The Warlock (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #5) (22 page)

“You’re cooking up something, though, I can tell,” Billy added.

“How can you tell?” Machiavelli asked with a faint smile.

“Easy.” The American immortal’s blue eyes sparkled in
the gloom. “You’re just a bit too obvious. You’d never have survived in the West.”

Machiavelli blinked in surprise. “I have survived more dangerous places than your nineteenth-century America, and I’ve done it by keeping my face expressionless and my opinions to myself.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re making your mistake, Mr. Machiavelli.”

“Call me Niccolò. Educate me, young man.”

Billy grinned delightedly, showing his prominent teeth. “Never thought I’d have something to teach you.”

“The day we stop learning is the day we die.”

Billy rubbed his hands together briskly. “So I think I’d be right in saying that you’re a curious man—correct, Mr. Machiavelli?”

“Always have been. It is one of the many traits that Dee and I share. We are both intensely curious. I have always believed that curiosity is one of man’s greatest strengths.”

Billy nodded. “I’ve always been curious too. Got me into a lot of trouble,” he added. “Now, if you take a quick look behind you …”

Machiavelli glanced over his shoulder, where Josh, Dee and Dare followed.

“The boy is obviously astonished and scared …” Billy was still staring straight ahead.

Josh Newman was following the two immortals in a daze, his eyes and mouth opening wider as they passed cell after cell and each new creature was revealed. He was frightened—that
was clear. Tendrils of gold smoke curled off his hair and seeped from his ears and nostrils, and both hands were locked into golden-gloved fists.

“Dee’s not interested in the creatures, because he gathered them and knows what’s here,” Billy continued, “and Virginia is not interested either, because she’s either fought them in the past or knows that her Elder flute will protect her.” He cocked his head to one side, considering. “Or maybe because she knows that she’s more dangerous than they are.”

“I only know her by reputation,” Machiavelli said. “Is she as bad as they say she is?”

“Worse,” Billy said, nodding eagerly, “much, much worse. Don’t ever make the mistake of trusting her.”

Dee and Dare took up the rear. Machiavelli noted that Dee was deep in conversation with the woman. Her face was an inscrutable mask, her gray eyes the same color as the stones making up the floor and walls. She spotted Niccolò looking at her and raised a hand in acknowledgment. Dee looked up and glared, the odor of rotten eggs briefly filling the cellblock, stronger even than the stench of the sleeping beasts. Machiavelli looked away before Dee could see his smile. It amused him to know that he still frightened the English Magician.

“So, given your curiosity, you
should
be looking into the cells,” Billy finished. “But you’re not. Therefore, you’re thinking of something much more important.”

“Impressive,” Machiavelli agreed. “And your logic is impeccable … except for one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Oddly shaped creatures and monstrous beasts long ago lost their ability to frighten me. In truth, it was really only mankind—and their close relatives, the Elders and Next Generation—that always had the capacity to terrify me.” He nodded at the cells. “These poor beasts are driven solely by their need to survive and to feed. It is their nature, and their nature has made them predictable. But man, on the other hand, has the capacity to change his nature. Man is the only animal that can destroy the world. Beasts live only in the present, but humans have the capacity to live for the future, to lay down plans for their children and grandchildren, plans that can take years, decades, even centuries, to mature.”

“I’ve heard that sort of planning is your specialty,” Billy said.

“It is.” Machiavelli waved a hand toward a cell holding a trio of sleeping hairy domovoi, each one more hideous than the other. “So these do not frighten or even interest me.”

“You sound as arrogant as Dee,” Billy snapped, a touch of steel edging his voice. “And I’m sure the people living in San Francisco are not going to agree with you.”

“True,” Machiavelli conceded.

Billy drew in a deep breath. “If these creatures reach the shores, there will be …” He paused, hunting for a word. “Chaos. Mayhem.”

“Now who is having deep dark thoughts?” Machiavelli asked lightly. “Who would have thought it—an outlaw with a conscience.”

“Probably the same deep dark thoughts you were having,”

Billy murmured. “I’ll admit I’m not comfortable releasing these monsters on my people.”

“
Your
people?” Machiavelli teased.

“My people. I know they’re not yours, they’re not Italians …,” Billy began.

“They’re humans,” Machiavelli said, “and that makes them my people too.”

Billy the Kid looked quickly at Niccolò. “When I first met you, I thought you were just like Dee … now I’m not so sure.”

Machiavelli’s lips moved in the tiniest of smiles. “Dee and I are similar in many ways—don’t tell him that, though. He’d be insulted. Where we differ is that Dee will do whatever is necessary to achieve his ends. I have watched him follow his master’s orders even when it meant the destruction of entire cities and tens of thousands of lives. I have never done that. The price of my immortality was my service, but not my soul. I am now, and I have always been, human.”

“I hear you,” Billy the Kid murmured.

The corridor ended at a metal door. Machiavelli pushed it open, blinked in the afternoon sunlight and hurried down the concrete steps that led to the exercise yard. The Italian breathed deeply, drawing in the rich salt air, dispelling the musky, fetid animal odor that permeated the cellblocks. He waited for Billy to join him. He turned while the Kid was still on the last step, so that their faces were level. “I gave my word to my master and to Quetzalcoatl that I would unleash the creatures on the city. I cannot go back on my word.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“Cannot,” Machiavelli said firmly. “I will not become
waerloga
—an oath breaker.”

