Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician sotinf-2, Page 3

basilica and stood at the edge of the first of the two hundred and twenty-one

  steps that led down to the street far below. Oh, he knew it wouldn't stop

  us, he said patiently. He just wanted to slow us down, to keep us here

  until he arrived. He pointed.

  Far below, the narrow streets of Montmartre had come alive with the sounds

  and lights of a fleet of French police cars. Dozens of uniformed gendarmes

  had gathered at the bottom of the steps, with more arriving from the narrow

  side streets to form a cordon around the building. Surprisingly, none of them

  had started climbing.

  Flamel, Scatty and the twins ignored the police. They were watching the tall

  thin white-haired man in the elegant tuxedo slowly make his way up the steps

  toward them. He stopped when he saw them emerge from the basilica, leaned on

  a low metal railing and raised his right hand in a lazy salute.

  Let me guess, Josh said, that must be Niccol Machiavelli.

  The most dangerous immortal in Europe, the Alchemyst said grimly. Trust

  me: this man makes Dee look like an amateur.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  W elcome back to Paris, Alchemyst.

  Sophie and Josh jumped. Machiavelli was still far away to be heard so

  clearly. Strangely, his voice seemed to be coming from somewhere behind them,

  and both turned to look, but there were only two stained green metal statues

  over the three arches in front of the church: a woman on a horse to their

  right, her raised arm holding a sword, and a man holding a scepter on their

  left.

  I've been waiting for you. The voice seemed to be coming from the statue of

  the man.

  It' s a cheap trick, Scatty said dismissively, picking strips of wax off the

  front of her steel-toed combat boots. It s nothing more than ventriloquism.

  Sophie smiled sheepishly. I thought the statue was talking, she admitted,

  embarrassed.

  Josh started to laugh at his sister and then immediately reconsidered. I

  guess I wouldn't be surprised if it did.

  The good Dr. Dee sends his regards. Machiavelli s voice continued to hang

  in the air around them.

  So he survived Ojai, then, Nicholas said conversationally, not raising his

  voice. Standing tall and straight, he casually put both hands behind his back

  and glanced sidelong at Scatty. Then the fingers of his right hand started

  dancing against the palm and fingers of his left.

  Scatty drew the twins away from Nicholas and slowly retreated under the

  shadowed arches. Standing between them, she put her arms around their

  shoulders both their auras crackling silver and gold with her touch and drew

  their heads together.

  Machiavelli. The master of lies. Scatty' s whisper was the merest breath

  against their ears. He must not hear us.

  I cannot say I am pleased to see you, Signor Machiavelli. Or is it Monsieur

  Machiavelli in this age? the Alchemyst said quietly, leaning against the

  balustrade, looking down the white steps to where Machiavelli was still small

  in the distance.

  This century, I am French, Machiavelli replied, his voice clearly audible.

  I love Paris. It is my favorite city in Europe after Florence, of course.

  While Nicholas talked to Machiavelli, he kept his hands behind his back, out

  of sight of the other immortal. His fingers were moving in an intricate

  series of taps and beats.

  Is he working a spell? Sophie breathed, watching his hands.

  No, he s talking to me, Scatty said.

  How? Josh whispered. Magic? Telepathy?

  ASL: American Sign Language.

  The twins glanced quickly at one another. American Sign Language? Josh

  asked. He knows sign language? How?

  You seem to keep forgetting that he s lived a long time, Scathach said with

  a grin that showed her vampire teeth. And he did help create French sign

  language in the eighteenth century, she added casually.

  What' s he saying? Sophie asked impatiently. Nowhere in the witch s memory

  could she find the knowledge necessary to translate the older man s gestures.

  Scathach frowned, her lips moving as she spelled out a word.

  Sophie brouillard fog, she translated. She shook her head. Sophie, he s

  asking you for fog. That doesn t make sense.

  It does to me, Sophie said as a dozen images of fog, clouds and smoke

  flashed through her brain.

  Niccol Machiavelli paused on the steps and drew in a deep breath. My people

  have the entire area surrounded, he said, moving slowly toward the

  Alchemyst. He was slightly out of breath and his heart was hammering; he

  really needed to get back to the gym.

  Creating the wax tulpa had exhausted him. He had never made one so big

  before, and never from the back of a car roaring through Montmartre s narrow

  and winding streets. It wasn't an elegant solution, but all he had needed to

  do was to keep Flamel and his companions trapped in the church until he got

  there, and he had succeeded. Now the church was surrounded, more gendarmes

  were en route and he had called in all available agents. As the head of the

  DGSE, his powers were almost limitless, and he d issued an order to impose a

  press blackout. He prided himself on having complete control of his emotions,

  but he had to admit that right now he was feeling quite excited: soon he

  would have Nicholas Flamel, Scathach and the children in custody. He would

  have triumphed where Dee had failed.

