The Warlock (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #5) (28 page)

She found herself idly wondering if Aoife ever paused to think of her. Somehow she doubted it; Aoife of the Shadows was interested only in herself.

Where was Aoife? Was she still in the earth Shadowrealm? Closing her eyes, Scathach focused on her sister. On those rare occasions in the past when she’d done this, she’d caught glimpses of places and people and wondered if she was connecting with her twin. But now there was nothing … only a blackness, an emptiness. The Warrior frowned. Had she connected with her sister, was this what Aoife was seeing? Scathach had a strong sense that she was standing in a vast dark space … except that she wasn’t alone. There was
something else here. Something that moved in the emptiness. Something big, that slithered and hissed and chuckled. Something old and evil.

And even though it was unbearably hot in the volcano, Scathach shivered.

Was her sister in trouble? It was an almost inconceivable thought. Aoife was at least as deadly as the Shadow. She was fast and ruthless, and lacked any feeling for the humani … except one: Niten—Miyamoto Musashi. Unconsciously, the Shadow nodded. The Swordsman would know her sister’s whereabouts. Maybe, just maybe, when all this was over—and if she survived—she’d go to see Niten and ask him to get a message to Aoife. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to try to make amends.

Scathach leaned back on her elbows and looked up again into the circle of darkening sky. The pale blue had deepened to purple, and the first of the night stars had started to twinkle. They were in configurations that she almost recognized.

A flash of crimson streaking across the sky startled her.

At first she thought it was a shooting star; then she realized it was a vimana moving silently through the heavens, lit up by the red glow of the lava below. It was followed by another and then another. Instinct and her finely honed sense of survival brought her to her feet, and on the other side of the volcano she saw Saint-Germain also stand. He too knew that something was wrong. Scathach had watched a single vimana fly in and out of the volcano for the past few hours, delivering prisoners and then, more recently, tossing loaves of stale bread and gourds of sour water into the cell mouths. Some of
the bread and water never made it and sailed down into the lava, but the anpu piloting the craft didn’t seem to care if the prisoners went hungry or thirsty.

“Joan!” Scathach shouted.

“I see them,” Joan of Arc called down. Her face appeared over the edge of a cave mouth high above Scathach’s head. “I see ten or twelve.…”

Scatty squinted against the night sky. “Eight … ten … twelve—no, thirteen. Fourteen,” she said finally. “I think there are fourteen.”

Across the volcano, Palamedes waved at her. When he knew he had her attention, the Saracen Knight opened and closed his right hand three times.

“Fifteen,” Scathach shouted up at Joan. “Palamedes has counted fifteen.”

“So what’s the plan?” Joan shouted.

“That depends.…”

“On what?”

“On who they come to first. I’m thinking they’ll come to either Palamedes or me.”

“Then what?”

Scathach’s grin exposed her vampire teeth. “Well, the only way in or out of these cells is by these vimana. So we have to take control of one of them.”

“Good plan,” Joan said sarcastically. “So let us say you single-handedly manage to overpower two anpu while keeping the vimana in the air. What about the other fourteen craft? Do you think they’re just going to float idly by?”

“I said it was a plan. I never said it was a perfect plan.”

“I think your plan is just about to change,” Joan called.

A new vimana had appeared. It was larger than the rest, and from below it looked like a long and sleek flattened triangle. Its surface reflected the night sky on one side and the glowing red lava on the other, making details difficult to distinguish. It hovered above the smaller circular craft, a vague menacing shape in the darkness. Abruptly it lit up, red, green and blue lights blazing to life on the three points of the triangle.

“Rukma vimana,” Scathach shouted, reverting to the language of her youth. “Battleship. Get back, back into the cell!”

And then the triangular vimana dropped straight into the mouth of the volcano.

ars Ultor lunged toward Prometheus with the razor-sharp short sword. Faster than the eye could see, Niten’s hands moved, catching the underside of Mars’s wrist with a stiff-fingered blow. The Elder’s hand spasmed and automatically opened, and Niten caught the falling blade and deftly reversed it. And suddenly it was pointed at Mars’s throat.

Niten cocked his head to one side. “There was a time when I would not have been able to even get close to you. You’re getting old.”

Mars bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Fast. As fast as I’ve ever seen.” Then he grunted as a cramp bit at the back of his legs, sending him sprawling on the steps.

Niten tossed the short sword to Prometheus and reached down to offer the Elder his hand. “It is an honor to fight you.”

