Michael Scott
The Sorceress

I am tired now, so tired

And I am aging fast. There is a stiffness in my joints, my sight is no longer sharp and I find I have to strain to hear. Over the past five days I have been forced to use my powers more times than I have used them in the entire previous century, and that has speeded up the aging process significantly. I estimate that I have aged by at least a decade-perhaps more-since last Thursday. If I am to live, I have to retrieve the Book of Abraham, and I cannot-I dare not-risk using my powers again.

But Dee has the Codex, and I know that I will be forced yet again to use my waning aura.

I must, if we are to survive.

Every time I use it I grow closer to death… and once I die, and Perenelle, too, no one will stand against Dee and the Dark Elders. When we die, the world will end.

But we are not dead yet.

And we have the twins. The real twins this time, the true twins of legend with auras of pure gold and silver. While the twins survive, there is still hope.

We are about to enter London. I fear this city above all others, for it is at the very heart of Dee's power. The last time Perenelle and I were here, in September 1666, the Magician almost burned the city to the ground trying to capture us. We've never been back. London has attracted Elders from around the globe: there are more of them in this city than in any other on earth. Elders, Next Generation and immortal humans move freely and unnoticed through the streets, and I know of at least a dozen Shadowrealms scattered across the British Isles.

More ley lines meet and converge over these Celtic lands than over any other country, and I pray that with the twins' Awakened powers, we can use those lines to return to San Francisco and my Perenelle.

And here too is Gilgamesh the King, the oldest immortal human in the world. His knowledge is incalculable and encyclopedic. It is said that he was once the Guardian of the Codex, that he even knew the mythical Abraham who created the book. Legend has it that Gilgamesh knows all the elemental magics-though, strangely, he has never possessed the power to use them. The king has no aura. I've often wondered what that must be like: to be aware of so many incredible things, to have access to the wisdom of the ancients, to know the words and spells that could return this world to the paradise it once was… and yet to be unable to use them.

I have told Sophie and Josh that I need Gilgamesh to train them in the Magic of Water and find us a ley line that will take us home. But they do not know that it is a desperate gamble; if the king refuses, then we will be trapped in Dee's domain, with no possibility of escape.

Nor have I told them that Gilgamesh is quite, quite insane… and that the last time we met, he thought I was trying to kill him.

From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst Writ this day, Monday, 4th June, in London, the city of my enemies think I see them."

The young man in the green parka standing directly beneath the huge circular clock in St. Pancras station took the phone away from his ear and checked a blurred jpeg on the rectangular screen. The English Magician had sent the image a couple of hours ago: date-stamped June 04, 11.59.00, its colors washed and faded, the grainy picture looked like it had been taken by an overhead security camera. It showed an older man with short gray hair, accompanied by two fair teens, climbing onto a train.

Rising up on his toes, the young man scanned the station for the trio he'd briefly glimpsed. For a moment he thought he'd lost them in the milling crowd, but even if he had, they wouldn't get far; one of his sisters was downstairs, and another was on the street outside, watching the entrance.

Now, where had the old man and the teenagers gone?

Narrow pinched nostrils flared as he sorted through the countless scents in the station. He identified and dismissed the mixed stink of too many humani, the myriad perfumes and deodorants, the gels and pastes, the greasy odor of fried food from the station's restaurants, the richer aroma of coffee, and the metallic oily tang of the train engines and carriages. Nostrils opened unnaturally wide as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The odors he was seeking were older, wilder, unnatural…

There!

Mint: just the merest suggestion.

Orange: no more than the vaguest hint.

Vanilla: little more than a trace.

Hidden behind small rectangular sunglasses, his blue-black pupils dilated. He sniffed the air, tracing the gossamer threads of scent through the vast train station. He had them now!

The older man from the image on his phone was striding down the station concourse directly toward him. He was wearing black jeans and a scuffed leather jacket and carried a small overnight case in his left hand. And just as in the picture taken earlier, he was followed by two blond teenagers alike enough to be brother and sister. The boy was taller than the girl, and they both wore backpacks.

The young man snapped a quick picture with his cell phone camera and sent it to Dr. John Dee. Although he had nothing but contempt for the English Magician, there was no point in making an enemy of him. Dee was the agent of one of the more senior and certainly the most dangerous of all the Dark Elders.

Pulling the hood of his green parka over his head, the young man turned away as the trio drew near him, and dialed his sister, who was waiting downstairs. "It's definitely Flamel and the twins," he murmured into the phone, speaking the ancient language that had eventually become Gaelic. "They're heading in your direction. We'll take them when they get onto Euston Road."

Snapping his phone shut, the young man in the hooded parka set off after the Alchemyst and the American twins. He moved easily through the early-afternoon crowd, looking like just another teenager, anonymous and unnoticed in his sloppy jeans, scuffed sneakers and overlarge coat, his head and face concealed by a hood, eyes invisible behind the dark sunglasses.

Despite his appearance, however, the young man had never been remotely human. He and his sisters had first come to this land when it was still joined to the European mainland, and for generations they had been worshipped as gods. He bitterly resented being ordered around by Dee-who was, after all, nothing more than a humani. But the English Magician had promised the hooded boy a delectable prize: Nicholas Flamel, the legendary Alchemyst. Dee's instructions were clear; the boy and his sisters could have Flamel, but the twins must not be touched. The boy's lips twisted. His sisters would easily capture the twins, while he would have the honor of killing Flamel. A coal black tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth to lick his lips at the thought. They would feast off the Alchemyst for weeks. And, of course, they would keep the tastiest morsels for Mother.

Nicholas Flamel slowed, allowing Sophie and Josh to catch up with him. Forcing a smile, he pointed to the thirty-foot-tall bronze statue of a couple embracing beneath the clock. "It's called The Meeting Place," he said loudly, and then added in a whisper, "We're being followed." Still smiling, he leaned into Josh and murmured, "Don't even think about turning around."

"Who?" Sophie asked.

"What?" Josh said tightly. He was feeling nauseous and dizzy; his newly Awakened senses were overwhelmed by the scents and sounds of the train station. A throbbing headache pulsed at the base of his skull, and the light was so bright he wished he had a pair of sunglasses.

"Yes-'What?' is the better question," Nicholas said grimly. He raised a finger to point to the clock, as if he were talking about it. "I'm not sure what's here," he admitted. "Something ancient. I felt it the moment we stepped off the train."

"Felt it?" Josh asked, disoriented, and getting more confused by the second. He hadn't felt this sick since he'd got heatstroke in the Mojave Desert.

"A tingle, like an itch. My aura reacted to the aura of whoever-whatever-is here. When you have a little more control of your own auras, you'll be able to feel the same."

Tilting her head back, as if she were admiring the metal-and-glass latticework ceiling, Sophie slowly turned. Crowds swirled around them. Most seemed to be locals-commuters-though there were plenty of tourists, many stopping to have their pictures taken in front of The Meeting Place statue or with the huge clock in the background. No one seemed to be paying her and her companions any particular attention.

"What will we do?" Josh asked. He was starting to feel panicked. "I can boost Sophie's powers," he babbled, "just like I did in Paris-"

"No," Flamel snapped, gripping Josh's arm with iron fingers. "From now on, you can only use your powers as an absolute last resort. As soon as you activate your aura, you will alert every Elder, Next Generation and immortal within a ten-mile radius to your presence. And here, in England, just about every immortal you encounter is allied with the Dark Elders. Also, in this land, it could awaken others, creatures best left sleeping."

"But you said we're being followed," Sophie protested. "That means Dee already knows we're here."

Flamel urged the twins to the left, away from the statue, hurrying them toward the exit. "I would imagine there are watchers in every airport, seaport and railway station across Europe. Although Dee might have suspected that we'd head to London; the instant either of you activates your aura, he'll know for certain."

"And what will he do then?" Josh asked, turning to look at Flamel. In the harsh overhead lights, the new lines on the Alchemyst's forehead and around his eyes were sharp.

Flamel shrugged. "Who knows what he is capable of doing. He is desperate, and desperate men do terrible things. Remember, he was on top of Notre Dame. He was prepared to destroy the ancient building just to stop you… prepared to kill you to prevent you leaving Paris."

Josh shook his head, confused. "But that's what I don't understand-I thought he wanted us alive."

Flamel sighed. "Dee is a necromancer. It is a foul and horrible art that involves artificially activating a dead body's aura and bringing that body back to life."

An icy coldness washed over Josh at the thought. "You're saying he would have killed us and brought us back to life?"

"Yes. As a last resort." Flamel reached out and squeezed the boy's shoulder gently. "Believe me, it is a terrible existence, the merest shadow of life. And remember, Dee saw what you did, so he now has some inkling of your powers. If there were any doubts in his mind that you are the twins of legend, they have vanished. He has to have you. He needs you." The Alchemyst poked Josh in the chest. Paper rustled. Beneath his T-shirt, in a cloth bag hanging around his neck, Josh carried the two pages he'd torn from the Codex. "And above all else, he needs those pages."

The group followed the signs for the Euston Road exit, and were swept along by a crowd of commuters heading in the same direction. "I thought you said there would be someone to meet us," Sophie said, looking around.

"Saint-Germain told me he'd try and contact an old friend," Flamel muttered. "Maybe he couldn't get in touch."

They stepped out of the ornate redbrick train station onto Euston Road and stopped in surprise. When they'd left Paris just over two and a half hours ago, the skies had been cloudless, the temperature already creeping into the seventies, but in London it felt at least ten degrees cooler and it was raining hard. The wind whipping down the road was cold enough to make the twins shiver. They turned and ducked back into the shelter of the station.

And that was when Sophie saw him.

"A boy in a green parka, with the hood pulled up," she said suddenly, turning to Nicholas and concentrating fiercely on his pale eyes. She knew that if she looked away, she would involuntarily glance at the young man who had been hurrying after them. She could still see him from the corner of her eye. He was loitering close to a pillar, staring at the cell phone in his hand, fiddling with it. There was something wrong about the way he was standing. Something unnatural. And she thought she caught the faintest scent of spoiled meat on the air. Her nose wrinkled. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the odor. "It smells like something rotten, like roadkill."

The smile on the Alchemyst's face grew strained. "Wearing a hood? So, that's who's been following us." The twins heard the slightest tremor in his voice.

"Except he's not a boy, is he?" Sophie asked.

Nicholas shook his head. "Not even close."

Josh took a deep breath. "Well then, do you want me to tell you that there are now two more people wearing green hooded parkas, and they're both heading this way?"

"Three?" Flamel whispered in horror. "We've got to go." Grabbing the twins' arms, he pulled them out into the sleeting rain, turned to the right and dragged them down the street.

The rain was so cold it took Josh's breath away. Pellets of hard water stung his face. Finally, Flamel pulled both twins into an alley, out of the downpour. Josh stood catching his breath. He brushed his hair back out of his eyes and looked at the Alchemyst. "Who are they?" he demanded.

"The Hooded Ones," the Alchemyst said bitterly. "Dee must be desperate, and more powerful than I thought if he can command them. They are the Genii Cucullati."

"Great," Josh said. "That tells me everything I need to know." He looked at his sister. "Have you ever heard…," he began, and then stopped, seeing the expression on her face. "You have!"

Sophie shivered as the Witch of Endor's memories flickered at the edges of her consciousness. She felt something sour at the back of her throat, and her stomach twisted in disgust. The Witch of Endor had known the Genii Cucullati-and she had loathed them. Sophie turned to her brother and explained. "Flesh eaters." he streets were empty, the squall having driven most people into the station or the nearby shops. Traffic on Euston Road had ground to a halt, and windshield wipers beat furiously. Horns blared, and a nearby car alarm began to howl.

"Stay with me," Nicholas ordered, then turned and darted across the road, weaving through the stopped traffic. Sophie followed close behind. Josh paused before he stepped off the curb, and looked back at the station. The three figures had gathered together in the entrance, their heads and faces hidden by the hoods of their coats. As the water stained the parkas dark green, Josh could have sworn they briefly took on the appearance of cloaks. He shivered, and this time the chill came from more than just the icy downpour. Then he turned and darted across the road.

Head ducked against the driving rain, Nicholas led the twins between vehicles. "Hurry. If we can put enough distance between us, the smells of the traffic and the rain might wash away our scents."

Sophie glanced over her shoulder. The hooded trio had left the shelter of the station and were closing in fast. "They're coming after us," she panted, voice rising in alarm.

"What do we do now?" Josh asked.

"I've no idea," Flamel said grimly. He stared down the long straight road. "But if we stay here, we're dead. Or at least I am." His teeth flashed in a humorless smile. "Dee will still try to get you both alive, I'm sure." Flamel glanced around, then spotted an alleyway to the left and motioned for the twins to follow him. "This way. We'll try and lose them."

"I wish Scatty were here," Josh muttered, truly realizing the magnitude of their loss. "She'd be able to deal with them."

It was dry in the narrow high-walled alleyway. Blue, green and brown plastic trash cans lined one wall, while the remains of wooden pallets and overflowing black plastic trash bags were piled against the other. The smell was foul, and a wild-haired cat sat on top of one bag, methodically shredding it with her claws. The cat didn't even look up as Flamel and the twins ran by. A heartbeat later, however, when the three hooded figures entered the alleyway, the cat arched its back, fur bristling, and disappeared into the shadows.

"Do you have any idea where this leads?" Josh asked as they raced past a series of doors to their left, obviously the rear entrances to businesses on the main road.

"None at all," Flamel admitted. "But as long as it takes us away from the Hooded Ones, it doesn't matter."

Sophie looked back. "I don't see them," she announced.

"Maybe we've lost them." She trailed Nicholas around a corner only to run straight into him when he stopped suddenly.

Josh then rounded the corner, narrowly missing the two. "Keep going," he gasped, dodging the pair to take the lead. And then he realized why they'd stopped: the alley ended in a tall red brick wall topped with curling razor wire.

The Alchemyst spun and put his finger to his lips. "Not a sound. They might have run past the alley altogether…" A flurry of cold rain spattered onto the ground and carried with it a peculiar rancid smell: the foul scent of spoiled meat. "Or maybe not," he added as the three Genii Cucullati loped silently around the corner. Nicholas pushed the twins behind him, but they immediately took up positions on either side of him. Instinctively, Sophie moved to his right and Josh to his left. "Stand back," Flamel said.

"No," Josh said.

"We're not going to let you face these three alone," Sophie added.

The Hooded Ones slowed, then spread out to block the alleyway and stopped. They stood unnaturally still, faces concealed by the overlarge hoods.

"What are they waiting for?" Josh murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. There was something about the way the figures stood, the way they held themselves: something that suggested an animal. He'd seen a National Geographic documentary in which an alligator had been waiting in a river for deer to cross. It too had stayed completely still-until it had exploded into action.

Abruptly, a sound like snapping wood cracked shockingly loudly across the quiet alleyway, followed by what seemed to be the sound of cloth tearing.

"They're changing," Sophie breathed.

Beneath the green coats, muscles rippled and spasmed, arching the creatures' spines, pushing their heads forward. Arms visibly lengthened, and the hands that poked out of the overlong sleeves were now thickly furred and tipped with ragged curling black claws.

"Wolves?" Josh asked shakily.

"More bear than wolf," Nicholas answered quietly, looking around the alleyway, eyes narrowed. "And more wolverine than bear," he added as the vaguest hint of vanilla touched the air.

"And no threat to us," Sophie announced, suddenly standing straighter. Raising her right hand, she pressed the thumb of her left hand against the gold circle burned into the flesh of her wrist.

"No," Nicholas snapped, reaching out to push the girl's hand down. "I've told you; you cannot use your powers in this city. Your auras are too distinctive."

Sophie shook her head indignantly. "I know what these things are," she said firmly. Then a tremor crept into her voice. "I know what they do. You can't expect us just to stand here while these things eat you. Let me take care of them-I can cook them to a crisp." Her anger quickly turned to excitement at the prospect, and she smiled. For an instant her bright blue eyes winked silver and her face became hard and sharp, making her look far older than her fifteen years.

