The Sorceress (36 page)

Water pounded against the dock, sending silver-white spray high into the air … and the ghost of de Ayala materialized out of the glistening water droplets.

“There must be someone in San Francisco you can call upon for assistance,”
the ghost said.
“Another immortal, perhaps?”

Perenelle shook her head. “Nicholas and I have always
kept very much to ourselves. Remember, most of the immortals are servants or even slaves of the Dark Elders.”

“Surely not all immortals are beholden to an Elder,”
de Ayala said.

“Not all,” she agreed. “We are not; neither is Saint-Germain nor Joan. I have heard rumors of others like us.”

“And could some of these others be living in San Francisco?”
he insisted.

“It’s a big city. Immortals prefer large cities with constantly shifting populations, where it is easier to remain anonymous and invisible. So, yes, there must be.”

The ghost moved around to float on her left-hand side. “Would you recognize another immortal if you passed one in the street?”

“I would.” Perenelle smiled. “Nicholas might not.”

The ghost floated out directly in front of the Sorceress.
“So if you had no contact with others of your kind in the city, then how did Dee find you?”

Perenelle shrugged. “That is a good question, is it not? We’re always exceptionally careful, but Dee has spies everywhere, and sooner or later, he always finds us. In truth, I’m surprised we’ve managed to stay hidden here in San Francisco for so long.”

“But you have friends in the city?”
the ghost pressed.

“We know some people,” Perenelle said, “but not many, and not well.” Brushing stray wisps of silvered hair away from her face, she squinted up at the dead sailor. In the afternoon sunlight de Ayala was almost completely invisible, just a
wavering impression in the air, the hint of liquid eyes betraying his position. “How long have you been a ghost?” she asked.

“Two hundred and more years …”

“And in all that time have you ever wished for immortality?” she asked.

“I have never thought of it,”
the ghost said slowly.
“There were times I wished I were still alive. On days when the fog rolls in across the bay, or the wind whips spray into the air, I have wished for a physical body to experience the sensations. But I am not sure I would like to be immortal.”

“Immortality is a curse,” Perenelle said firmly. “It is heartbreaking. You cannot afford to get close to people. Our very presence is a danger to them. Dee has leveled entire cities in his attempts to capture us, has caused fire and famine, even earthquakes as he sought to stop us. And so Nicholas and I have spent our lives running, hiding, skulking in the shadows.”

“You did not want to run?”
the ghost asked.

“We should have stopped and fought,” Perenelle said, nodding. Leaning her forearms on the wooden rail, she looked down over the landing dock. The air shimmered, and for an instant, she caught a fleeting glimpse of countless figures in the costumes and uniforms of the past, crowding the docks. The Sorceress focused and the ghosts of Alcatraz disappeared. “We should have fought. We could have stopped Dee. We had an opportunity in New Mexico in 1945, and twenty years earlier, in 1923, in Tokyo, he was at our mercy, weakened almost to the point of death following the earthquake he’d caused.”

“Why didn’t you?”
de Ayala wondered aloud.

Perenelle examined the backs of her hands, looking at the new wrinkles and the tracery of lines that ran across once-smooth flesh. The blue-green veins of age were now clearly visible beneath her skin; they had not been there yesterday. “Because Nicholas said that we would then be no better than Dee and his kind.”

“And you did not agree?”

“Did you ever hear of an Italian called Niccolò Machiavelli?” Perenelle asked.

“I have not.”

“A brilliant mind, cunning, ruthless, and now, sadly—and surprisingly—working for the Dark Elders,” the Sorceress said. “But many years ago, he said something like, if you have to injure someone, then make it so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”

“He does not sound like a
nice person,”
de Ayala said.

“He’s not. But he’s right. Three centuries ago, the immortal human Temujin offered to imprison Dee in some distant Shadowrealm for eternity. We should have accepted that offer.”

“And you wanted to?”
de Ayala asked.

“Yes, I was in favor of imprisoning him in Temujin’s Mongol Empire Shadowrealm.”

“But your husband said no?”

“Nicholas said we were tasked with protecting the Codex and finding the prophesied twins, not with warring with the Dark Elders. But I’ll not deny, it would have been easier without Dee always after us. We had an opportunity in Tokyo to
strip Dee of his powers, his memory, possibly even his immortality. He would have been no threat to us. We should have done that.”

“But would it have stopped the Dark Elders?”
the ghost asked.

Perenelle took a moment to consider. “It would have inconvenienced them, slowed them down a little, but no, it would not have stopped them.”

“Would you both have been able to disappear completely?”

Perenelle’s smile was bitter. “Probably not. No matter where we had ended up, there would have come a time when we would have had to move on. Sooner or later, we always move.” She sighed. “We had already been too long in San Francisco. Even the woman who owns the coffee shop across from our bookshop had started to comment on my unlined skin.” Perenelle laughed. “No doubt she thinks I’m getting Botox injections.” She held both hands up in front of her and examined them critically. “I wonder what she would say if she could see me now?”

“Is this woman a friend?”
de Ayala asked quickly.
“Would she be able to help?”

“She is an acquaintance, not a friend. And she is human. Trying to explain even the tiniest part of this to her would be impossible,” Perenelle said, “so no, I’ll not ask her. It would only put her in danger.”