  Later he would have someone in his department leak a story to the press that

  thieves had been apprehended breaking into the national monument. Close to

  dawn just in time for the early-morning news a second report would be leaked,

  revealing how the desperate prisoners had overpowered their guards and

  escaped on their way to the police station. They would never be seen again.

  I have you now, Nicholas Flamel.

  Flamel came to stand at the edge of the steps and pushed his hands into the

  back pockets of his worn black jeans. I believe the last time you made that

  statement, you were just about to break into my tomb.

  Machiavelli stopped in shock. How do you know that?

  More than three hundred years ago, in the dead of night, Machiavelli had

  cracked open Nicholas and Perenelle s tomb, looking for proof that the

  Alchemyst and his wife were indeed dead and trying to determine whether they

  had been buried with the Book of Abraham the Mage. The Italian hadn't been

  entirely surprised to find that both coffins were filled with stones.

  Perry and I were right there behind you, standing in the shadows, close

  enough to touch you when you lifted the top off our tomb. I knew someone

  would come I just never imagined it would be you. I ll admit I was

  disappointed, Niccol , he added.

  The white-haired man continued up the steps to Sacre -Coeur. You always

  thought I was a better person than I was, Nicholas.

  I believe there is good in everyone, Flamel whispered, even you.

  Not me, Alchemyst, not anymore, and not for a very long time. Machiavelli

  stopped and indicated the police and heavily armed black-clad French special

  forces gathering at the bottom of the steps. Come now. Surrender. No harm

  will come to you.

  I cannot tell you how many peopl
e have said that to me, Nicholas said

  sadly. And they were always lying, he added.

  Machiavelli s voice hardened. You can deal with me or with Dr. Dee. And you

  know the English Magician never had any patience.

  There is one other option, Flamel said with a shrug. His thin lips curled

  in a smile. I could deal with neither of you. He half turned, but when he

  looked back at Machiavelli, the expression on the Alchemyst s face made the

  immortal Italian take a step back in shock. For an instant something ancient

  and implacable shone through Flamel s pale eyes, which flickered a brilliant

  emerald green. Now it was Flamel s voice that dropped to a whisper, still

  clearly audible to Machiavelli. It would be better if you and I were never

  to meet again.

  Machiavelli attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. That sounds

  like a threat and believe me, you are in no position to issue threats.

  Not a threat, Flamel said, and stepped back from the top steps. A

  promise.

  The cool damp Parisian night air was abruptly touched with the rich odor of

  vanilla, and Niccol Machiavelli knew then that something was very wrong.

  Standing straight, eyes closed, arms at her sides, palms facing outward,

  Sophie Newman took a deep breath, attempting to calm her thundering heart and

  allow her mind to wander. When the Witch of Endor had wrapped her like a

  mummy with bandages of solidified air, she had imparted thousands of years of

  knowledge into the girl in a matter of heartbeats. Sophie had imagined she d

  felt her head swelling as her brain filled with the Witch s memories. Since

  then, her skull had throbbed with a headache, the base of her neck felt stiff

  and tight and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. Two days ago she had

  been an ordinary American teenager, her head filled with normal everyday

  things: homework and school projects, the latest songs and videos, boys she

  liked, cell phone numbers and Web addresses, blogs and urls.

  Now she knew things that no person should ever know.

  Sophie Newman possessed the Witch of Endor s memories; she knew all that the

  Witch had seen, everything she had done over millennia. It was all a jumble:

  a mixture of thoughts and wishes, observations, fears and desires, a

  confusing mess of bizarre sights, terrifying images and incomprehensible

  sounds. It was as if a thousand movies had been mixed up and edited together.

  And scattered throughout the tangle of memories were countless incidences

  when the Witch had actually used her special power, the Magic of Air. All

  Sophie had to do was find a time when the Witch had used fog.

  But when and where and how to find it?

  Ignoring Flamel s voice calling down to Machiavelli, blanking out the sour

  smell of her brother s fear and the jingle of Scathach s swords, Sophie

  concentrated her thoughts on mist and fog.

  San Francisco was often wrapped in fog, and she d seen the Golden Gate Bridge

  rising out of a thick layer of cloud. And only last fall, when the family had

  been in St. Paul s Cathedral in Boston, they d stepped out onto Tremont

  Street to find that a damp fog had completely obscured the Common. Other

  memories began to intrude: mist in Glasgow; swirling damp fog in Vienna;

  thick foul-smelling yellow smog in London.

  Sophie frowned; she had never been to Glasgow, Vienna or London. But the

  Witch had and these were the Witch of Endor s memories.