The Alchemyst's smile was grim. "You could do that. And I doubt we'd get a mile down the road before something much more lethal than these creatures caught up with us. You have no idea what walks these streets, Sophie. I'll take care of it," he insisted. "I'm not entirely defenseless."

"They're going to attack," Josh said urgently, interpreting the creatures' body language, watching how they moved into an assault pattern. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he found himself wondering how he knew this. "If you're going to do something, you need to do it now."

The Genii Cucullati had spread out, each taking up a position before Flamel and the twins. The creatures were hunched over, their backs arched, parkas stretched across broad chests, bulging shoulders and muscular arms. In the shadow of their hoods, blue-black eyes glowed over jagged teeth. They spoke to each other in what sounded like yips and growls.

Nicholas pushed up the sleeves of his leather jacket, revealing the silver link bracelet and the two frayed multicolored friendship bracelets he wore around his right wrist. Twisting off one of the simple string bracelets, he rolled it between the palms of his hands, brought it to his lips and blew on it.

Sophie and Josh watched as he tossed the little ball onto the ground in front of the Hooded Ones. They saw the colored strands fall into a muddy puddle directly in front of the largest of the creatures and braced themselves for an explosion. Even the terrifying creatures scrambled back from the tiny pool, claws slipping on the pavement.

And nothing happened.

The sound that came from the largest creature might have been a laugh.

"I say we fight," Josh said defiantly, though he was shaken by the Alchemyst's failure. He'd seen Flamel throw spears of pure energy, he'd watched him create a forest out of a wooden floor-he'd been expecting something spectacular. Josh glanced over at his sister and knew that she was thinking exactly the same thing he was. In Flamel's aging and weakened state, his powers were fading. Josh nodded slightly and saw Sophie tip her head in return, then flex her fingers. "Nicholas, you saw what we did to the gargoyles," Josh continued, sure of his sister's and his own powers. "Together, Sophie and I can stand against anyone… and anything."

"The line between confidence and arrogance is very fine, Josh," Flamel said quietly. "And the line between arrogance and stupidity even finer. Sophie," he added, without looking at her, "if you use your power, you condemn us to death."

Josh shook his head. He was disgusted at Flamel's obvious weakness. Stepping away from the older man he shrugged off his backpack and tugged it open. Sticking up out of one side of the backpack was a thick cardboard tube, usually used to carry posters and rolled maps. Ripping off the white plastic cap, he reached in, grabbed the bubble-wrapped object inside and pulled it out.

"Nicholas…?" Sophie began.

"Patience," Flamel whispered, "patience…"

The largest of the Hooded Ones dropped to all fours and took a step forward, filthy long-nailed claws clicking on the pavement. "You have been given to me," the beast said in a voice that was surprisingly high-pitched-almost childlike.

"Dee is very generous," Flamel said evenly. "Though I am surprised that the Genii Cucullati would deign to work for a humani."

The creature took another clicking step closer. "Dee is no ordinary humani. The immortal Magician is dangerous, but he's protected by a master infinitely more so."

"Perhaps you should fear me," Flamel suggested with a thin smile. "I am older than Dee, and I have no master to protect me-nor have I ever needed one!"

The creature laughed and then, without warning, leapt for Flamel's throat.

A stone sword hissed through the air, slicing cleanly through the parka hood, cutting away a huge chunk of green cloth. The creature yelped and twisted its entire body in midair, curling away from the returning blade, which slashed across the front of the coat, chopping through buttons and destroying the zipper.

Josh Newman stepped directly in front of Nicholas Flamel. He was holding the stone sword he'd pulled from the cardboard tube in both hands. "I don't know who you are, or what you are," he said tightly, voice trembling with adrenaline and the effort of holding the weapon steady. "But I'm guessing that you know what this is?"

The beast backed away, blue-black eyes fixed on the gray blade. Its concealing hood was gone, cut to ribbons, the remnants hanging around its shoulders, revealing its head. There was nothing even vaguely human about the planes and angles of its face, Josh noted, but it was extraordinarily beautiful. He'd been expecting a monster, but the head was surprisingly small, with huge dark eyes sunk deep behind a narrow brow ridge, cheekbones high and sharp. The nose was straight, nostrils flaring. The mouth was a horizontal slash that now hung slightly open to reveal misshapen yellowed and blackened teeth.

Josh's eyes flickered left and right at the other creatures. They too were focused on the stone sword. "This is Clarent," he said quietly. "I fought the Nidhogg in Paris with this weapon," he continued. "And I've seen what it does to your kind." He moved the sword slightly and felt it tingle, the hilt growing warm in his hands.

"Dee did not tell us that," the creature said in its childlike voice. It looked over Josh's shoulder to the Alchemyst. "It is true?"

"Yes," Flamel said.

"Nidhogg." The creature almost spat the word. "And what happened to the legendary Devourer of Corpses?"

"Nidhogg is dead," Flamel said shortly. "Destroyed by Clarent." He stepped forward and put his left hand on Josh's shoulder. "Josh killed it."

"Killed by a humani?" it said incredulously.

"Dee has used you, betrayed you. He didn't tell you we had the sword. What else has he not told you about: did he mention the fate of the Disir in Paris? Did he tell you about the Sleeping God?"

The three creatures slipped back into their own language, yipping and growling among themselves; then the largest turned to regard Josh again. A black tongue danced in the air. "These things are of little consequence. I see before me a frightened humani boy. I can hear his muscles straining as he struggles to hold the sword steady. I can taste his fear on the air."

"And yet, despite the fear you can smell, he still attacked you," Flamel said quietly. "What does that suggest?"

The creature's shoulders moved in an awkward shrug. "That he's either a fool or a hero."

"And you and your kind have always been vulnerable to both," Flamel said.

"True, but there are no more heroes left in the world. None to attack us. Humani no longer believe in our kind. That makes us invisible… and invulnerable."

Josh grunted as he brought the tip of the sword up. "Not to Clarent."

The creature tilted its head and then nodded. "Not to the Coward's Blade, that is true. But there are three of us and we are fast, so fast," it added with a grin that exposed its jagged teeth. "I think we can take you, boy; cut the sword from your hands before you even know it's-"

Instincts Josh didn't know he possessed warned him that the creature was going to attack the moment it stopped speaking. Then it would all be over. Without thinking, he jabbed straight out in a thrust Joan of Arc had taught him. The blade hummed as the point stabbed at the monster's exposed throat. Josh knew that all he needed to do was to scratch the horror with the sword: a single cut had all but destroyed Nidhogg.

Laughing, the creature danced back out of range. "Too slow, humani, too slow. I saw your knuckles strain and whiten the moment before you thrust."

And at that instant Josh knew they had lost. The Genii Cucullati were just too fast.

But over his left shoulder, he heard Flamel chuckle.

Josh stared directly at the creature. He knew that the last thing he could do was turn around, but he wondered what had amused the Alchemyst. He looked closely at the Hooded One. But nothing had changed… except that when the monster had darted out of range, it had landed in the puddle of dirty water.

"Has fear driven you mad, Alchemyst?" the creature demanded.

"You must know the Elder Iris, the daughter of Electra?" Flamel asked conversationally, and stepped around Josh. The Alchemyst's narrow face had turned hard and expressionless, lips a thin line, pale eyes closed to little more than slits.

The creature's blue-black eyes widened in horror. It looked down.

The dirty water curling around the creature's feet had suddenly bloomed with a rainbow of colors bleeding out of the ragged strands of Flamel's woven bracelet. The Genii Cucullati attempted to leap back, but its two front paws were stuck fast in the puddle. "Release me, humani," it screeched, its childlike voice filled with terror. The creature frantically tried to push itself free. Digging in with its claws, it tried to get traction, but the tip of one of its rear legs touched the edge of the pool and it howled once more. It yanked its paw back and a curling claw ripped off, stuck at the edge of the water. The creature barked and its two companions darted forward to grab hold of it, attempting to pull it away from the swirling colored liquid.

"Decades ago," Flamel continued, "Perenelle and I rescued Iris from her sisters and in return, she gave me these bracelets. I watched her weave them out of her own rainbow-hued aura. She told me that one day they would bring a little color into my life."

Twisting swirls of color began to creep up the Genii Cucullati's leg. Black nails turned green, then red, then filthy purple fur changed to shimmering violet.

"You will die for this," the creature snarled, its voice even higher, bright blue eyes wide with terror.

"I'll die someday," Flamel agreed, "but not today, and not by your hand."

"Just you wait till I tell Mother!"

"You do that."

There was a pop, like a bubble bursting, and abruptly the rainbow colors raced up the monster's body, bathing it in light. Where the two others held it, the color spread to the claws and washed up over their skins, turning the green parkas into spectacular multicolored coats. Like oil on water, the colors shifted in mesmerizing patterns, forming new bizarre shades and incandescent hues. The creatures managed a single terrified howl of terror, but their cry was cut short and they slumped onto the sidewalk in a heap. As they lay unmoving on the ground, the riot of colors quickly flowed out of their flesh, returning their coats to their former drab green, and then their bodies started to change, bones cracking, muscles and sinews re-forming. By the time the color had seeped back into the pool, the creatures had resumed their semblance of humanity.

Rain spattered along the length of the alleyway, and the surface of the multicolored puddle danced and shattered with the drops. For a single instant a perfect miniature rainbow appeared over it before fading away, leaving the puddle its previous muddy brown.

Flamel stooped to pluck the remains of the friendship bracelet from the street. The entwined threads were now off-white, leached of all color. He straightened and looked back over his shoulder at the twins. Flamel smiled. "I'm not quite as helpless as I look. Never underestimate your enemy," he advised. "But this victory is yours, Josh. You saved us. Again. It's becoming quite a habit: Ojai, Paris and now here."

"I didn't think-" Josh began.

"You never think," Sophie interrupted, squeezing his arm.

"You acted," Flamel said. "That was enough. Come; let's get out of here before they're discovered."

"Aren't they dead?" Sophie asked, stepping around the creatures.

Josh quickly wrapped Clarent in the bubble wrap and shoved it back into the cardboard tube. Then he pushed the tube into his backpack and heaved the bag onto his shoulders. "What happened?" he asked. "That colored water. What was that?"

"A gift from an Elder," Flamel explained, hurrying down the alleyway. "Iris is called the goddess of the rainbow because of her multicolored aura. She also has access to the Shadowrealm waters of the river Styx," he finished triumphantly.

"And that means?" Josh asked.

Flamel's grin was savage. "The living cannot touch the waters of the Styx. The shock overloads their systems and knocks them unconscious."

"For how long?" Sophie asked, glancing back at what looked like a bundle of cloth in the middle of the alleyway.

"According to the legends-a year and a day." he enormous dining room shimmered in the late-afternoon sunshine. Slanting sunbeams ran golden on polished wood panels and bounced off the waxed floor, sparking highlights from a full suit of armor standing in the corner and picking out spots of color from display cases of coins that traced more than two millennia of human history. One wall was entirely covered with masks and helmets from every age and continent, their empty eye sockets looking down over the room. The masks surrounded an oil painting by Santi di Tito that had been stolen from the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence centuries earlier. The painting that now hung in Florence was a perfect forgery. The center of the room was dominated by a huge scarred table that had once belonged to the Borgia family. Eighteen high-backed antique chairs were arranged around the time-stained table. Only two were occupied, and the table was bare except for a large black phone, which looked out of place in the antique-filled room.

Dr. John Dee sat on one side of the table. Dee was a small neat Englishman, pale-skinned and gray-eyed. He was wearing his customary charcoal three-piece suit, the only touch of color in the pattern of tiny gold crowns on his gray bow tie. He usually wore his iron gray hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, but it now hung loose around his shoulders, curling down to touch his triangular goatee. His dark-gloved hands rested lightly on the wooden table.

Niccolo Machiavelli sat facing John Dee. The physical difference between the two men was startling. While Dee was short and pale, Machiavelli was tall, his complexion deeply tanned, emphasizing the one trait both men shared: cold gray eyes. Machiavelli kept his snow-white hair short and had always been clean-shaven, and his tastes tended toward a more elegant style. His black suit and white silk shirt were clearly custom-made, and his deep crimson tie was woven through with threads of pure gold. It was his portrait on the wall behind him and he looked little older now than he had when it had been painted, more than five hundred years before. Niccolo Machiavelli had been born in 1469; technically he was fifty-eight years older than the Englishman. He had actually died the year Dee was born, in 1527. Both men were immortal, and they were two of the most powerful figures on the planet. Over the centuries of their long lives, the immortals had learned to detest one another, though now circumstances required them to be uneasy allies.

The two men had been sitting in the dining room of Machiavelli's grand town house off the Place du Canada in Paris for the past thirty minutes. In that time neither had spoken a word. They had each received the same summons on their cell phones: the image of a worm swallowing its own tail-the Ouroborus-one of the oldest symbols of the Dark Elders. In the center of the circle was the number thirty. A few years ago they would have received such summonses by fax or mail, decades ago by telegram and messenger, and earlier still on scraps of paper and parchment, and they would have been given hours or days to prepare for a meeting. Now the summons came by phone and the response was measured in minutes.

Although they were expecting the call, each jumped when the speakerphone in the center of the table buzzed. Machiavelli reached out to spin the phone around and check the caller ID before answering. An unusually long number beginning with 31415-he recognized it as a portion of pi-scrolled off the screen. When he hit the Answer button, static howled and crackled before dying away to a soft breezelike whisper.

"We are disappointed." The voice on the phone spoke an archaic form of Latin that had last been used centuries before the time of Julius Caesar. "Very disappointed." It was impossible to tell whether the voice was male or female, and at times it even sounded as if two people could be talking together.

Machiavelli was surprised; he had been expecting to hear his own Dark Elder master's scratchy voice-he'd never heard this speaker before. But Dee had. Although Dee's face remained impassive, the Italian watched as the muscles tightened in the English Magician's jaw and he straightened almost imperceptibly. So, here was Dee's mysterious Dark Elder master.

"We were assured that all was in readiness… we were assured that Flamel would be captured and slain… we were assured that Perenelle would be disposed of and that the twins would be apprehended and delivered into our hands…"

The voice trailed away into static.

"And yet Flamel remains free… Perenelle is no longer imprisoned in a cell, though she is trapped on the island. The twins have escaped. And we still do not have the complete Codex. We are disappointed," the disembodied voice repeated.

Dee and Machiavelli looked at one another. People who disappointed the Dark Elders tended to disappear. An Elder master had the power to grant human subjects immortality, but it was a gift that could be withdrawn with a single touch. Depending on how long the human had been immortal, sudden and often catastrophic old age raced through the body, centuries of time aging and destroying flesh and organs. In a matter of heartbeats, a healthy-looking human could be reduced to a pile of leathery skin and powdered bones.

"You have failed us," the voices whispered.

Neither man broke the silence that followed, fully aware that their very long lives were now hanging by a thread. They were both powerful and important, but neither was irreplaceable. The Dark Elders had other human agents they could send after Flamel and the twins. Many others.

Static crackled and popped on the line, and then a new voice spoke. "And yet, let me suggest that all is not lost."

Centuries of practice kept Machiavelli's face expressionless. Here was the voice he'd been expecting, the voice of his Elder master, a figure who had briefly ruled Egypt more than three thousand years ago.

"Let me suggest that we are closer now than we have ever been. We have cause for hope. We have confirmed, that the humani children are indeed the twins of legend; we have even seen some demonstration of their powers. The cursed Alchemyst and his Sorceress wife are trapped and dying. All we have to do is to wait, and time, our greatest friend, will take care of them for us. Scathach is lost and Hekate destroyed. And we have the Codex."

"But not all of it," the male-female voice whispered. "We still lack the final two pages."

"Agreed. But it is more than we have ever had. Certainly enough to begin the process of calling back the Elders from the most distant Shadowrealms."

