholas shook his head. “I’ve no idea. We studied very similar disciplines: alchemy, mathematics, astronomy, astrology, biology, medicine—” He stopped suddenly.

“Except?” Sophie asked.

“There is one.” All the color had drained from Nicholas’s face, and the dark rings under his eyes were pronounced. “There was one art I refused to learn—but one which Dee mastered and excelled in.”

“No!” Perenelle drew in a quick shocked breath.

“Necromancy,” the Alchemyst said. “The art of raising the dead.”

S
tanding at the prow of a speedboat bouncing across the icy waters of San Francisco Bay, Niccolò Machiavelli closed his eyes and allowed the salt spray to hide the sudden tears on his face.

When Machiavelli had still been mortal, his wife, Marietta, had once accused him of being an uncaring inhuman monster. “You will die lonely and alone, because you don’t care for anyone,” she’d screamed at him, and thrown an antique Roman plate at his head. He’d long since forgotten what the argument was about, but he’d never forgotten the words. And whenever he thought of them, he remembered Marietta, whom he had loved dearly and still missed, and he wept for her. He never minded the tears: they reminded him that he was still human.

He’d once thought that being immortal was an extraordinary gift.

And in the beginning it was. He had all the time in the world to plot and scheme, to lay plans that would take generations to complete. Working behind the scenes, he had shaped the destinies of a dozen European and Russian nations, had organized wars and revolutions and arranged peace treaties. He had backed leaders, funded inventors, invested in artists and designers. Then he had sat back and watched his grand plans unfold. But somewhere amid all the scheming and plotting, he had stopped thinking about the individuals he was manipulating. He thought of the humani—the humans—merely as objects to be pushed about like pieces on a chessboard.

He had served his Elder master devotedly, doing as he was told even when he disagreed with his orders. Initially, he had believed—because it was the logical conclusion—that the earth would be a better place if the Dark Elders returned.

Now he was not so sure.

He hadn’t been sure for the past two hundred years.

And today … today everything had changed. The turning point had come when he had sat facing Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent and listened while the arrogant Elder almost casually determined whether Machiavelli should live or die. Shockingly, the only reason he had been allowed to live was because Quetzalcoatl felt that he owed Machiavelli’s master a favor. No consideration was given to the centuries of loyal service Machiavelli had performed for the Elders. His skills, his knowledge, his experience, were all dismissed.

His life had been spared by nothing more than chance.

And sitting in that chair, arguing for his life, it had struck him that on far too many occasions he had acted just like Quetzalcoatl. He had passed judgment on the lives of countless men, women and children he had never met and would never know. He had made decisions that would shape their lives and the lives of their descendants for generations to come.

Marietta was right: he didn’t care for anyone.

But she was also wrong. He had always cared for her and adored his children, especially his son Guido, who had been born a few short years before Machiavelli’s “death.”

What had happened? What had changed him?

It all came back to the same answer: immortality.

Immortality had transformed him utterly, had warped his thinking, had made him the uncaring inhuman monster Marietta had accused him of being long before he actually was. He had stopped thinking of humans as individuals—he thought of them as masses of people, as either enemies or friends.

He had become blinded by his own ambition. In his arrogance he had thought that he was different from the humans, that he was, in some way, like the Elders. But today, he had realized that the Elders thought as much of him as he thought of the rest of the human population.

And now he was on another mission for the Elders, one that would affect the lives of millions of people all across the globe. He had tinkered with the destiny of nations; now he was about to reshape the future of the world.

“I’m not liking what I’m seeing,” Billy the Kid drawled, taking up a position alongside the Italian.

Machiavelli looked toward the fast-approaching island. “Is something wrong?”

“Not over there. Here,” Billy said. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pitched his voice just above the hum of the engine and the splashing of the waves so that only Machiavelli could hear it. “You’ve got a look on your face that I don’t like.”

Machiavelli composed himself. “A look?”

“Yep. The look of someone who is thinking deep thoughts. Dark thoughts. Stupid thoughts.”

“And you would be an expert on facial expressions?” Machiavelli said sarcastically.

“Sure am,” Billy said, blue eyes twinkling. “Kept me alive long enough.”

“And what do you think my face reveals?” Machiavelli asked. He’d always been able to keep his face expressionless and was irritated that this uneducated young immortal had managed to read him so easily. Perhaps he had underestimated the American.

Billy took a hand out of his back pocket and rubbed it across his chin, stubble rasping. “You’ve never been in a gunfight?” he asked.

Machiavelli blinked in surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”

“What about a duel? Didn’t you have duels in Europe—swords and pistols at dawn, that sort of thing?”

The Italian nodded. “I’ve attended some.”

“I bet you always knew who was going to lose.”

Machiavelli considered, then nodded. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

“How could you tell?” Billy asked.

“From the expression on their face, the way they stood, the set of their shoulders …”

“Exactly. They expected to lose. And therefore, they lost. Now, I was never a great shot, and never very fast. All that quick-draw nonsense comes from books written about me, and most of those are lies. But I always expected to win. Always. And I made sure to associate with others who expected to win.” He paused and added, “People who start thinking deep dark thoughts in the middle of a war start expecting to lose. And they end up dead because they’re not thinking straight, they’re not focused.”

Machiavelli’s head tilted in a slight bow. “That is a very astute observation. And do you have a suggestion?”

Billy nodded toward the island. “Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. Let’s do what our Elder masters have commanded and awaken these sleeping beasts, before we start thinking deep dark thoughts.”

“We?”

“We.” Billy smiled. “I bet you could teach me a lot.”

Machiavelli nodded, surprised. “And I believe I could learn a lot from you.”

The boat bumped against the dock and Black Hawk pulled them in against the wooden pilings. “All ashore,” he called.

Billy the Kid leapt onto the wooden gangway and then stooped to offer his hand to the Italian. Machiavelli hesitated a moment, then took it, and Billy hauled him up. Black Hawk immediately revved the engine, water churning white as he backed away.

“Are you not joining us?” Billy asked.

“You must be joking! I wouldn’t set foot on this island. It is a cursed place.” Even as he was speaking, dozens of women’s faces appeared just below the surface of the water. Iridescent fishtails flickered. “Call me when you’re done. Will you be long?”