“Think, madame, think: there must be someone you can call upon for help,”
de Ayala insisted desperately.
“What about an Elder friendly to your cause, an immortal who is not allied to the Dark Elders? Give me a name. Let me go find them. You are
strong and powerful, but even you cannot stand against the sphinx, the Old Man of the Sea and the monsters in the cells on your own. And whoever sent the flies this morning will be sure to try something else, something even more deadly.”

“I know that,” Perenelle said glumly. The Sorceress stared at the Nereids bobbing in the sea and allowed her thoughts to wander. There must be immortals in San Francisco—in fact, she
knew
there were; earlier that day she had actually caught a fleeting impression of a young-looking dead-eyed boy staring at her. He’d been using a scrying bowl to watch her. The Sorceress’s lips curled in a smile; he’d not be using that bowl again. There was something about him, though, something feral and deadly about the way he moved and watched her that reminded her of …

“There is someone,” she said suddenly. “She has lived here for decades; I’ll wager she knows every Next Generation and Elder in the city. She will know whom we can trust.”

“Let me go to this person,”
de Ayala said.
“I can tell her where you are.”

“Oh, she’s not in San Francisco right now.” Perenelle smiled. “But it matters not.”

The ghost looked puzzled.
“Then how are you going to contact her?”

“I will scry.”

“Whom will you call?” the
ghost asked, curious.

“The Warrior Maid: Scathach the Shadow.”

he scarred and battered taxicab drove down Millbank past the Houses of Parliament and stopped at a traffic light and immediately, a wild-haired shaggy-bearded tramp wrapped in layers of clothing pushed away from the black metal railing and hurried over to the car. Dipping a squeegee in a blue plastic bucket, he slapped it across the cab’s cracked windshield and dragged it back and forth in three quick movements, expertly scraping away mud and the clotted dust of the Wild Hunt. Palamedes rolled down the window and passed the old man a two-pound coin. “Seems we’re both working late tonight, old man. You’re keeping well?”

“Warm and dry and food in my belly, Pally. What more could I ask for? Nothing, really. Except maybe a dog. I’d like a dog.” His voice rose and fell in a curious singsong rhythm. The tramp sniffed loudly, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Whoa!
Something smells. I think you might have driven over something. Bet it’s stuck to the underside of the car. Best get it scraped off, otherwise you’ll not get too many fares.” He laughed, liquid gurgling in his chest. He blinked nearsightedly, suddenly realizing that there were passengers in the back of the cab. “Whoops, didn’t see them there.” He leaned closer to Palamedes and said in a hoarse but clearly audible whisper, “Guess they’ve no sense of smell.”

“Oh, they know what it is, all right,” Palamedes said lightly. The signal changed to green and he checked the rearview mirror, but there was nothing behind them and he remained at the intersection, car idling. “It’s the remnants of the Wild Hunt. Or at least, those that didn’t get out of my way quickly enough.”

“The Wild Hunt, eh?” The tramp rubbed his thumb over the side mirror, scraping away grit and bringing it to his mouth. A pink tongue poked out from the knotted beard, tasting it. “You’ve got a little Hittite there, mixed with a Roman and a touch of Magyar.” He spat it away. “Does that horned monstrosity still think he’s master of the hunt?”

“He is.”

“Never liked him,” the tramp said shortly. “How is he?”

“On fire, the last time I saw him.”

The tramp ran his hand across the scarred front driver’s-side door. “That’s not going to buff out.” He grinned and winked. “I know a good scrap yard, might get a couple of spare doors there.”

“The yard is no more,” Palamedes said quietly. “Cernunnos
and the Wild Hunt paid it a visit a couple of hours ago. Cernunnos was burning in the middle of it when we left. I’m afraid he might guess we’ve come in search of you,” Palamedes continued gently, the changing traffic light painting his face red, turning the whites of his eyes crimson.

“He’s all bluster; he’ll do nothing,” the man chuckled, then turned suddenly serious. “He’s frightened of me, you know.”

“The English Magician, Dee, is with him,” Palamedes added.

The tramp’s surprisingly perfect teeth appeared in a spectacular smile. “And
he’s
terrified of me.” Then the smile faded. “But he’s also stupid enough not to know that.” Shoving the squeegee into the bucket, he padded back over to the railing and stuck his supplies behind a bush. “Hard to get a good squeegee nowadays,” he said, returning to the car. “Takes ages to get them broke in.” He pulled open the back door and peered inside. “Now, what have we here?”

The interior light had clicked on when the tramp opened the door, bringing Josh blinking awake, squinting, shielding his eyes. He sat up, startled to find a ragged and filthy-looking homeless person climbing into the car. “What’s going on? Who … who are you?” he mumbled.

The tramp turned astonishingly blue eyes on the boy, then frowned. “I’m … I’m …” He looked at Sophie. “Do
you
know who I am?” When she shook her head, he turned to the shadowy figure of the Alchemyst. “You look like a man of learning. Who is it I am again?” he demanded.

“You are Gilgamesh the King,” Nicholas Flamel said gently. “You are the oldest immortal in the world.”

The tramp squeezed in between Sophie and Josh, smiling delightedly. “That’s who I am.” He sighed. “I am the King.”

The light turned green and the cab pulled away. Behind them, Big Ben chimed midnight.