Machiavelli frowned, concentrating hard. Dee's Elder master was reputedly the most powerful of all the Elders, and yet here was his own master arguing and debating with him or her. The line crackled, and the male-female voice sounded almost petulant.

"But we lack the Final Summoning. Without it, our brothers and sisters will not be able to take that last step from their Shadowrealms into this world."

Machiavelli's master responded evenly. "We should still be gathering our armies. Some of our brethren have ventured far from this earth; they have even gone beyond the Shadowrealms into the Otherworlds. It will take them many days to return. We need to call them back now, draw them into the Shadowrealms that border this earth, so that when the time is right, a single step will take them into this world and we can move as one to reclaim the planet."

Machiavelli looked at Dee. The English Magician's head had titled slightly to one side, eyes half closed as he listened to the Elders. Almost as if he felt Machiavelli's gaze on him, Dee opened his eyes and raised his brows in a silent question. The Italian shook his head slightly; he had no idea what was happening.

"This is the time foreseen by Abraham when he first created the Codex," Machiavelli's master continued. "He had the Sight, he could see the curling strands of time. He foretold that this age would come-he called it the Time of the Turning, when order would be returned to the world. We have discovered the twins, we know the whereabouts of Flamel and the last two pages from the Codex. Once we have the pages we can use the twins' powers to fuel the Final Summoning."

The line crackled with static, and in the background Machiavelli clearly heard a murmur of assent. He realized that there were others listening in on the line, and he wondered how many of the Dark Elders had gathered. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling at the image of the Elders, in their assorted guises and aspects-human and inhuman, beast and monster-listening intently on cell phones. Machiavelli chose his moment when there was a break in the murmuring voices and spoke carefully, stripping all emotion from his voice, keeping it neutral and professional.

"Then can I suggest that you allow us to complete our tasks. Let us find Flamel and the twins." He knew he was playing a dangerous game now, but it was clear that there was dissension in the ranks of the Elders, and Machiavelli had always been expert at manipulating such situations. He had clearly heard the need in his master's voice. The Elders desperately wanted the twins and the Codex: without them, the rest of the Dark Elders would not be able to return to the earth. And at that instant he recognized that both he and Dee were still valuable assets. "The doctor and I have formulated a plan," he said, and then fell silent, waiting to see if they would take the bait.

"Speak, humani," the male-female voice rumbled.

Machiavelli folded his hands and said nothing. Dee's eyebrows shot up and he pointed at the phone. Speak, he mouthed.

"Speak!" the voice snarled, static howling and popping.

"You are not my master," Machiavelli said very quietly. "You cannot command me."

There was a long hissing sound, like steam escaping. Machiavelli turned his head slightly, trying to identify the noise. Then he nodded: it was laughter. The other Elders were amused by his response. He had been correct; there was dissension in the ranks of the Elders, and though Dee's master might be all-powerful, that did not mean he was liked. Here was a weakness Machiavelli could exploit to his advantage.

Dee was staring at him, gray eyes wide with horror and maybe even admiration.

The line clicked, the ambient background noise changed and then Machiavelli's master spoke, amusement clearly audible in his gravelly voice. "What do you propose? And be careful, humani," he added. "You too have failed us. We were assured that Flamel and the twins would not leave Paris."

The Italian leaned toward the phone, his smile triumphant. "Master. I was instructed to do nothing until the English Magician arrived. Valuable time was lost. Flamel was able to contact allies, find shelter and rest." Machiavelli was watching Dee carefully as he spoke. He knew the Englishman had contacted his Elder master, and that master in turn had ordered Machiavelli's master to tell the Italian to do nothing until Dee arrived. "However," he pressed, having made his point, "this delay worked to our advantage. The boy was Awakened by an Elder loyal to us. We have some idea of the twins' powers and we know where they've gone." He could barely keep the smugness out of his voice. He looked at Dee sitting across the table and nodded quickly. The English Magician took the hint.

"They are in London," John Dee continued. "And Britain, more than any other land on this earth, is our country," he stressed. "Unlike in Paris, we have allies there: Elders, Next Generation, immortals and humani servants who will aid us. And in England there are others, loyal to none but themselves, whose services can be bought. All of these resources can be directed to finding Flamel and the twins." He finished and leaned forward, staring intently at the phone, waiting for an answer.

The line clicked and went dead. Then an irritating busy signal filled the room.

Dee stared at the phone with a mixture of shock and anger. "Have we lost the connection or have they just hung up on us?"

Machiavelli hit the Speaker button, silencing the noise. "Now you know how I feel when you hang up on me," he said quietly.

"What do we do now?" Dee demanded.

"We wait. I would imagine they are discussing our futures."

Dee folded his arms over his narrow chest. "They need us," he said, trying-and failing-to sound confident.

Machiavelli's smile was bitter. "They use us. But they do not need us. I know of at least a dozen immortals in Paris alone who could do what I do."

"Well, yes, you are replaceable," Dee said with a self-satisfied shrug. "But I have spent a lifetime chasing Nicholas and Perenelle."

"You mean you've spent a lifetime failing to catch them," Machiavelli said, his voice neutral, and then added with a sly smile, "So close, and yet always so far."

But any reply Dee was about to make was cut off when the phone rang.

"This is our decision." It was Dee's Elder master speaking, the male-female voices blending together into one slightly discordant voice. "The Magician will follow the Alchemyst and the twins to England. Your instructions are explicit: destroy Flamel, capture the twins and retrieve the two missing pages. Use whatever means necessary to achieve this objective; we have associates in England who are indebted to us. We will call in those debts. And Doctor… if you fail us this time, then we will temporarily remove the gift of immortality and allow your humani body to age to its very limit… and then, at the moment before your death, we will make you immortal again." There was a rasp that might have been a chuckle or an indrawn breath. "Think about how that will feel: your brilliant mind trapped in an ancient and feeble body, unable to see or hear clearly, unable to walk or move, in constant pain from a score of ailments. You will be forever ancient and yet undying. Fail us and this will be your destiny. We will trap you in this aged fleshy shell for an eternity."

Dee nodded, swallowed hard and then said with as much confidence as he could muster, "I will not fail you."

"And you, Niccolo…" Machiavelli's Elder master spoke. "You will travel to the Americas. The Sorceress is loose on Alcatraz. Do whatever you must to secure the island."

"But I have no contacts in San Francisco," Machiavelli protested quickly, "no allies. Europe has always been my domain."

"We have agents all across the Americas. Even now they are moving westward to await your arrival. We will instruct one to guide and assist you. On Alcatraz, you will find an army of sorts sleeping in the cells, creatures the humani will recognize from their darkest nightmares and foulest myths. It was not our intention to use this army so soon, but events are moving quickly now, much faster than we anticipated. Soon it will be the Time of Litha, the summer solstice. At midsummer, the twins' auras will be at their strongest and the barriers between this world and the myriad Shadowrealms at their weakest. It is our intention to reclaim the world of the humani on that day."

Even Machiavelli was unable to keep his face expressionless. He looked at Dee and found that the Magician too was wide-eyed with shock. Both men had worked for the Dark Elders for centuries and had always known that they intended to return to the world they had once ruled. Still, it was startling to discover that after years of waiting and planning, it was about to happen in just over three weeks' time.

Dr. John Dee leaned closer to the phone. "Masters-and I know I speak for Machiavelli when I say this-we are delighted that the Time of the Turning is almost upon us and that you will soon return." He swallowed hard and took a quick breath. "But if you will allow me to caution you: the world you are returning to is not the world you left. The humani have technology, communications, weapons… they will resist," he added hesitantly.

"Indeed they will, Doctor," Machiavelli's master said. "So we will give the humani something to focus on, something to use up their resources and consume their attention. Niccolo," the voice continued, "when you have retaken Alcatraz, rouse the monsters in the cells and then loose them on the city of San Francisco. The destruction and terror will be indescribable. And when the city is a smoking ruin, allow the creatures to wander as they will. They will ravage across America. Mankind has always been fearful of the dark: we will remind him why. There are similar caches of creatures already hidden on every continent; they will be released at the same time. The world will quickly dissolve into madness and chaos. Entire armies will be wiped out, so that there will be none to stand against us when we return. And what will be our first action? Why, we will destroy the monsters and be hailed by the humani as their saviors."

"And these beasts are in Alcatraz's cells?" Machiavelli asked, appalled. "How do I rouse them?"

"You will be given instructions when you reach the Americas. But first, you have to defeat Perenelle Flamel."

"How do we know she is still there? If she has escaped her cell, surely she will have fled the island?" The Italian was aware that his heart was suddenly pounding; three hundred years ago he had sworn vengeance on the Sorceress. Was he now about to be given an opportunity for revenge?

"She is still on the island. She has released Areop-Enap, the Old Spider. It is a dangerous foe, but not invincible. We have taken steps to neutralize it and ensure that Perenelle will remain there until you arrive. And Niccolo"-the Elder's voice turned hard and ugly-"do not repeat Dee's mistake."

The Magician straightened.

"Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or try to reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst." he early-morning sky over Alcatraz was the color of dirty metal. Flecks of ice-cold rain hissed across the island, and the churning sea pounding against the rocks sent bitter salty foam high into the air.

Perenelle Flamel ducked back into the shelter of the ruin of the Warden's House. She rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms, brushing away droplets of salty moisture. She was wearing a light sleeveless summer dress, now soiled with mud and rust, but the tall elegant woman wasn't cold. Although she'd been reluctant to use her waning powers, she had adjusted her aura, bringing her body temperature up to a comfortable level. She knew if she got too cold, she wouldn't be able to think clearly, and she had a feeling she was going to need all her resources in the hours to come.

Four days ago, Perenelle Flamel had been kidnapped by John Dee and imprisoned on Alcatraz. Her guard, a sphinx, had been chosen for its special ability to feed off others' auras-the energy fields that surround every living thing. The English Magician had hoped the sphinx would drain Perenelle's aura and prevent her from escaping, but as Dee had done so often in the past, he had underestimated Perenelle's abilities and powers. With the help of the island's guardian ghost, the Sorceress had been able to escape the sphinx. It was only then that she discovered the island's terrible secret: Dee had been collecting monsters. The prison cells were filled with horrific creatures from all over the earth, creatures most humans believed existed only in the darkest corners of myth and legend. But the most surprising discovery had lain in the hidden tunnels deep beneath the island. There, trapped behind magical symbols older than even the Elders, she had found the creature known as Areop-Enap, the Old Spider. The two had formed an uneasy alliance and defeated the Morrigan, the Crow Goddess, and her army of birds. But they knew that worse was to come.

"This weather is not natural," Perenelle said softly, the merest trace of her French accent audible in her voice. She breathed deeply and grimaced. To her heightened sense of smell, the wind coming in off San Francisco Bay was tainted with the odor of something foul and long dead, a sure sign that it was abnormal.

Areop-Enap was perched high on a wall of the empty building. The enormous bloated spider was busy sheathing the shell of the house with a sticky white web. Millions of spiders, some as big as plates, others little more than specks of dirt, scuttled across the massive web in an undulating dark shadow, adding their own layers of silk to the dripping web. Without turning its head, the Elder swiveled two of its eight eyes to focus on the woman. It raised one of its thick legs straight up in the air, gray-tipped purple hair waving in the breeze. "Aye, something's coming… but not Elder, and not humani, either," it lisped.

"Something's already here," Perenelle said grimly.

Areop-Enap turned to look down at Perenelle. Eight tiny eyes were perched on the top of its eerily humanlike head. It had no nose or ears, and its mouth was a horizontal slash filled with long poisonous fangs. The savage teeth gave it a curious lisping speech. "What happened?" it asked suddenly, dropping to the ground on a gossamer thread.

Perenelle picked her way across the stone floor, trying to avoid the knotted strands of spiderweb that stuck to everything they touched. They had the consistency of chewing gum. "I was down at the water's edge," she said quietly. "I wanted to see how far we were from land."

"Why?" Areop-Enap asked, stepping closer to the woman, towering over her.

"I learned a spell many years ago from an Inuit shaman. It changes the consistency of running water, turning it to something like thick sticky mud. Effectively, it allows you to walk on water. Inuits use it when they're hunting polar bears out on ice floes. I wanted to see if it worked on warm salt water."

"And?" Areop-Enap asked.

"I didn't get a chance to try it." Perenelle shook her head. Gathering her long mane of black hair in her hands, she pulled it over her shoulder. Usually, she wore it in a tight thick braid, but it hung loose now, and it was shot through with more silver and gray than even the day before. "Look."

Areop-Enap stepped closer. Each of its legs was thicker than the woman's torso, and tipped with a hooked spike, but it moved without making a sound.

Perenelle held out a hank of hair. A four-inch-long chunk had been neatly cut from it. "I was leaning over the water, gathering my aura to try the spell, when something came up out of the water with barely a ripple. Its jaws sliced right through my hair."

Old Spider hissed softly. "Did you see it?"

"A glimpse, nothing more. I was too busy scrambling back up the beach."

"A serpent?"

Perenelle reverted to the French of her youth. "No. A woman. Green-skinned, with teeth… lots of tiny teeth. I caught the flash of a fish's tail as it dipped back into the water." Perenelle shook her head and dropped her hair, settling it back over her shoulder, then looked up at the Elder. "Was it a mermaid? I've never seen one of the seafolk."

"Unlikely," Areop-Enap muttered. "Though it might have been one of the wilder Nereids."

"The sea nymphs… but they are far from home."

"Yes. They do prefer the warmer waters of the Mediterranean, but the oceans of the world are their home. I've encountered them everywhere, even amongst the icebergs of the Antarctic. There are fifty Nereids, and they always travel together… which suggests to me that this island is most likely completely surrounded. We'll not escape by sea. But that is not the greatest of our concerns," Areop-Enap lisped. "If the Nereids are here, then that probably means that their father, Nereus, is close as well."

Despite her warmth, a shiver ran up Perenelle's spine. "The Old Man of the Sea? But he lives in some distant watery Shadowrealm and only rarely ventures to this realm. He hasn't come to our world since 1912. What would possibly bring him back?"

Areop-Enap bared its teeth in a savage grin. "Why, you, Madame Perenelle. You are the prize. They want your knowledge and your memories. You and your husband are amongst the rarest of humans: you are immortals without Elder masters controlling you. And now that you are trapped on Alcatraz, the Dark Elders will do their utmost to ensure that you not leave here alive."

Blue and white static crackled down the length of Perenelle's hair, which slowly rose and extended out behind her in a shimmering black halo. Her eyes blazed cold and green and an ice white aura bloomed around her, filling the interior of the ruined house with stark light. A dark wave of spiders scuttled into the shadows. "Do you know how many Dark Elders and their kith and kin have attempted to kill me?" Perenelle demanded.

Areop-Enap shrugged, an ugly movement of all its legs. "Many?" it suggested.

"And do you know how many are still alive?"

"Few?" Areop-Enap suggested.

Perenelle smiled. "Very few." ait up. My phone is ringing."

Sophie ducked into a doorway, fished in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. The battery had died in Hekate's Shadowrealm, but the Comte de Saint-Germain had found her a charger that worked. Tilting the screen, she peered at the unusually long number. "I don't know who it is," she said, looking from her brother to Nicholas.

Josh looked over his sister's shoulder. "I don't recognize the number," he added

"What does it begin with?" Nicholas asked, squinting, trying to focus on the screen.

"Zero, zero, three, three…"

"That's the country code for France," Flamel said. "Answer it; it can only be Francis."

"Or Dee or Machiavelli," Josh said quickly. "Maybe we should-"

But before he could finish, Sophie had pressed the Answer button. "Hello?" she said cautiously.

"It's me!" Saint-Germain's voice was light and accentless, and Sophie could tell he was outside by all the noise in the background. "Let me speak to the old man. And don't tell him I said that!"

Sophie bit back a grin and handed the phone to the Alchemyst. "You were right; it's Francis. He wants to talk to you."

Nicholas pressed the phone to one ear and covered the other with his hand, trying to block out the noise of the traffic. "Allo?"