“We didn’t fight!” Mars came up quickly, the top of his head catching Niten in the stomach, doubling him over,
sending him sprawling backward. The Swordsman rolled to his feet and dropped into a fighting stance.

“Stop that. Right this minute!” Tsagaglalal clipped Niten on the back of the head as she pushed past Prometheus and reached over to catch Mars Ultor by the ear. She twisted and he yelped. “And as for you—what have I told you about fighting?”

Mars Ultor turned as red as his aura. “Sorry, Mistress Tsagaglalal,” he muttered.

The old woman looked at Niten and then pointed indoors. “Get inside now.”

“He started it,” he began.

“I don’t care who started it. Get inside and wash your hands. They’re filthy. You too,” she snapped at Prometheus. “And you can give that to me,” she said, reaching out her hand for the sword.

Struggling to keep a straight face, Prometheus flipped over the sword and presented it to her, hilt first. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head.

“And lay the table in the garden. We’ve got guests for tea.” She turned and smiled at Odin, Hel and Black Hawk, who were standing at the bottom of the steps. “You will stay for tea.”

No one said a word.

“It was not a request,” she added, sudden steel in her voice.

erenelle Flamel turned away from the bedroom window and looked at her husband. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I just witnessed,” she said in archaic French.

Nicholas Flamel was standing by the mirror, carefully shaving a three-day growth of stubble off his cheeks. He looked at his wife in the glass. “You’ve just brought me back from the dead. I’ll believe anything you tell me.”

Perenelle sat on the end of a bed that was so high that her feet dangled above the floor. “Three Elders and an immortal have just turned up. One of them had an eye patch,” she added significantly.

Nicholas grinned. “Odin. Come hunting Dee. Who else?”

“An odd-looking girl. It was hard to see her face, but it looked diseased, with black and white blotches.…”

“That sounds like Hel,” Nicholas breathed. “Odin and Hel together. Dee is in so much trouble. Who else?”

“A big Elder in a leather jacket. I’ve never seen him before in my life. But the moment he saw Prometheus, he lunged at him with a short sword.”

Nicholas smiled. “That could be anyone—Prometheus has many enemies, though very few of them are still alive,” he added. “And the immortal?”

“I’m not sure, but his face was vaguely familiar to me.” Perenelle frowned, trying to remember. “Native American. Not your friend Geronimo, though,” she said quickly.

“Didn’t think so,” Nicholas said, wiping shaving foam off his chin. “He would never turn up in the company of Dark Elders.” He turned to his wife and spread his arms wide. “How do I look?”

“Old.” Perenelle jumped off the bed and wrapped her arms around her husband, holding him tightly. Her fingers traced the lines on his forehead. “Even your wrinkles have wrinkles.”

“Well, I
am
six hundred and seventy-seven years old …”

“Six hundred and seventy-six,” she corrected him. “It’s still three months till your birth—” she started to say, and then stopped. They both knew they would not live to see his next birthday. Perenelle turned away quickly so that Nicholas would not see the tears in her eyes and pointed to a pile of clothes on the end of the bed. “This room is used by the twins’ parents when they’re in town. These clothes belong to their father. They might be a bit big on you, but at least they’re clean.”

“What happened to my jeans and T-shirt?” Nicholas asked.

“Beyond saving.” Perenelle sat on the edge of the bed
and watched her husband dress. “A day, Nicholas, I have you for a single day.”

“A lot can happen in a day,” he said softly. He pulled on a khaki button-down shirt. The neck was too big and the sleeves came to the end of his hands. Perenelle rolled up the sleeves while he buttoned the shirt, and then she picked up the jade scarab from the bedside table. She’d woven a leather cord around it, and Nicholas ducked his head as she placed it around his neck. Resting her hand on the scarab, she pressed it to Nicholas’s flesh. He placed his hand on top of hers. Their auras crackled green and white, and the room filled with the sharp odor of mint.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“For what?” she asked.

“For giving me the extra day.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said with a smile. “I did it for purely selfish reasons.”

He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“I did it for me. I did not want to live a day without you.”

“We’re not dead yet,” he reminded her. Then he slipped his hands into hers. “Come, let’s go see what the Elders are up to. It is suspiciously quiet downstairs.”

“That’s because they’re all terrified of Tsagaglalal. They all know who she is.” Perenelle paused a moment, then corrected herself. “
What
she is.”