Billy nodded. “I respect a man who keeps his word. Just make sure you’re keeping it for the right reason.”

Machiavelli leaned forward, and his iron-hard fingers bit into Billy’s shoulder. The Italian fixed his eyes on Billy’s. “No, you must make sure you’re
breaking
it for the right reason!”

erenelle gently placed the green jade scarab on the center of Nicholas’s chest, then moved it slightly to the left until it was resting over his heart.

Tsagaglalal reached out and took the Alchemyst’s hands, left, then right, and arranged them on top of the jade beetle, almost completely covering it. Then she looked at the Sorceress. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“I am sure.”

“It is not always successful. It is dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What do you mean, dangerous?” Sophie asked in alarm. She was still holding the Sorceress’s hand, and she picked up a ghostly trickle of fear through their connection. It frightened her to know that the Sorceress was afraid. Although Perenelle’s head did not move, her eyes shifted to fix on Sophie’s face.

“If this process does not work, then Nicholas will die and
I will have wasted an entire day of my life,” she said. “But I have to do this. I have no choice.” The Sorceress’s grip tightened on Sophie’s fingers. “And if it is successful, then we will have Nicholas for one more day.” A question flickered through Sophie’s mind … and Perenelle answered it. “Yes, it would make a huge difference.”

Tsagaglalal placed her left hand in Perenelle’s and then reached her right across the bed toward the young woman. “Perenelle will draw a little of our auras and channel them into the scarab, which in turn will release them into Nicholas. Think of it as a battery. So long as there is power in the scarab, then Nicholas will remain alive.”

Sophie placed her left hand in the old woman’s bony clawlike grip.

“It is painless,” Tsagaglalal continued. “And you are young; at least your aura will soon replenish.”

“And what about yours?” Sophie asked quickly.

“Even if it could, there is no need for mine to regenerate. My purpose in this Shadowrealm is almost done.” Her flint-gray eyes turned distant. “My tasks were to watch for you, and then to watch over you. Soon I will be able to rest in peace.”

Suddenly the temperature in the room plummeted to a bone-freezing chill. Sophie gasped with the shock. “Whatever you do,” Perenelle said, her breath puffing whitely with each word, “you must not break the circle until the scarab is charged with the power of our auras. Do you understand?”

Sophie nodded.

“Do you understand?” Perenelle asked again, more firmly.
“If the process is incomplete, then Nicholas dies here now, and I will die tomorrow.”

“I understand,” Sophie said, her teeth starting to chatter. She looked down on the still body of Nicholas Flamel. His flesh was ashen, and a thin layer of frost crystals had formed around his nostrils and lips.

Perenelle’s ice-white aura swirled and billowed around her, and Sophie was abruptly aware of the threads of silver—
her
silver—woven through it. She looked down to find that her aura had formed into protective gauntlets over her hands where she clutched Tsagaglalal and the immortal woman’s fingers.

The Sorceress closed her eyes. “And so it begins,” Perenelle said.

Sophie felt her silver aura bloom, and the wash of heat took her by surprise. It blossomed in the center of her chest, then radiated outward, flowing down into her legs, tingling in her toes. The heat shivered along her arms, burning through the palms of her hands, setting pins and needles dancing in her fingertips. The wash of warmth rose through her neck and burned in her cheeks, drying her eyes. She squeezed them shut and shuddered as a confusing jumble of memories overwhelmed her. She knew that some were Perenelle’s.…

… a hooded man sitting in the center of a cave, bright blue eyes sparkling with the reflections of the huge crystals embedded in the walls. He was holding a small metal-bound book in his right hand. He rested the curved metal hook that took the place of his left hand on the cover.…

… Nicholas Flamel—slender and dark-haired, young and
handsome—standing behind a wooden stall that held only three thick vellum-bound books. He turned to look at her, colorless eyes crinkling in a smile.…

… and Nicholas again, older now, gray-haired and bearded, in a small dark room, a dozen shelves holding twice that many books and manuscripts
.

… a table that held just one book, the metal-bound Codex, the pages flipping open of their own accord before finally stopping on a page that crawled with sticklike text and flowed with color that formed into the shape of a scarab beetle, then re-formed into what might have been a half-moon … or a hook
.

… and a city burning, burning, burning …

A burst of heat almost took Sophie’s breath away and the images changed, becoming dark, violent, becoming Tsagaglalal’s memories.…

… a pyramid rent asunder …

… a circular roof garden blazing, exotic plants exploding into balls of fire, sap boiling, erupting into streaks of flame …

… a huge metal door melting, carvings of faces elongating in the heat, dissolving, dripping in long sticky globules, gold and silver flowing across a polished marble floor, curling together …

… hundreds of circular flying craft falling from the sky like burning comets to detonate across a mazelike city …

… and Scathach and Joan of Arc, bloodied and filthy, standing back to back on the steps of a pyramid surrounded by huge dog-headed monsters …

… while Palamedes stood over a fallen Shakespeare, protecting him, holding a lion-headed eagle at arm’s length, its barbed
flapping wings tearing at him, its savage fangs inches from his head …

… and Saint-Germain raining fire down from the skies, while behind him the sea rose in a wall of black water …

… and Sophie … or a girl who looked so much like her that she might have been her identical twin …