"Where are you?" Saint-Germain asked in Latin.

Nicholas looked around, trying to orient himself. "On Marylebone Road, just coming up to Regent's Park tube station."

"Hang on; I've got someone on the other line." Nicholas heard Saint-Germain move away from the phone and relay the information in rapid-fire archaic French. "OK," he said a moment later. "Continue straight down the road and then wait outside St. Marylebone Church. You will be picked up."

"How will I know the driver is working for you?" Nicholas asked.

"A good point. Do you have reason to believe this conversation may be monitored?"

"Both the Italian and the Englishman certainly have the resources," the Alchemyst said carefully.

"That is true."

"And there was an unwelcoming committee waiting for us. I would imagine they reported in before they came after us."

"Ah." Saint-Germain paused and then said carefully, "I am assuming you took care of the problem discreetly."

"Very discreetly. But…"

"But?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Although I used none of my aura, a certain amount of power was released. That's sure to have attracted attention, especially in this city."

There was another pause; then Saint-Germain said, "OK, I've just sent the driver a text. Let me remind you of a party I held in Versailles in February 1758. It was my birthday, and you gave me a vellum-bound book from your personal library as a present."

Nicholas's lips curled in a smile. "I remember."

"I still have the book. The driver will tell you the title," he continued, raising his voice over the rattle of hammering in the background.

"What's all the noise?" Flamel asked, slipping back into English.

"Workmen. We're trying to shore up the house. Apparently, there is the very real danger that it will collapse into the catacombs below, and probably take half the street with it."

Nicholas lowered his voice. "Old friend. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the trouble I brought to your home. I will of course pay for the damage."

Saint-Germain chuckled. "Please do not trouble yourself. It's not costing me anything. I've sold the exclusive rights to the story to a magazine. The fee more than takes care of the repairs, and the press coverage is invaluable; my new album is shooting up the download charts… if that is not a contradiction," he added with a laugh.

"Which story?" Nicholas asked, glancing quickly at the twins.

"Why, the gas explosion that damaged my house, of course," Saint-Germain said lightly. "I must go. I will keep in touch. And old friend"-he paused-"be careful. If there is anything you need-anything-then you know how to get in touch with us."

Nicholas hit the Off button and handed the phone back to Sophie without a word. "He said-"

"We heard." The twins' Awakened senses had allowed them to clearly hear both sides of the conversation. "A gas explosion?" Sophie asked.

"Well, he could hardly say the damage was caused by some sort of primeval dinosaur, could he?" Josh teased. "Who'd believe him?" Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hurried after Flamel, who was already striding down the street. "Come on, sis."

Sophie nodded. Her brother had a point. But she was also beginning to see how the Elders had managed to keep their existence a secret for so long. Mankind simply didn't want to believe that there was magic in the world. Not in this age of science and technology. Monsters and magic belonged to the primitive uncivilized past, and yet in the last few days she'd seen that every day there was evidence for magic. People reported impossibilities all the time; they saw the strangest things, the most bizarre creatures… and no one believed them. They couldn't all be wrong, lying, confused or misguided, could they? If the Dark Elders and their servants were in positions of power, then all they would have to do was dismiss the reports, ignore them or-as had just happened in Paris-ridicule them in the media. Soon even the people who had made the reports, the very people who had seen something out of the ordinary, would begin to doubt the evidence of their own senses. Just yesterday the Nidhogg, a creature that supposedly existed only in legend, had rampaged through Paris's narrow streets, leaving a trail of devastation. It had crashed across the Champs-Elysees and ripped apart a section of the famous quayside before plunging into the river. Dozens of people must have seen it; but where were their stories, their statements? The press had reported the event as a gas explosion in the ancient catacombs.

And then all the gargoyles and grotesques on Notre Dame had come alive and crawled down the building. Using Josh's aura to enhance her own, Sophie had used Fire and Air magic to reduce the creatures to little more than shattered stone… and yet how had it been reported in the press?

The effects of acid rain.

As they'd sped through the French countryside on the Eurostar, they'd read the online coverage on Josh's laptop. Every news organization in the world had some story about the events, but they'd all told versions of the same lie. It was only on the wilder conspiracy Web sites and blogs that sightings of Nidhogg had been reported, along with shaky mobile-phone footage of the monster. Dozens of postings dismissed the videos and stills as fake, comparing them to images of Sasquatch and the Loch Ness monster that had been proven false. Only now, of course, Sophie was beginning to suspect that both of those creatures were probably real too.

She hurried to catch up with Flamel and her brother.

"Stay close, Sophie," Nicholas said. "You have no idea of the danger we're in."

"So you keep telling us," she muttered, though right now she couldn't figure out how things could get any worse.

"Where are we going?" Josh asked. He was still dizzy after the adrenaline rush, and now he was starting to feel shaky as well.

"Just down here," Nicholas said, nodding toward a white stone church on their left.

Sophie caught up with her brother and noticed that he was pale and there was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. She gripped his arm and squeezed lightly. "How are you doing?" She knew what he was going through: the noise, the smells, the sounds of the city were starting to overwhelm his recently Awakened senses. She'd experienced the same shocking sensory overload when Hekate had Awakened her. But while the Witch of Endor and Joan had helped her control the wash of emotions and sensations, there was no one to help her brother.

"I'm fine," Josh said quickly. "OK, not so well," he admitted a moment later, seeing the look of disbelief on his sister's face. She'd been through the same transformation; she knew what he was feeling. "It's just that everything…" He struggled to find the words.

"It's just too much," Sophie finished for him.

Josh nodded. "Too much," he agreed. "I can even taste the car exhaust."

"Everything adjusts," she promised, "and it gets easier. Or maybe you just get used to it."

"I don't think I could ever get used to this," he said, dipping his head and squinting against the brilliant sunshine breaking through the blue-black clouds. Sunlight sparkling on the wet streets sent painful daggers into his eyes. "I need sunglasses."

"That's a good idea." Sophie trotted ahead a few steps. "Nicholas, wait up," she called.

But though the Alchemyst glanced over his shoulder, he didn't stop. "We cannot delay," he snapped, and continued at a brisk pace.

Sophie stopped in the middle of the street and pulled her brother to a halt with her. Nicholas had walked half a dozen paces before he realized that the twins were no longer behind him. He stopped and turned, waving them forward. They ignored him, and when he strode back to them there was something dark and ugly about the set of his face. "I've no time for this nonsense."

"We need sunglasses for Josh, and for me too," Sophie said, "and water."

"We'll get them later."

"We need them now," she said firmly.

Nicholas opened his mouth to spit out a reply, but Josh took a step forward, bringing him close to the Alchemyst. "We need them now." There was something like arrogance in his voice. Standing on the parvis in front of the cathedral in Paris, feeling the raw power flow through his body, watching the animated stone gargoyles shatter to dust, he had realized just how powerful he and his sister were. At this moment they might need the Alchemyst, but he needed them also.

Nicholas looked into the boy's bright blue eyes, and whatever he saw in them made him nod and turn back to a row of shops. "Water and sunglasses," he said. "Any particular color sunglasses?" he asked sarcastically.

"Black," the twins answered in unison.

Sophie stood with Josh outside the shop. She was exhausted, but she knew Josh was feeling even worse. Now that the rain had blown over, the street was beginning to fill up. People of a dozen different nationalities walked past, chatting in a variety of languages.

Sophie suddenly tilted her head to one side, brow creasing in a frown.

"What's wrong?" Josh asked immediately.

"Nothing's wrong," she said slowly, "it's just that…"

"What?"

"I thought I recognized some of the words those people were speaking."

Her brother turned to follow her gaze. Two women in the long flowing abaya of the Middle Eastern countries, their heads covered and their faces hidden behind burkas, chatted together animatedly.

"They're sisters… They're going to see a doctor just around the corner in Harley Street…," Sophie said in wonder.

Josh turned to hear better and pushed his hair back off his ear. Concentrating hard, he managed to isolate the voices of the two women. "Sophie, I can't make out a word they're saying; I think they're speaking Arabic."

Two smartly dressed businessmen walked past, heading toward Regent's Park tube station. They were both on mobile phones.

"The one on the left is talking to his wife in Stockholm," Sophie continued, her voice now little more than a whisper. "He's sorry he missed his son's birthday party. The one on the right is talking to his head office, also in Sweden. He wants some spreadsheets e-mailed."

Josh turned his head again, ignoring the traffic and the myriad other noises of the city. Suddenly, he found that by focusing on the two businessmen, he could pick up individual words. His hearing was so acute that he could even hear the tinny voices on the other end of the cell phone. Neither man was speaking English. "How can you understand?" he asked.

"It's the Witch of Endor's knowledge," Nicholas said. He had stepped out of the shop in time to hear Josh's question. He pulled two pairs of identical cheap sunglasses from a paper bag and handed them over. "Not designer, I'm afraid."

Sophie slipped the dark glasses onto her face. The relief was immediate, and she could see by her brother's expression that he felt the same. "Tell me," she said. "I thought it was just a lot of ancient stuff she passed on to me. I didn't realize any of it would be useful."

Nicholas handed over two bottles of water, and the twins fell into step beside him as he hurried down the street toward St. Marylebone Church. "The Witch passed on all her knowledge to you when she wrapped you in the shroud of air. It was, I'll admit, too much for you to handle. But I'd no idea she was going to do it," he added quickly, seeing the scowl appear on Josh's face. "It was totally unexpected and completely out of character. Generations ago, priestesses would study with the Witch all their lives to be rewarded with only the tiniest fragment of her knowledge."

"Why did she give it all to me?" Sophie asked, confused.

"It's a mystery," he admitted. Spotting a gap in the traffic, the Alchemyst hurried the twins across Marylebone High Street. They were close enough now to see the elegant fa?ade of the church ahead of them. "I know Joan helped sift through the Witch's knowledge for you."

Sophie nodded. In Paris, while she'd slept, Joan of Arc had taught her techniques for controlling the jumble of arcane and obscure information that washed through her brain.

"I believe that what is happening now is that the Witch of Endor's memories and knowledge are gradually being absorbed into your own memories. Rather than simply just knowing what the Witch knows, you will also know how she knows it. In effect, her memories are becoming yours."

Sophie shook her head. "I don't understand."

They had finally reached the church. Nicholas climbed two steps and looked up and down the road, quickly scanning the passersby, twisting to look out toward Regent's Park before turning back to the twins. "It's like the difference between watching a game and playing the game. When you met Saint-Germain," he added, "you instantly knew what the Witch knows about him, right?"

Sophie nodded. It had come to her in a flash that the Witch of Endor neither liked nor trusted the Comte de Saint-Germain.

"Think about Saint-Germain now," the Alchemyst suggested.

She looked at her brother, who shrugged, eyes invisible behind his own dark glasses. Sophie turned over her right wrist. On the underside of her arm was a gold circle with a red dot in the center. Saint-Germain had painlessly burned the tattoo into the flesh of her wrist when he'd taught her about the Magic of Fire. Thinking of Saint-Germain brought a sudden flood of memories: brilliantly intense physical memories. Sophie closed her eyes and in an instant she was in another time, another place.

London, 1740.

She was standing in an enormous ballroom, wearing a gown that was so heavy it felt as if it was pressing her into the ground. It was amazingly uncomfortable, biting and pinching, squeezing, constricting and contracting everywhere. The air in the ballroom stank of candle wax and too many perfumes, of overflowing toilets, cooked food and unwashed bodies. A crowd of people swirled around her, but as she moved forward, they unconsciously moved out of her way, clearing a path to the somberly dressed young man with the startling blue eyes. It was Francis, the Comte de Saint-Germain. He was speaking in Russian with a nobleman from the court of the infant emperor, Ivan VI. She found she understood what he was saying. The nobleman was hinting that Peter the Great's youngest daughter, Elizabeth, might soon seize power and that there would be business opportunities for a man of Saint-Germain's skills in St. Petersburg. The count slowly turned to look at her. Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it and said in Italian, "It is an honor to finally meet you, madam."

Sophie's eyes blinked open and she swayed. Josh's arm shot out to catch hold of her. "What happened?" he demanded.

"I was there…," Sophie whispered. She shook her head quickly. "Here, in London. More than two hundred fifty years ago. I saw everything." She reached out to squeeze his arm. "I could feel the clothes I was wearing, smell the stink of the room, and when Saint-Germain spoke in Russian I understood him, and then, when he talked to me in Italian, I understood that, too. I was there," she repeated still awed by her new memories.

"The Witch of Endor's memories are becoming your memories," Nicholas said. "Her knowledge is becoming yours. Eventually, all that she knows, you will know."

Sophie Newman shivered. Then she suddenly thought of something disturbing. "But what happens to me?" she asked. "The Witch has thousands of years of memories and experiences; I've only got fifteen and a half years, and I don't remember all of them. Could her memories crowd mine out?"

Nicholas blinked hard. Then he slowly nodded. "I hadn't thought of that, but yes, you're right, they could," he said very quietly. "We'll have to ensure that that does not happen."

"Why?" the twins asked together.

Nicholas came down the steps to stand beside them. "Because we are nothing more than the sum of our memories and experiences. If the Witch's memories crowd out yours, then you will in effect become the Witch of Endor."

Josh was horrified. "And what happens to Sophie?"

"If that happens, there will be no more Sophie. There will only be the Witch."

"Then she did it deliberately," Josh said, anger raising his voice enough to attract the attention of a group of tourists photographing the church's clock face. His twin nudged him and he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "That's why she gave Sophie all her knowledge!" Nicholas started to shake his head, but Josh pressed on. "Once her memories take over completely, then she has a newer, younger body, rather than her old blind body. You can't deny it."

Nicholas closed his mouth and turned away. "I have to… I have to think about this," he said. "I've never heard of anything like this happening before."

"But you never heard of the Witch giving all her knowledge to one person before, did you?" Josh demanded.

Sophie caught the Alchemyst's arm and stepped in front of him. "Nicholas, what do we do?" she asked.

"I've no idea," he admitted with an exhausted sigh. And in that moment, he looked ancient, with lines etched deeply onto his forehead and around his eyes, creases alongside his nose, deep grooves between his eyebrows.

"Then who would know?" she snapped, a note of fear in her voice.

"Perenelle," he said, and then nodded fiercely. "My Perenelle will know what to do. We've got to get you back to her. She'll be able to help. In the meantime, you've got to concentrate on being Sophie. You've got to focus on your own identity."

"How?"

"Think about your past, your parents, your schools, people you've met, friends, enemies, places you've visited." He turned to Josh. "You've got to help. Ask your sister questions about the past, about everything you've done together, the places you've been. And Sophie," he added, turning to look at the girl, "every time you begin to experience one of the Witch of Endor's memories, deliberately focus on something else, a memory of your own. You have to fight to keep the Witch's memories from overwhelming yours until we find a way to control this."

Suddenly, a black London cab pulled up to the curb and the passenger window slid down. "Get in," a voice commanded from the shadows.

No one moved.

"We don't have all day. Get in." There was a hint of North Africa in the rich timbre of the voice.

"We didn't call a cab," Flamel said, desperately glancing up and down the road. St Germain had said he was sending someone to them, but the Alchemyst had never imagined it was going to be anything as ordinary as a London taxi. Was this a trap? Had Dee caught up with them? He looked over his shoulder at the church. The door was open. They could dart up the steps into the sanctuary of the church, but once inside, they would be trapped.

"This car was specially ordered for you, Mr. Flamel." There was a pause and the voice added, "The author of one of the most boring books I have ever read, The Philosophic Summary."

"Boring?" Nicholas yanked the door open and pushed the twins into the gloom. "It's been acknowledged for centuries as a work of genius!" Climbing in, he slammed the door. "Francis probably told you to say that."