  Images, thoughts and memories like the strands of fog she was seeing in her

  head shifted and twisted. And then they suddenly cleared. Sophie clearly

  remembered standing alongside a figure dressed in the formal clothing of the

  nineteenth century. She could see him in her mind s eye, a man with a long

  nose and a high forehead topped with graying curly hair. He was sitting at a

  high desk, a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper before him, dipping a simple

  pen into a brimming inkwell. It took her a moment to realize that this was

  not one of her own memories, nor was it something she had seen on TV or in a

  movie. She was remembering something the Witch of Endor had done and seen. As

  she turned to look closely at the figure, the Witch s memories flooded her:

  the man was a famous English writer and was just about to begin work on a new

  book. The writer glanced up and smiled at her; then his lips moved, but there

  was no sound. Leaning over his shoulder, she saw him write the words Fog

  everywhere. Fog up the river. Fog down the river in an elegant curling

  script. Outside the writer s study window, fog, thick and opaque, rolled like

  smoke against the dirty glass, blotting out the background in an impenetrable

  blanket.

  And beneath the portico of Sacre -Coeur in Paris, the air turned chill and

  moist, rich with the odor of vanilla ice cream. A trickle of white dribbled

  from each of Sophie s outstretched fingers. The wispy streams curled down to

  puddle at her feet. Behind her closed eyes, she watched the writer dip his

  pen into the inkwell and continue. Fog creeping fog lying fog drooping fog in

  the eyes and throats

  Thick white fog spilled from Sophie s fingers and spread across the stones,

  shifting like heavy smoke, flowing in twisting ropes and gossamer threads.

  Coiling and shifting, it flowed through Flamel s legs and tumbled down the

  steps, growing, thickening, darkening.

  Niccol watched the fog flow down the steps of Sacre -Coeur like dirty milk,

  watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that

  Flamel was going to elude him. By the time the fog reached him it was chest

  high, wet and vanilla scented. He breathed deeply, recognizing the odor of

  magic.

  Remarkable, he said, but the fog flattened his voice, dulling his carefully

  cultivated French accent, revealing the harsher Italian beneath.

  Leave us alone, Flamel s voice boomed out of the fog.

  That sounds like another threat, Nicholas. Believe me when I tell you that

  you have no idea of the forces gathered against you now. Your parlor tricks

  will not save you. Machiavelli pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed

  dial number. Attack. Attack now! He raced up the steps as he spoke, moving

  silently on expensive leather-soled shoes, while far below, booted feet

  thumped on stone as the gathered police charged up the steps.

  I ve survived for a very long time. Flamel s voice didn't come from where

  Machiavelli expected it to, and he stopped, turning left and right, trying to

  make out a shape in the fog.

  The world moved on, Nicholas, Machiavelli said. You did not. You might

  have escaped us in America, but here, in Europe, there are too many Elders,

  too many immortal humans who know you. You will not be able to remain hidden

  for long. We will find you.

  Machiavelli dashed up the final few steps that brought him directly to the

  entrance of the church. There was no mist here. The unnatural fog started on

  the top step and flowed downward, leaving the church floating like an island

  on a cloudy sea. Even before he ran into the church, Machiavelli knew he

  would not find them in there: Flamel, Scathach and the twins had escaped.

  For the moment.

  But Paris was no lo
nger Nicholas Flamel s city. The city that had once

  honored Flamel and his wife as patrons of the sick and poor, the city that

  named streets after them, was long gone. Paris now belonged to Machiavelli

  and the Dark Elders he served. Looking out over the ancient city, Niccol

  Machiavelli swore that he was going to turn Paris into a trap and maybe even

  a tomb for the legendary Alchemyst.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  T he ghosts of Alcatraz awoke Perenelle Flamel.

  The woman lay unmoving on the narrow cot in the cramped icy cell deep beneath

  the abandoned prison and listened to them whisper and murmur in the shadows

  around her. There were a dozen languages she could understand, many more she

  could identify and a few that were completely incomprehensible.

  Keeping her eyes closed, Perenelle concentrated on the languages, trying to

  make out the individual voices, wondering if there were any she recognized.

  And then a sudden thought struck her: how was she able to hear the ghosts?

  Sitting outside the cell was a sphinx, a monster with a lion s body, an

  eagle s wings and the head of a beautiful woman. One of its special powers

  was the ability to absorb the magical energies of another living being. It

  had drained Perenelle s, rendering her helpless, trapping her in this

  terrible prison cell.

  A tiny smile curled Perenelle s lips as she realized something: she was the

  seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; she had been born with the ability to

  hear and see ghosts. She had been doing so long before she had learned how to

  train and concentrate her aura. Her gift had nothing to do with magic, and

  therefore the sphinx had no power over it. Throughout the centuries of her

  long life, she had used her skill with magic to protect herself from ghosts,

  to coat and shield her aura with colors that rendered her invisible to the

  apparitions. But as the sphinx had absorbed her energies, those shields had

  been wiped away, revealing her to the spirit realm.

  And now they were coming.

  Perenelle Flamel had seen her first ghost that of her beloved grandmother

  Mamom when she was seven years old. Perenelle knew that there was nothing to

  fear from ghosts; they could be annoying, certainly, were often irritating

  and sometimes downright rude, but they possessed no physical presence. There