"You'd better buckle up," the driver commanded. "We've got all sorts of company heading this way, none of it friendly and all of it unpleasant." he man's enormous bulk filled the front seat. He swiveled around to look at them through the glass separating the driver from the passengers, and the twins realized that it wasn't fat that made him so large, it was muscle. A sleeveless black-and-white striped shirt stretched tightly across his massive chest, and he was so tall that his smooth-shaven head brushed the top of the car's cabin. His skin was a deep rich brown, matching the color of his eyes, and his teeth looked almost too white to be natural. There were three short horizontal scars on each cheek just below his eyes. "You're barely in the country and you've managed to stir up quite a hornets' nest," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "On the way down here, I spotted some things that haven't walked this earth for generations." He grinned. "I'm Palamedes, by the way." Then he shook his head. "And don't ever call me Pally."

"Palamedes?" Flamel asked in astonishment, leaning forward to get a better look at the driver. "Palamedes? The Saracen Knight?"

"The same," the driver said, turning away, locking the steering wheel and screeching back into traffic without signaling. Car horns blared and tires squealed behind him. He held up his cell phone. "Francis gave me just the barest details. Usually, I don't get involved in the disputes between the various Elder factions-it's safer that way-but once he told me it was to do with the legendary twins"-his eyes watched them in the rearview mirror-"then I knew I had no choice."

Josh reached down and squeezed his sister's hand hard. He wanted to distract her; he didn't want her thinking about Palamedes. Even though Josh had never heard of him, he had no doubt that the Witch's knowledge would tell Sophie about their driver. The man was huge, built like a linebacker or a professional wrestler, and he spoke English with a strange accent. Josh thought it might even be Egyptian. Four years ago, the entire Newman family had traveled to Egypt. They'd spent a month touring the ancient sites, and the man's lilting accent was similar to the ones he'd heard then. Josh leaned forward for a closer look at the man. Massive short-fingered hands gripped the steering wheel-and then he noticed that the man's wrists were thickened and his knuckles swollen and hard with calluses. Josh had seen similar hands on some of the sensei he'd trained with; they were usually signs of someone who had studied karate, kung fu or boxing for years.

"Hang on." Palamedes made an illegal U-turn and headed back the way they'd come. "Just sit back and stay in the shadows," he warned. "There are so many cabs on the street that they're practically invisible; no one even looks at them. And besides, they won't be expecting you to return this way."

Josh nodded. It was a clever strategy. "Who are 'they'?" he asked.

Before Palamedes could answer, Nicholas suddenly stiffened, staring out the window.

"You see them?" Palamedes asked in a deep rumble.

"I see them," the Alchemyst whispered.

"What?" Sophie and Josh said simultaneously, sitting forward, following the Alchemyst's gaze.

"The three men on the opposite side of the street," he said shortly.

A trio of shaven-headed, pierced and heavily tattooed young men swaggered down the center of the road. In their stained blue jeans, dirty T-shirts and construction boots, they looked threatening, but not particularly otherworldly.

"If you squint," Flamel explained, "you should be able to see their auras."

The twins closed their eyes to little more than slits, and they immediately saw the ugly gray tendrils of smoky light that flowed off the trio. The gray was shot through with purple.

"Cucubuths," Palamedes explained.

The Alchemyst nodded. "Very rare. They are the offspring of a vampire and a Torc Madra," Flamel told the twins. "They often have tails. They're mercenaries, hunters. Blood drinkers."

"And as dumb as dirt." Palamedes pulled up beside a bus, shielding the car from the cucubuths. "They'll trace your scent as far as the church; then it will vanish. That will confuse them. With luck, they'll end up arguing with one another and start fighting."

The car slowed, then stopped as the lights changed.

"There, at the traffic lights," Nicholas whispered.

"Yes, I passed them on the way down here," Palamedes said.

The twins scanned the intersection but saw nothing out of the ordinary. "Who?" Sophie asked.

"The schoolgirls," Palamedes rumbled.

Two red-haired and pale-skinned young women were chatting, waiting for the lights to change. They were alike enough to be sisters and seemed to be wearing school uniforms. Both were carrying expensive-looking handbags.

"Don't even look at them," Palamedes warned. "They're like beasts; they can sense when they're being watched."

Sophie and Josh stared hard at the floor, concentrating fiercely on not thinking about the two girls. Nicholas picked up a newspaper he'd found on the backseat and held it open in front of his face, focusing on the most boring item he could find, the international exchange rates.

"They're crossing right in front of the car," Palamedes murmured, turning to look back into the cabin, hiding his face. "I'm sure they wouldn't recognize me, but I don't want to take the risk."

The lights changed and Palamedes pulled away with the rest of the traffic.

"Dearg Due," Flamel said, before the twins could ask the question. He swiveled to look through the rear window. The girls' red hair was still visible as they disappeared into the crowd. "Vampires who settled what became the Celtic lands after the Fall of Danu Talis."

"Like Scatty?" Sophie asked.

Nicholas shook his head. "Nothing like Scatty. These are most definitely not vegetarian."

"They were heading toward the church too," Palamedes said, chuckling. "If they encounter the cucubuths, that should make for an interesting meeting. They hate one another."

"Who would win?" Sophie asked.

"Dearg Due, every time," Palamedes said with a cheery smile. "I fought them in Ireland. They're vicious fighters, impossible to kill."

They continued down Marylebone Road before turning left onto Hampstead Road. Traffic slowed to a crawl, then finally ground to a halt. Somewhere ahead of them horns blared, and an ambulance wail started up. "We might be here for a while." Palamedes pulled the emergency brake and twisted in his seat once again to look at the twins and Flamel. "So you're the legendary Nicholas Flamel, the Alchemyst. I've heard a lot about you over the years," he said. "None of it good. Do you know, there are Shadowrealms where your very name is used as a curse?"

The twins were startled by the vehemence in the man's voice. They were unsure whether he was joking.

Palamedes focused on the Alchemyst. "Death and destruction follow in your wake-"

"The Dark Elders have been ruthless in their attempts to stop me," Flamel said slowly, with a definite chill in his voice.

"-as do fires, famines, floods and earthquakes," Palamedes rumbled on, ignoring the interruption.

"What are you suggesting?" Nicholas asked pointedly, and for an instant there was a whiff of mint in the back of the taxi. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in a tight knot.

"I am suggesting that perhaps you should have chosen less populated places to live out your long life. Alaska, maybe, or Mongolia, Siberia, the Outback or some far reaches of the Amazon. Places without people. Without victims."

An icy silence descended on the back of the car. The twins looked at one another, and Josh raised his eyebrows in silent question, but Sophie shook her head imperceptibly. She pressed her index finger to her earlobe; Josh got the message: listen, say nothing.

"Are you suggesting I've caused the deaths of innocent people?" Flamel asked very softly.

"Oh yes."

Color flushed Flamel's pale face. "I have never-" he began.

"You could have disappeared from this world," Palamedes pressed on, deep voice vibrating through the cab. "You faked your own death once, you could have done it again, and made a home someplace remote and inaccessible. You could even have slipped into one of the Shadowrealms. But you didn't; you choose to remain in this world. Why is that?" Palamedes asked.

"I have a duty to protect the Codex," the Alchemyst snapped, genuine anger in his voice, the scent of mint stronger now, filling the air.

Car horns started to blare again, and Palamedes swiveled in the seat, released the brake and drove on.

"A duty to protect the Codex," he repeated, staring straight ahead. "No one forced you to become the Guardian of the book. You took that role gladly and without question… just like all the other Guardians before you. But you were different from your predecessors. They went into hiding with it. But not you. You stayed in this world. And because of that, many humani have died: a million in Ireland alone, more than one hundred and forty thousand in Tokyo."

"Killed by Dee and the Dark Elders!"

"Dee followed you."

"And if I had surrendered the Book of Abraham," Flamel said evenly, "then the Dark Elders would have returned to this world and the earth would have learned the true meaning of the word Armageddon. Ripping open the Shadowrealms would have sent shock waves across the earth, bringing with it hurricanes, earthquakes and tsunami. Millions would die. Pythagoras once calculated that perhaps half the earth's entire population would be destroyed just by the initial event. And then the Dark Elders would have come pouring back into this world. You've met some of them, Palamedes; you know what they are like, you know what they are capable of. If they ever return to this planet, it will be a catastrophe of global proportions."

"They say it will herald a new Golden Age," the driver replied mildly.

Josh watched Flamel's face for his reaction; Dee had made the same claims.

"That is what they say, but it is untrue. You've seen what they've done as they've tried to take the Book from me. People have died. Dee and the Dark Elders have no regard for human life," Flamel argued.

"But have you, Nicholas Flamel?"

"I don't like your tone."

In the rearview mirror, Palamedes' smile was ferocious. "I don't care whether you like it or not. Because I really do not like you, nor those others like you, who think they know what is best for this world. Who appointed you the guardian of the humani?"

"I am not the first; there were others before me."

"There have always been people like you, Nicholas Flamel. People who think they know what's best, who decide what people should see and read and listen to, who ultimately try to shape how the rest of the world thinks and acts. I've spent my entire life fighting against the likes of you."

Josh leaned forward. "Are you with the Dark Elders?"

But it was Flamel who answered. His voice was scornful. "Palamedes the Saracen Knight has not taken sides in centuries. He is similar to Hekate in that respect."

"Another of your victims," Palamedes added. "You brought ruin to her world."

"If you dislike me so much," Flamel said icily, "then what are you doing here?"

"Francis asked me to help, and despite his many faults, or perhaps because of them, I consider him a friend." The taxi driver fell silent, and then his brown eyes flickered in the rearview mirror to look over Sophie and Josh. "And, of course, because of this latest set of twins," he added.

Sophie broke in and asked the question that was forming on her brother's lips. "What do you mean, the latest set?"

"You think you're the first?" Palamedes barked a laugh. "The Alchemyst and his wife have been looking for the twins of legend for centuries. They've spent the past five hundred years collecting young men and women just like you."

Sophie and Josh looked at one another, shocked. Josh lurched forward. "What happened to the others?" he demanded.

Palamedes ignored the question, so the boy rounded on Nicholas. "What happened to the others?" he repeated, his voice cracking as it rose almost to a shout. For a single heartbeat his eyes blinked gold.

The Alchemyst looked down, then slowly and deliberately peeled Josh's fingers off his arm where he had grabbed him.

"Tell me!" Josh could see the lie forming behind the immortal's eyes and shook his head. "We deserve the truth," he snapped. "Tell us."

Flamel took a deep breath. "Yes," he said finally. "There have been others, it is true, but they were not the twins of legend." Then he sat back in the seat and folded his arms across his chest. He looked from Josh to Sophie, his face an expressionless mask. "You are."

"What happened to the other twins?" Josh demanded, voice trembling with a combination of anger and fear.

The Alchemyst turned his face away and stared out the window.

"I heard they died," Palamedes said from the front seat. "Died or went mad." he flaking sign had originally said CAR PARTS, but the second R had fallen off and had never been replaced. Behind a tall concrete wall tipped with shards of broken glass and curls of razor wire, hundreds of broken rusted cars rested one atop the other in precariously balanced towers. The wall surrounding the car yard was thick with peeling posters advertising long-past concerts, year-old "just released" albums and countless indy groups. Ads had been pasted over each other to create a thick multicolored layer, then covered again in graffiti. It was almost impossible to see the DANGER-KEEP OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs.

Palamedes pulled the car up to the curb about a block away from the heavily chained entrance and turned off the engine. Wrapping both arms over the top of the steering wheel, he leaned forward and carefully took in his surroundings.

Flamel had fallen asleep, and Sophie was lost in thoughts that occasionally turned her pupils silver. Josh pushed himself out of his seat and crouched on the floor behind the glass partition. "Is that where you're taking us?" Josh asked, nodding toward the car yard.

"For the moment." Palamedes' teeth flashed in the gloomy interior of the car. "It might not look like much, but this is probably the safest place in London."

Josh looked around. The redbrick houses on either side of the narrow road were dilapidated beyond repair, and the whole area was shabby and run-down. Most of the doors and windows had been boarded over, and some had even been bricked up. Every pane of glass was broken. The rusted hulk of a burnt-out car squatted on concrete blocks by the side of the road, and nothing moved on the streets. "I'm surprised this area hasn't been redeveloped or anything."

"It will be, eventually," Palamedes said ruefully. "But the present owner is prepared to sit on the land and let it appreciate in value."

"What will happen when he sells it?" Josh asked.

Palamedes grinned. "I'll never sell it." His thick right index finger moved, pointing straight ahead. "There used to be a car factory here, and there was full employment in these streets. When the factory closed in the 1970s, the houses began to empty as people died off or moved away looking for work. I started buying up the properties then."

"How many do you own?" Josh asked, impressed.

"All of them for about a mile in every direction. A couple hundred houses."

"A couple hundred! But that must have cost you a fortune."

"I've lived on this earth since before the time of Arthur. I've made and lost several fortunes. My wealth is incalculable… the hardest part is hiding it from the taxman!"

Josh blinked in surprise; he never imagined an immortal having problems with the government. Then he realized that in these times of computers and other surveillance technology, it must be increasingly difficult to remain in hiding from the authorities. "Do people live here?" he asked. "I don't see anyone…"

"You won't. The people"-he used the word carefully-"who live in my houses only come out at night."

"Vampires," Josh murmured.

"Not vampires," Palamedes said quickly. "I have no time for the blood drinkers."

"What then?"

"Larvae and lemurs… the undead and the not-dead."

"And what are they?" Josh asked. He was guessing that larvae did not mean insect young and that lemurs were not the long-tailed primates he'd seen in zoos.

"They are…" Palamedes hesitated, then smiled. "Nocturnal spirits."

"Are they friendly?"

"They are loyal."

"So why are we waiting?" Josh asked. It was clear that Palamedes wasn't going to tell him anything else. "What are you looking for?"

"Something out of the ordinary."

"So what do we do?"

"We wait. We watch. Have a little patience." He glanced back at Josh. "By now much of the immortal world knows that the Alchemyst has discovered the legendary twins."

Josh was surprised by how direct the knight was being with him. "You didn't seem too sure about that earlier. Do you think we are?" he asked quickly. He needed to find out what Palamedes knew about the twins and, more importantly, about the Alchemyst.

But Palamedes ignored the question. "It doesn't matter if you are the legendary twins or not. What matters is that Flamel believes it. More importantly, Dee believes it also. Because of that, an extraordinary series of events has been put in motion: Bastet is abroad again, the Morrigan is back on this earth, the Disir brought the Nidhogg to Paris. Three Shadowrealms have been destroyed. That hasn't happened in millennia."

"Three? I thought it was just Hekate's realm that was destroyed." Scathach had spoken of other Shadowrealms, but Josh had no idea just how many existed.

Palamedes sighed, clearly tired of explanations. "Most of the Shadowrealms are linked or intersect with one another through a single gate. If anything happens to the Shadowrealm, the gate collapses. But the Yggdrasill, the World Tree, stretched up from Hekate's realm into Asgard and down deep into Niflheim, the World of Darkness. All three winked out of existence when Dee destroyed the tree, and I know that the gates to another half dozen have collapsed, effectively sealing off that world and its inhabitants. Dee added a few enemies to the long list of people-both human and inhuman-who hate and fear him already."

"What will happen to him?" Josh asked. Despite all he'd been told about the Magician, he found he still had a niggling admiration for him… which was more than he had for the French Alchemyst at the moment.

"Nothing. Dee is protected by powerful masters. He is completely focused on bringing the Elders back to this earth by any means possible."

Josh still didn't get that. "But why?" he asked.

"Because he is that most dangerous of foes: he is absolutely confident that what he is doing is right."

There was a flash of movement out of the corner of Josh's eye and he turned to see a huge dun-colored dog loping down the center of the street, running on the white line. It looked like a cross between an Irish wolfhound and a Borzoi, a Russian wolfhound. It raced past the taxi, right up to the gates of the car yard, then padded back and forth, sniffing the ground.

"Flamel's arrival has stirred up many ancient things," Palamedes continued, watching the dog intently. "I saw creatures today I thought had left this earth entirely, monsters that gave birth to humani's darkest legends. You should also know that Dee has posted a huge bounty on your heads. My spies tell me he wants you and your sister taken alive. Interestingly, he no longer wants Flamel alive; he will accept proof of his death. That is a major change. Elders, Next Generation, immortals and their humani servants are all converging on London. Just keeping the rabble from each other's throats is going to be a huge job; I've no idea how Dee is going to do it." Palamedes suddenly turned the engine back on, inching the car forward. "We're clear," he announced.

"How do you know?"

Palamedes pointed to where the dog sat before the gates, facing them. He hit a button on the dashboard and the gates started to slide open.

"The dog," Josh answered his own question. "Except it's not really a dog, is it?"

Palamedes grinned. "That's no dog." ll the hair on Areop-Enap's enormous body suddenly stood on end, individual strands quivering. "Madame Perenelle," it said. "I am going to suggest something that may seem shocking."

Perenelle turned toward the Elder. Behind it, incalculable numbers of spiders scattered across the enormous wall of web the ancient creature had created. "It's hard to shock me."

"Do you trust me?" Areop-Enap asked.

"I do," Perenelle said without hesitation. Once, she would have considered the Old Spider an outright enemy, but now she knew where its allegiances lay-with the humans. And it had proven itself in the battle with the Morrigan and her flocks. "What do you want to do?"

"Be still and do not panic," Areop-Enap said with a toothy smile. "This is for your own good." Abruptly, a thick blanket of web fell across the Sorceress, enveloping her from head to foot. A wave of spiders flowed up off the ground over the woman, quickly sheathing her in silk, cinching the cloak tight to her body with sticky threads. "Trust me," Areop-Enap said again.

Perenelle remained perfectly still, although her every instinct was to fight against the web, to tear it apart, to allow her aura to bloom and crisp it to blackened dust. She kept her mouth clamped tightly shut. She had fought monsters and seen creatures from the darkest edges of mankind's legends, but she still found the thought of a spider crawling into her mouth absolutely repulsive.

The Old Spider's head swiveled, and a long leg rose, hair gently blowing as it tested the air. "Prepare yourself," Areop-Enap said. "They're coming. So long as the web remains unbroken, you are protected."

Perenelle was now completely sheathed in a thick cocoon of white silken spiderweb. She had worn the finest silk before, but this was different. It was like being tightly wrapped in a soft blanket, incredibly comfortable but slightly constricting. The web was thinner around her mouth and eyes, so that she could breathe and see, but it was like looking through a gauze curtain. She felt a jolt, and suddenly she was hoisted up into the air and tucked into a corner. A wave of black spiders immediately swept over her, securing the cocoon tightly to the walls and the metal girders that buttressed the house. From her new vantage point, she could look down over the room to where Areop-Enap squatted in the middle of the floor. Perenelle realized that the dark carpet beneath the Elder was a mass of thousands-maybe even millions-of spiders. The floor rippled and pulsed under Areop-Enap, which was facing north, toward Angel Island, now lost in early-morning mist. Shifting in the cocoon, Perenelle strained to look in the same direction. From her perch she could see out over the water. There were storm clouds massing on the horizon, thick and blue-black; she expected to see them spike and flash with lightning. But through the silk covering her face, she saw that this cloud was twisting, turning in on itself… and it was racing closer. In less than a dozen heartbeats, it had flowed over the north end of Alcatraz.

And then it started to rain.

There was no roof on the ruined Warden's House. Thick black drops fell out of the cloud and spattered against Perenelle's web cocoon… and stuck.

And the Sorceress abruptly realized that these were not raindrops-they were flies.

Huge bluebottles and houseflies, squat fruit flies, narrow horseflies, soldier flies and robber flies rained down over the island, hitting and sticking to her web cocoon.

Before Perenelle even had a chance to call out in disgust, individual spiders were darting across the web and had commenced wrapping the struggling flies in silk.

Perenelle looked up. The huge cloud was almost upon them. But now she could see that it was not a cloud at all. The initial shower of insects was only a taste of what was to come. The roiling mass was flies, millions of them, crane flies and black flies, mosquitoes and tiny midges, squat botflies and red-eyed pomace flies.

The insects exploded against Alcatraz in a dark buzzing sheet. The first wave were caught by the white silken cobwebs, which quickly turned dark and heavy with the weight of the struggling insects. Perenelle watched the webs around her quickly rip and tear as more and more flies crashed against them. Hordes of spiders rolled over the trapped flies and were quickly locked in an ancient battle. The silk-sheathed walls heaved with wriggling spiders and desperately struggling flies, until it looked as if the sides of the building were alive, pulsing and throbbing.

The flies whirled around Areop-Enap, and the few that found Perenelle were trapped by the protective web around her. Faintly, she could hear their buzzing as they attempted to escape.

More and more waves of flies washed in over the island, and the spiders-Perenelle hadn't realized there were so many-swarmed over them. An incalculable number of flies had attached themselves to Areop-Enap, completely coating the Old Spider, until it resembled a huge buzzing ball. The Elder's massive leg lashed out of the heaving mass, scattering a wave of dead husks, but countless more took their places. The Elder leapt up and then crashed to the ground, crushing thousands more beneath its huge body.

And still more came in an endless dark surge.

Then, suddenly, Perenelle noticed that the walls and floor had stopped moving and rippling. Focusing hard through the gauzy curtain in front of her eyes, she saw something that shocked her: the spiders were dying. She watched a black-and-white zebra spider sink two iridescent blue fangs into an enormous crane fly that was stuck to its sticky web. The fly thrashed about, desperate to escape, but then, abruptly, the spider shuddered and stiffened. Both creatures died at the same time. And it was happening again and again: the moment the spiders bit into the flies, they died. It took a lot to frighten the Sorceress, but suddenly, she began to feel the first twinges of disquiet.

Whoever or whatever had sent the flies had poisoned them.

And if a single fly could kill a spider, then what could the huge mass do to Areop-Enap?

Perenelle had to do something. All around her, millions of spiders were dying, poisoned by the flies. Areop-Enap had disappeared beneath the dark mass. It was still heaving with the Old Spider's struggling and thrashing about, but as the Sorceress watched, she realized that the struggles were becoming weaker. Areop-Enap was ancient and primal but not completely invulnerable. Nothing-Elder, Next Generation, immortal or human-was completely indestructible. Not even Areop-Enap. Perenelle herself had once brought an ancient temple down on the spider's head and it had shrugged off the attack-yet could it survive billions of poisonous flies?

But Perenelle was caught. Areop-Enap had tucked her high on the wall, out of harm's way. If she were to cut through the web cocoon, she would fall at least twenty feet to the floor below. The impact probably wouldn't kill her, but it might snap an ankle or break a leg.

And how was she going to defeat a plague of flies?

Looking out over the island, she saw yet another curling thread of insects coming in on the breeze. Once they reached Alcatraz, it would all be over. The wind carried the faintest hum, like the sound of a distant chain saw.

Wind.

Wind had carried the insects onto the island… could Perenelle also use it to drive them away?

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Perenelle realized that she didn't know enough of wind lore to control the element with precision. Perhaps if she'd had time to prepare and her aura were fully charged, she would have attempted to raise some type of wind-a typhoon, maybe, or a small tornado-in the heart of the island and sweep it clean of flies, and probably spiders, too. But she couldn't risk it now. She needed to do something simple… and she needed to do it quickly. All the spiders had stopped moving. Millions of flies had died, but millions more remained, and they were swarming over Areop-Enap.

So if she couldn't drive the flies off the island, could she lure them away? Someone was controlling the insects-a Dark Elder or immortal, who must have first poisoned them, then set the tiny mindless insects on the island. Something had drawn them here. Perenelle's eyes snapped wide in realization. So something would have to draw them away. What would attract millions of flies?

What did flies like?

Behind the gauze web, Perenelle smiled. For her five hundredth birthday on the thirteenth of October in 1820, Scathach had presented her with a spectacular pendant, a single piece of jade carved into the shape of a scarab beetle. More than three thousand years previously, the Shadow had brought it back from Japan for the boy king Tutankhamen, but he'd died a day after she'd presented it to him. Scathach had despised Tutankhamen's wife, Ankhesenamen, and hadn't wanted her to have it, so she'd broken in to the royal palace late one night just before the boy king was embalmed and taken it back. When Scathach had given her the jade, Perenelle had joked, "You're giving me a dung beetle."

Scathach had nodded seriously. "Dung is more valuable than any precious metal. You cannot grow food in gold."

And flies were attracted to dung.

But there was no dung pile on the island, and to catch the flies' attention, she would have to create an exceptionally strong odor. Perenelle immediately thought of the beautiful plants of the arum family. Some of them stank abominably of dung. There was the cactuslike desert herb the carrion flower: beautiful to look at, but it reeked of something long dead. And there was skunk cabbage, and the world's largest flower, the giant rafflesia, the stinking corpse lily, with its putrid odor of rotting meat. If she could replicate that scent, she might be able to lure the flies away.

Perenelle knew that at the heart of all magic and sorcery was imagination. It was this gift for intense concentration that characterized the most powerful magicians; before attempting any great piece of magic, they had to clearly see the end result. So before she concentrated on creating the smell, she needed to think about a location that she could see in every detail. Places flickered at the edges of Perenelle's consciousness. Places she had lived, places she knew. In her long life she'd had the opportunity to visit so much of the world. But what she needed now was someplace reasonably close, a location she knew well, and one where there was not a huge human population.

The San Francisco Dump.

She'd only been to the dump on one previous occasion. Months ago, she'd helped one of the bookshop's employees move to a new apartment. Afterward, they'd driven south toward Monster Park and the dump on Recycle Road. Always sensitive to smells, Perenelle had caught the distinctively acrid-though not entirely unpleasant-smell of the dump when they'd turned onto Tunnel Avenue. As they'd got closer, the stink had become eye-watering and the air had filled with the sound of countless seabirds calling.

Perenelle drew upon that memory now. Fixing the dump clearly in her imagination, she visualized a huge clump of stinking, corpse-smelling flowers in the very heart of the refuse and then she imagined a wind carrying the foul stink northward toward Alcatraz.

The stench of something long rotten wafted over the island and a rippling wave coursed through the massed flies.

Perenelle focused her will. She visualized the sprawling dump scattered with blooms: calla and carrion flowers poking through the rubbish, giant red and white spotted rafflesia thriving amid the junk, and the air filling with the noxious scents, mingling with the dump's own fetid odor. Then she imagined a wind pushing the scent north.

The smell that washed over the island was eye-wateringly foul. A wave pulsed through the thick carpet of flies. Some rose buzzing into the air, circled aimlessly but then dropped back onto Areop-Enap.

Perenelle was tiring, and she knew that the effort was aging her. Drawing in a deep breath, she made one final effort. She had to move the flies before the second swarm joined them. She concentrated so hard on the foul stench that her normally odorless ice white aura shimmered and took on the hint of putrefaction.

The sickening stink that flowed over the island was a nauseating mixture of fresh dung mixed with long-spoiled meat and the rancid odor of sour milk.

The flies rose from Alcatraz in a solid black blanket. They hummed and buzzed like a power station and then, as one, set off heading south toward the source of the stench. The departing insects encountered the second huge swarm as it was just about to descend on the island and both groups mingled in an enormous solid black ball; then the entire mass turned and flowed south, following the rich soupy scent.

Within moments, there was not a living fly left on the island.

Areop-Enap shook itself free of tiny carcasses and then slowly and stiffly climbed the wall, sliced the web holding Perenelle in place and lowered her gently to the ground on a narrow spiral of thread. Perenelle allowed her aura to flare for a millisecond and the cocoon of spiderweb, now dotted and speckled with trapped flies, crisped to dust. She threw back her head, pushed her damp hair back off her forehead and neck and breathed deeply. It had been suffocatingly warm in the web.

"Are you all right?" she asked, reaching out to stroke one of the Elder's huge legs.

Areop-Enap swayed to and fro. Only one of its eyes was open, and when it spoke, its normally lisping speech was slurred almost beyond comprehension. "Poison?" it asked.

Perenelle nodded. She looked around. The ruins were thick with the husks of flies and spiders. She suddenly realized she was standing ankle-deep in the tiny corpses. When all this was over, she'd have to burn her shoes, she decided. "The flies were deadly. Your spiders died when they bit into them. They were sent here to kill your army."

"And they succeeded," Areop-Enap said sadly. "So many dead, so many…"

"The flies that attacked you also carried poison," Perenelle continued. "Individually, their bites were unnoticeable, but Old Spider, you have been bitten millions-perhaps even billions-of times."

Areop-Enap's single open eye blinked slowly closed. "Madame Perenelle, I must heal. Which means I must sleep."

Perenelle stepped closer to the huge spider and brushed the husks of dead flies from its purple hair. They crackled to dust at her touch. "Sleep, Old Spider," she said gently. "I will watch over you."

Areop-Enap staggered awkwardly into the corner of the room. Two huge legs swept a section of the floor clean of dead spiders and flies, and then it attempted to spin a web. But the silk was thin, threadlike and slightly discolored. "What did you do with the flies?" Areop-Enap asked, struggling to create more web.

"Sent them south on a wild-scent chase." Perenelle smiled. Her right hand flashed out, her aura flared and Areop-Enap's thin spider web suddenly grew and thickened. The Old Spider settled itself into the corner of the room in its nest and began again to spin a web around itself.

"Where?" Areop-Enap asked suddenly. Its single open eye was almost closed, and Perenelle could see where incalculable numbers of weeping sores had appeared on the creature's body from the poisonous bites.

"The San Francisco Dump."

"Few will make it there…," Areop-Enap mumbled, "and those who do will find plenty to distract them. You saved my life, Madame Perenelle."

"And you saved mine, Old Spider." The huge ball of web was almost complete. The silk had already started to turn rocklike, and only a small hole at the top remained. "Sleep now," Perenelle commanded, "sleep and grow strong. We are going to need your strength and wisdom in the days to come."

With a tremendous effort, Areop-Enap opened all its eyes. "I am sorry to leave you alone and defenseless."

Perenelle sealed the spider Elder into the huge cocoon of web, then turned and strode across the room. The tiniest breeze swept the floor clean before her. "I am Perenelle Flamel, the Sorceress," she said aloud, unsure whether Areop-Enap could hear her. "And I am never defenseless."

But even as she was saying the words, she clearly heard the note of doubt creep into her own voice. n the western shore of Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, a young-looking man sat on the hood of a bright red 1960 Thunderbird convertible. Short and slight, he was wearing blue jeans with the ends ragged and frayed and both knees worn to threads. The wolf's-head graphic on his T-shirt was faded to little more than a ghostly pattern, and his cowboy boots were scuffed and needed new soles and heels. His unkempt appearance, long hair and stubbly beard were in stark contrast to the gleaming car he was sitting on, which looked as if it had just been driven out of the showroom. The young man had twenty-nine dollars and change in his wallet; the car was worth at least one thousand times that.

Next to him on the hood of the car was an ancient antique Anasazi pottery bowl, decorated in elegant black-and-white angular geometric patterns. A thick liquid filled the bowl, a mixture of honey, flaxseed oil and water, and reflected in the liquid was the figure of Perenelle Flamel striding across Alcatraz, the black blanket of spider and fly corpses opening up before her in a wave.

So this was the legendary Perenelle Flamel. The young man moved his finger clockwise over the liquid and his bright blue eyes sparkled, turning briefly crimson, the hint of cayenne filling the air. The image of Perenelle zoomed in. He watched her stop and frown, the lines in her forehead deepening, and she looked around quickly, almost as if she knew that someone was watching her. He waved his hand and the liquid trembled, the image dissolving. Folding his arms across his thin chest, the man turned his face to the west, where Alcatraz was hidden in the gloom. It seemed as if everything he had heard about the woman was true: Perenelle was that most lethal of combinations, both beautiful and deadly.

He was momentarily at a loss. Should he attack again, or should he wait? Lifting his hand to his face, he breathed deeply and his aura glowed a deep purple-red, a shade darker than the Thunderbird, and the salt sea air was tainted with the odor of red pepper. He still had enough power left to do… what?

Calling the flies had been relatively easy; an Indian shaman had taught him that trick, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Poisoning the flies had been his Elder master's suggestion, and his master had even supplied the pool of poisoned water in Solano County, north of the city. The plan was to destroy Areop-Enap's army of spiders and murder the Elder. And it had almost succeeded. The mass of spiders were dead, and the Old Spider was very close to death. But at the last minute something had drawn the flies away from Alcatraz in a great pulsing cloud. In the oily liquid in the scrying bowl, the young man had seen the silver-white flicker of Perenelle's aura, and knew she'd been responsible. His thin face twisted in a grimace and he bit nervously into his bottom lip. He'd been assured that she was weakened, incapable of any display of her powers. Obviously, that information had been incorrect.

The thick liquid began to bubble and cloud, then to hiss and steam away; the scrying spell had a limited life span. Slipping off the hood of the car, the young man tossed the sticky remnants onto the ground, then carefully washed out the bowl with a bottle of water and dried it with a chamois cloth before putting it in the trunk of the car, nestling it in a small foam-filled metal suitcase. The bowl was one of the most precious objects he owned, and even when he'd been desperately poor, he'd never thought about selling it.

Sitting in the red leather interior of the car, he opened a manila envelope and read through the file he'd been sent by encrypted e-mail. A severe-looking white-haired man glared out of a black-and-white photograph. He'd been caught mid-stride as he crossed a street. The Eiffel Tower loomed over the rooftops in the background, and the date stamp on the bottom of the photograph revealed that it had been taken on Christmas Eve, six months ago. Idly, the young man wondered why the Dark Elders were watching one of their most trusted agents. This was the man they were sending to work with him: the European immortal Niccolo Machiavelli. The Elders' instructions had been unambiguous-he was to offer Machiavelli every assistance. He wondered if the Italian was anything like John Dee. He'd met Dee briefly and didn't like him; he was one of those arrogant European immortals who thought they were better than anyone else, just because they were older than the United States. But reading through Machiavelli's file, he found himself liking the man more and more. Ruthless, cunning and scheming, he was described as the most dangerous man in Europe.

He'd help Machiavelli, of course. He didn't really have any choice; going against the Dark Elders was tantamount to a death wish. Personally, he didn't believe he needed the Italian. Tossing the file on the floor, he turned the key in the ignition, pushed hard on the accelerator and spun the wheel, and the car fishtailed into a semicircle, billowing dust and grit in its wake.

Billy the Kid had never needed anyone. he scrap yard was a maze.

Towering alleyways of rusting metal, with barely enough space for the car to drive through, stretched from the entrance in every direction. A solid barrier of tires, hundreds deep, leaned precariously out over the narrow spaces. There was one wall composed entirely of car doors, another of hoods and trunks. Engine blocks stained with dripping oil and grease were piled in a tower next to a bank of exhaust pipes that had been driven into the ground, making them look like an abstract sculpture.

Palamedes eased the black London cab deeper into the mountainous warren of crushed cars. Sophie was completely awake now. She sat forward on the seat, looking through the window, eyes wide. In its own way, the scrap yard was as extraordinary as Hekate's Shadowrealm. Although it looked chaotic, she instinctively knew that there was probably a pattern to it. Something fluttered to her right and she turned quickly, catching a glimpse of movement in the shadows. She was turning back when she saw a shadow shift and blink away. They were being followed, yet despite her enhanced senses, she couldn't catch sight of the creatures, though she got the impression that they moved upright like humans. "Is this a Shadowrealm?" she asked aloud.

Beside her, Flamel stirred awake. "There are no Shadowrealms in the center of London," he mumbled. "Shadowrealms exist on the edges of cities."

Sophie nodded-she'd known that, of course.

Palamedes swung the car in a tight left-hand turn that led to an even narrower alleyway. The ragged metal walls were so close they almost scraped the car doors. "We're not in the center of the city anymore, Alchemyst," he said in his deep bass voice. "We're in the slightly disreputable suburbs. And you're wrong, too; I know two Elders who have small Shadow-realms situated in the heart of the city of London, and there are entrances to at least another three that I know of, including the best-known one, in the pool behind Traitor's Gate."

Josh craned his neck to look up at the towering walls of metal. "It's like a…" He stopped. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the twisting layout fell into place and he abruptly realized what he was seeing. "It's a castle," he whispered. "A castle made of crushed metal and flattened cars."

Palamedes' laugh was a loud bark that startled both twins. "Hah. I'm impressed. There's not many alive today who would recognize it. This layout is based upon a design created by the great Sebastien Le Prestre de Vauban himself."

"That sounds like a wine," Josh murmured, still mesmerized by what he discovered.

"I met him once," Flamel said absently. "He was a famous French military engineer." He twisted in the seat to look out the rear window. "Just looks like junked cars to me," he said, almost to himself.

Sophie looked curiously at her brother-how had he known that the jumble was actually a castle? But then, looking up at the walls of cars, the pattern she'd glimpsed earlier fell into place and she could see the shape of the castle, the battlements and towers, the narrow spaces where defenders could fire down onto any attackers. A shape moved behind one of the spaces and vanished.

"Over the years we've built up the cars like the walls of a castle," Palamedes continued. "The medieval castle builders knew a lot about defense, and de Vauban brought all that knowledge together to create the strongest defenses in the world. Then we took the best of all styles. There are mottes and baileys, outer wards and an inner ward, a barbican, towers and keeps. The only entrance is through this single narrow alleyway, and it is designed to be easily defensible." His huge hand moved toward the wrecked cars. "And behind and between and within the walls there are all sorts of nasty traps waiting."

The car vibrated as it ran onto metal. The twins both slid over to the windows and looked out to discover that they'd driven onto what looked like a bridge of narrow metal pipes suspended over a thick bubbling black liquid.

"The moat," Josh said.

"Our modern version of a moat," the Saracen Knight agreed. "Filled with oil instead of water. It's deeper than it looks and is lined with spikes. If anything falls in… well, let's just say that they're not climbing out. And of course we can set it ablaze with the flick of a switch."

"We?" Josh asked quickly, glancing at his sister.

"We," the knight confirmed.

"So there are others like you here?" Josh asked.

"I am not alone," Palamedes agreed with a quick grin, teeth white against his dark face.

He drove on, past the bridge, and another alleyway curved and ended at a solid metal wall of crushed and flattened cars. It was thick with blood-colored rust. Palamedes slowed but didn't stop. He pressed a button on the dashboard and the entire wall shuddered and silently slid to one side, leaving just enough space for the car to slip through. Once they were inside, the thick rusted gate slid silently back into position.

Beyond the gate was a broad area of churned and muddy ground, dotted with water-filled potholes. In the center of the sea of mud was a long rectangular metal hut set up on concrete blocks. The hut was dilapidated and filthy, its windows covered with wire mesh, and the rust that dappled the metal walls made it look diseased. Curls of barbed wire ran around the edges of the roof. Two sorry-looking flags-a British Union Jack and a red dragon on a green and white background-flapped on slightly bent poles. Both flags were ragged and in need of washing.

Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. "I was expecting something…"

"… nicer?" Josh finished. His twin raised her hand and he high-fived her.

"Nicer," she agreed. "It looks kind of depressing."

Josh noticed a pack of rangy wild dogs lurking in the shadows under the hut. They were the same color and breed as the huge dun-colored dog he'd spotted earlier, but these were smaller and their coats were dull, the fur matted. There was a spark of crimson light and he squinted hard: were the dogs' eyes red?

Nicholas straightened. He yawned and stretched as he looked around, then murmured, "Why all the security, Palamedes? What are you afraid of?"

"You have no idea," Palamedes said simply.

"Tell me." Nicholas rubbed his face and sat forward, elbows on his knees. "We are on the same side, after all."

"No, we're not," Palamedes said quickly. "We may have the same enemies, but we are not on the same side. Our aims are quite different."

"How are they different?" Flamel asked. "You fight the Dark Elders."

"Only when we have to. You seek to prevent the Dark Elders from returning to this world, whereas I, and my brother knights, go into the Shadowrealms and bring back those humans who have become trapped there."

Josh looked from Flamel to Palamedes, confused. "What brother knights?" he asked. "Who?"

Flamel took a deep breath. "I think Palamedes is referring to the Green Knights," he said.

Palamedes nodded. "Just so."

"I heard rumors…," the Alchemyst muttered.

"Those rumors are true," Palamedes said shortly. He pulled the car in beside the long metal-roofed hut and shut off the engine. "Don't step into any of the potholes," he advised as he pushed open the door. "You don't want to know what lives in them."

Sophie climbed out first, blinking hard behind her sunglasses in the late-afternoon sunshine. Her eyes felt gritty and sore, and there was a ticklish dry patch at the back of her throat. She wondered if she was coming down with a cold. Even though she'd been desperately trying not to think about Palamedes, some of the Witch's memories had percolated into hers, and she realized she knew a little about him. He was an immortal human gifted with the special ability to move freely through the Shadowrealms and yet remain unaffected by them. Few humans who went into the artificial worlds the Elders created ever returned. Human history-both ancient and modern-was full of people who had simply disappeared. Those very few who had somehow returned, or been brought back, often found that hundreds of years had passed on earth even though only a few nights had slipped by in the Shadowrealms. Many who came back were mad or had come to believe that the Shadowrealm was the real world while this earth was nothing more than a dream. They spent their entire lives trying to return to what they thought was the real world.

"You're thinking again." Josh jerked her elbow, distracting her.

Sophie smiled. "I'm always thinking."

"I meant you were thinking about stuff you shouldn't. The Witch's stuff."

"How can you tell?"

Josh's smile turned grave. "For an instant, just an instant, the pupils of your eyes turn silver. It's scary."

Sophie wrapped her arms around her body and shivered. She looked around at the walls of cars surrounding the rust-dappled hut. "It's a bit grim, isn't it? I thought all these Elders and immortals lived in palaces."

Josh turned in a complete circle, but when he looked back at her there was a grin on his face. "Actually, I think it's kind of cool. It's like a metal castle. And it seems to be incredibly secure, too. There's no way to even get close to this place without tipping off the guards."

"I caught glimpses of something moving as we drove through the maze," Sophie said.

Josh nodded. "Earlier, Palamedes told me that the houses in all the streets surrounding this place are empty. He owns them all. He said there are something called larvae and lemurs in them."

"Guardians."

"I saw a huge dog…" He nodded toward the pack of dogs lying completely still under the hut. "It was like those, only bigger, cleaner. It seemed to be patrolling the streets. And you've seen the defenses," he added excitedly. "There's a single heavily guarded entrance that funnels everything into a narrow alleyway. So no matter how big whatever army you have is, only two or three soldiers can attack at any one time. And they're also vulnerable from above because of the battlements."

Sophie reached out and squeezed her brother's arm tightly. "Josh," she said sharply, blue eyes wide with concern. She'd never heard her brother talk like this before. "Stop it. How come you know so much about castle defenses…?" Her voice trailed off, the ghost of an unsettling idea flickering at the corner of her mind.

"I don't know," Josh admitted. "I just… sort of… know it. It's like when we were in Paris-I knew that Dee and Machiavelli had to be on high ground controlling the gargoyles. And then, earlier today, when those three creatures were going to attack…"

"The Genuii Cucullati," Sophie murmured absently, turning to watch Nicholas climb stiffly out of the cab. When she saw him reach in to pull out Josh's backpack, she noticed that his knuckles looked slightly swollen. Aunt Agnes, back in Pacific Heights in San Francisco, had arthritis, and her knuckles were also swollen. The Alchemyst was aging fast.

"Yes, them. I knew that they were moving into an attack pattern by their body language. I knew that the center one would charge first and come at us straight on, while the other two would try to flank us. I knew if I could stop him, it might distract the others and give us a chance to escape." Josh stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying. "How did I know that?" he wondered aloud.

"Mars," Sophie whispered. She nodded. "It has to have come from the God of War." The girl shuddered; she and her brother were changing. Then she shook her head slightly: they had already changed.

"Mars. I… I remember," Josh whispered. "When he was Awakening me he said something at the end, something about giving me a gift that I might find useful in the days to come. And then he rested his hand on the top of my head and I felt this incredible heat flow through me." He looked at his twin. "What did he give me? I don't have any strange memories, like the ones the Witch gave you."

"I think you should probably be grateful you don't have his memories," Sophie said quickly. "The Witch knew Mars and despised him. I would imagine most of his memories are foul. Josh, I think he's given you his military knowledge."

"He's made me a warrior?" Even though the thought was creepy, Josh was unable to keep the note of delight from his voice.

"Maybe even something better," Sophie said, her voice soft and distant, eyes flashing silver. "I think he's made you a strategist."

"And that's good?" He sounded disappointed

Sophie nodded quickly. "Battles are won by men. Wars are won by strategists."

"Who said that?" Josh asked, surprised.

"Mars did," Sophie said, shaking her head to clear the sudden influx of memories. "Don't you see? Mars was the ultimate strategist; he never lost a battle. It's an amazing gift."

"But why did he give it to me?" Josh asked the question Sophie was thinking.

Before she could answer, the door to the long metal hut suddenly creaked open and a figure in soiled mechanic's overalls bustled down the steps. Small and slight, with stooped shoulders and a long oval face, the man blinked nearsightedly at the cab. He had a wispy mustache, and although the top of his head was bald, the hair over his ears and at the back of his head flowed down onto his shoulders.

"Palamedes?" he snapped, clearly irritated. "What is the meaning of this?" His English was crisp and precise, each word enunciated clearly. He saw the twins and stopped short. Pulling a pair of oversized black-framed glasses from a top pocket, he pushed them onto his face. "Who are these people?" And then he turned and spotted Nicholas Flamel at about the same time the Alchemyst saw him.

Both men reacted simultaneously.

"Flamel!" The small man shrieked. He turned and darted back toward the hut, scrambling and falling on the metal steps.

Nicholas grunted something in archaic French, tore open Josh's backpack and wrenched Clarent from the cardboard map tube. Holding it in a tight two-handed grip, he swung it around his head, the edge of the blade keening and humming through the air. "Run," he shouted to the twins, "run for your lives! It's a trap!" efore Sophie or Josh could react, Palamedes reared up behind the Alchemyst and his two huge hands locked onto Flamel's shoulders. The two immortals' auras blazed and crackled, the Alchemyst's bright green mingling with the knight's darker olive green. The acrid metal-and-rubber-tainted air of the car yard was suffused with the clean odor of mint and the spicy warmth of cloves. Flamel struggled to swing Clarent around, but the knight tightened his grip and pushed, driving the Alchemyst to his knees, fingers biting into the flesh, pinching nerves. The sword dropped from Flamel's hand.

Sophie spread the fingers of her right hand wide and prepared to call up the element of fire, but Josh caught her arm and pulled it down. "No," he said urgently, just as the pack of dogs boiled out from beneath the hut and swarmed around them. The animals moved in complete silence, lips bared to reveal savage yellow teeth and lolling tongues that were forked like snakes'. "Don't move," he whispered, squeezing his twin's hand. The dogs were close enough for him to see that their eyes were completely red, without a trace of white or pupil. Teeth clicked, and he felt wet lips brush against his fingers. The animals exuded a stale musty odor like rotting leaves. Although the dogs weren't large, they were incredibly muscled-one bumped against Josh's legs, knocking him forward into Sophie. The twins' auras sparked and the dog pressing against Josh's legs tumbled away, hair bristling.

"Enough!" Palamedes' voice boomed and echoed across the car lot. "This is no trap." The knight leaned over Nicholas, his huge hands still locked onto each shoulder, pushing him into the ground. "I may not be your ally, Alchemyst," Palamedes rumbled, "but I am not your enemy. All I have left now is my honor, and I promised my friend Saint-Germain that I would take care of you. I'll not betray that trust."

Flamel tried to shake himself free, but Palamedes' grip was unbreakable. The Alchemyst's aura sparkled and flared, then suddenly fizzled out, and he slumped in exhaustion.

"Do you believe me?" Palamedes demanded.

Nicholas nodded. "I believe you-but, why is he here?" With a look of absolute disgust on his face, the Alchemyst raised his head to look at the small man cowering just inside the hut, peering around the corner of the door.

"He lives here," Palamedes said simply.

"Here! But he's-"

"My friend," the knight said shortly. "Much has changed." Loosening his grip, Palamedes caught Nicholas by both shoulders and heaved him to his feet. Spinning him around, the knight straightened his rumpled leather jacket; then he snapped a word in an incomprehensible language and the animals surging around the twins flowed back to the shelter of the hut.

Josh glanced down at the sword on the ground and wondered if he was fast enough to reach it. He looked up and found Palamedes' deep brown eyes watching him. The knight smiled with a flash of white teeth and dipped down to pluck Clarent from the mud. "I've not seen this for a long time," the knight said softly, his accent thickening, hinting again at his Middle Eastern origins. The moment he touched it, his aura bloomed into life around him, and for an instant he was sheathed in a long hauberk of black chain mail, complete with a close-fitting hood that covered his arms to his fingertips and finished low on his thighs. Each link of the chain mail winked with tiny reflections. As his aura faded, Clarent's stone blade shimmered red-black, like oil on water, and a sound, like the wind through long grass, sighed across the blade.

"No!" The dark stone blade winked bloodred again, and Palamedes drew in a deep shuddering breath and suddenly dropped the sword, a sheen of sweat on his dark skin. The weapon stuck point-first in the muddy ground, swaying to and fro. The mud immediately hardened in a circle around the tip of the sword, dried and then split and cracked. Palamedes rubbed his hands briskly together, then brushed them against his trousers. "I thought it was Excal-" He rounded on Flamel. "What are you doing with this… thing? You must know what it is?"

The Alchemyst nodded. "I've kept it safe for centuries."

"You kept it!" The knight clenched his hands into huge fists. Veins popped out along his forearms and appeared on his neck. "If you knew what it was, why didn't you destroy it?"

"It is older than humanity," Flamel said quietly, "even older than the Elders or Danu Talis. How could I destroy it?"

"It's loathsome," Palamedes snapped. "You know what it did?"

"It was a tool; nothing more. It was used by evil people."

Palamedes started to shake his head.

"We needed it to escape," the Alchemyst said firmly. "And remember, without it, the Nidhogg would still be alive and rampaging through Paris."

Josh stepped forward, pulled the sword from the ground and wiped the muddy tip of the blade on the edge of his shoe. There was the briefest hint of oranges in the air, but the smell was bitter and faintly sour. The moment the boy touched the hilt, a wash of emotions and images hit him:

Palamedes, the Saracen Knight, at the head of a dozen knights in armor and chain mail. They were battered, their armor scarred and broken, weapons chipped, shields dented. They were fighting their way through an army of primitive-looking beastlike men, trying to get to a small hill where a single warrior in golden armor desperately battled against creatures that were a terrible cross between men and animals.

Palamedes shouting a warning as a huge creature rose up behind the lone warrior, a creature that was shaped like a man but had the curling horns of a stag on its head. The horned man raised a short stone sword and the warrior in gold fell.

Palamedes standing over the fallen warrior, gently removing the sword Excalibur from his hand.

Palamedes racing through a marshy swampland, pursuing the staglike creature. Beasts came at him-boarmen and bearmen, wolfmen and goatmen-but he cut through them with Excalibur, the sword blazing, leaving arcs of cold blue light in the air.

Palamedes standing at the bottom of an impossibly sheer cliff, watching the horned man climb effortlessly to the top.

And at the top, the creature turning and holding aloft the sword he'd used to kill the king. It dripped and steamed with crimson-black smoke. And it was almost a mirror of the sword in the Saracen Knight's hand.

Josh drew in a deep shuddering breath as the images faded. The horned man had been holding Clarent, Excalibur's twin. Opening his eyes, he looked at the weapon, and in that instant, he knew why Palamedes had snatched up the blade. The two swords were almost identical; there were only minor differences in the hilts. The Saracen Knight had assumed the stone sword was Excalibur. Concentrating fiercely on the gray blade, Josh tried to focus on what he'd just seen-the warrior in the golden armor. Had that been…?

A stale unwashed smell assaulted Josh's nose and he turned to find the bald man they'd glimpsed earlier standing close to him, squinting shortsightedly behind his thick black-rimmed glasses. His eyes were a pale washed-out blue. And he stank. Josh coughed and took a step back, eyes watering. "Man, you could use a bath!"

"Josh!" Sophie said, shocked.

"I do not believe in bathing," the man said in his clipped accent, the voice completely at odds with his appearance. "It damages the natural oils in the body. Dirt is healthy."

The small man moved from Josh to Sophie and looked her up and down. Josh noticed that his sister blinked hard and wrinkled her nose. Then she clamped her mouth tightly shut and stepped back.

"See what I mean?" Josh said. "He needs a bath." He brushed dirt off the sword blade and took a step closer to his sister. The man looked harmless, but Josh could tell that something about him angered-or was it frightened?-the Alchemyst.

"Yeah." Sophie tried not to breathe in through her nose. The stench from the man was indescribable: a mixture of stale body odor, unwashed clothes and rank hair.

"I will wager you are twins," the man asked, looking from one to the other. He nodded, answering his own question. "Twins." He reached out with filthy fingers to touch Sophie's hair, but she slapped his hand away. Her aura sparked and the stench around the man briefly intensified.

"Don't touch me!"

Flamel stepped between the man in the mechanic's overalls and the twins. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I thought you were dead."

The man smiled, revealing shockingly bad teeth. "I'm as dead as you are, Alchemyst. Though I am better known."

"You two have obviously met before," Josh said.

"I've known this"-Nicholas hesitated, lines and wrinkles creasing his face-"this person since he was a boy. In fact, I once had high hopes for him."

"Would someone like to tell us who this is?" Josh demanded, looking from the Alchemyst to Palamedes and back again, waiting for an answer.

"He was my apprentice, until he betrayed me," Flamel snapped, almost spitting the words. "He became John Dee's right hand."

The twins immediately backed away from the man, and Josh's grip tightened on the sword.

The bald man tilted his head to one side, and the expression on his face became lost and indescribably sad. "That was a long time ago, Alchemyst. I've not associated with the Magician for centuries."

Flamel stepped forward. "What changed your mind? Was he not paying you enough to betray your wife, your family, your friends?"

Pain flickered in the man's pale blue eyes. "I made mistakes, Alchemyst, that is true. I've spent lifetimes attempting to atone for them. People change… Well, most people," he said. "Except you. You were always so sure of yourself and your role in the world. The great Nicholas Flamel was never wrong… or if he was, he never admitted it," he added very softly.

The Alchemyst swung away from the man to look squarely at the twins. "This," he said, arm waving toward the small man in the soiled overalls, "is Dee's former apprentice, the immortal human William Shakespeare." tanding framed in the doorway of his impressive town house, Niccolo Machiavelli watched Dr. John Dee climb into the sleek black limousine. The smartly dressed driver closed the door, nodded to Machiavelli, then climbed into the driver's seat. A moment later the car pulled away from the curb, and, as the Italian had guessed, Dee neither looked back nor waved. Machiavelli's stone gray eyes followed the car as it merged into the evening traffic. It was just about to pull out from the Place du Canada when an anonymous-looking Renault took up a position three cars behind it. Machiavelli knew the Renault would follow Dee's car for three blocks and then be replaced by a second and then a third car. Cameras mounted on the dashboard would relay live pictures to Machiavelli's computer. He would have Dee followed every moment he remained in Paris. His instincts, honed by centuries of survival, were warning him that Dee was up to something. The English Magician had been far too eager to leave, refusing Machiavelli's offer of a bed for the night, claiming he had to get to England immediately and resume the search for Flamel.

It took an effort to push closed the heavy hall door with its thick bulletproof glass, and Machiavelli suddenly realized that it was little things like this that made him miss Dagon.

Dagon had been with him for almost four hundred years, ever since Machiavelli had found him, injured and close to death, in the Grotta Azzurra on the Isle of Capri. He'd nursed Dagon back to health, and in return the creature had become his manservant and secretary, his bodyguard and, ultimately, his friend. They had traveled the world and had even ventured into some of the safer Shadowrealms together. Dagon had shown him wonders, and he in turn had introduced the creature to art and music. Despite his brutish appearance, Dagon had had a voice of extraordinary beauty and purity. It was only in the latter half of the twentieth century, when Machiavelli had first heard the haunting notes of whale songs, that he had recognized the sounds the creature was capable of making.

Machiavelli had allowed no one to get close to him for almost half a millennium. He'd been in his early thirties when he'd married Marietta Corsini in 1502, and over the next twenty-five years they'd had six children together. But when he had become immortal, he'd been forced to "die" to conceal the truth that he would never age. The Dark Elder who had made him immortal hadn't told him at the time that such a ruse would be necessary. Leaving Marietta and the children had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but he'd looked out for them for the remainder of their lives. He'd also watched them age, sicken and perish: this was the dark side of the gift of immortality. When Marietta finally died, he'd attended her funeral in disguise and then visited her grave in the dead of night to pay his last respects and swear an oath that he would always honor his marriage vows and never remarry. He'd kept that promise.

Machiavelli strode down a wood-paneled corridor and pressed his palm against a bronze bust of Cesare Borgia on a small circular table. "Dell'arte della guerra," he said aloud, voice echoing in the empty hallway. There was a click and a section of the wall slid back to reveal Niccolo's private office. When he stepped into the room, the door hissed shut and recessed lights came to glowing life. He'd had a room like this-a private, secret place-in every home he'd ever lived in. This was his domain. During their life together, Marietta hadn't been allowed access to his private chambers in any of their homes, and over the centuries even Dagon had never stepped into one. In years past the room would have been accessed via secret passages and protected with spiked and bladed traps, and later with many locks and intricate hand-carved keys. Now, in the twenty-first century, it was safe within a bombproof casing and secured with palm-and voice-print technology.

The room was a perfect soundproof cube. There were no windows, and two walls were covered with books he had collected down through the centuries. Leather bindings stood beside dusty buckram and yellowed vellum were shelved side by side. Rolled parchment and stitched hide rested alongside brightly colored modern paperbacks. And all the books, in one way or another, had to do with the Elders. Absently, he straightened a four-thousand-year-old Akkadian tablet, pushing it back on top of a printout from a mythology Web site. Whereas Flamel was obsessed with preventing the Dark Elders from returning to this world and Dee was equally determined that the world return to its masters, Machiavelli focused on discovering the truth behind the enigmatic rulers of the ancient earth. One of the lessons he had learned in the court of the Medici was that power came from knowledge, so he had become determined to discover the Elders' secrets.

The wall facing the doorway was completely taken up with a series of computer screens. Machiavelli hit a button and they all lit up, each one showing a different image. There were assorted views of Paris and images from a dozen of the world's capitals, and a quartet of screens carried live national and international news from around the world. One screen, larger than the rest, showed a moving grainy gray image. Machiavelli sat down in a high-backed leather chair and stared at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

It was a live video feed from the car trailing Dee.

Machiavelli ignored the black limousine in the center of the picture and concentrated on the streets. Where was Dee going?

The Magician had told him that he was heading to the airport, where his private jet was being refueled. He was going to fly to England and resume the hunt for the Alchemyst. The corners of Machiavelli's mouth curled in a smile. Dee was clearly not heading toward the airport; he was heading back into the city. The Italian's instincts had been correct: the Magician was up to something.

Keeping one eye on the screen, Machiavelli opened his laptop, powered it on and ran his index finger through the integrated fingerprint reader. The machine completed the boot sequence. If he had used any other finger to log on, a destructive virus would have overwritten the entire hard drive.

He quickly read through the encrypted e-mails coming in from his London-based agents and spies. Another ironic smile twisted his thin lips; the news was not good. In spite of everything Dee had done, Flamel and the twins had disappeared, and the trio of Genii Cucullati the Magician had sent after them had been discovered in a side street close to the train station. They were all in a deep coma, and the Italian suspected that it would be 366 days before they awoke. It seemed the English doctor had underestimated the Alchemyst yet again.

Machiavelli sat back in the chair and put his hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer. The tips of his index fingers pressed against his lips. He had always known that the image Flamel projected-that of a bumbling, slightly absent-minded, vaguely eccentric old fool-was a smokescreen. Nicholas and Perenelle had survived everything the Dark Elders and Dee had thrown at them over the centuries by a combination of cunning, skill, arcane knowledge and a healthy dose of luck. Machiavelli believed that Flamel was intelligent, dangerous and completely ruthless.

However, whereas Nicholas was wily, even he admitted that Perenelle was far cleverer than he was. Machiavelli's smile faltered: this was the woman he had been sent to kill, the woman his own Dark Elder master had described as being infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst. He sighed. Killing someone as powerful as the Sorceress was not going to be easy. But he had absolutely no doubt that he could do it. He had failed once before, but that was because he'd made the same grave error Dee had just made: he had underestimated his enemy.

This time Machiavelli would be ready for the Sorceress. This time he would kill her.

But first he had to get to America. Machiavelli's fingers flew across the keys as he logged on to a travel Web site. Unlike Dee, who preferred to use his private jet, Machiavelli had decided to take a commercial flight to America. He could use one of the French government jets, but that would attract attention, and Machiavelli had always preferred to work behind the scenes.

He needed a direct flight to San Francisco. His options were limited, but there was a nonstop out of Paris at 10:15 a.m. the following morning. The flight was just over eleven hours long, but the nine-hour time difference meant that he would arrive on the West Coast at around 12:30 p.m. local time.

The Air France flight had no First Class seats so he booked l'Espace Affaires-Business Class. It was certainly appropriate. This trip was, after all, business. Machiavelli clicked forward through his purchase and chose seat 4A. It was at the back of the Business Class cabin, but when the plane landed and the door opened, he would be first off. When the e-mail confirmation popped into his in-box, he forwarded a copy of his flight details to the Dark Elders' principal agent on the West Coast of America: the immortal human Henry McCarty.

Machiavelli had researched the man thoroughly. During his brief life McCarty had been better known as William H. Bonney or Billy the Kid. Born in 1859, immortal at twenty-two years old-or dead, according to the history books. Machiavelli shook his head in wonder. It was very unusual for a human to become immortal at such an early age; most of the immortals he'd encountered through the centuries were older. Despite years of research, Machiavelli still had no idea why certain people were chosen by the Elders to receive the gift. There had to be a pattern or a reason, but he had come across kings, princes, vagabonds and thieves who had nothing in common except that they had been granted immortality-and therefore were in the employ of the Elders. Less than a handful had become immortal before they were in their forties. So, to have been granted immortality at twenty-two, Billy the Kid must be very special indeed.

A flash of movement caught his attention and Machiavelli looked up at the screen tracking Dee.

The cars had stopped, and even as Machiavelli watched, Dee climbed out of the back of the limousine without giving the driver time to scuttle around to open the door. The Magician walked away from the limousine, then paused and turned to look back at the car behind him. In the instant when Dee gazed directly into the camera, Machiavelli realized he'd known he was being followed. The Magician smiled, then disappeared out of frame, and the Italian hit a speed dial that connected him with the driver of the second car. "Status?" he snapped. There was no need to identify himself.

"We've stopped, sir. The subject has just exited the vehicle."

"Where?"

"We're on the Pont au Double. The subject is heading for Notre Dame."

"Notre Dame!" Machiavelli said softly. Only yesterday, he had stood on the roof of the great cathedral with Dee, and together, they had brought the gargoyles and grotesques to terrifying life and watched them crawl down the wall to where Flamel, the twins, Saint-Germain and a mysterious woman had crouched on the parvis in front of the cathedral. The animated stone creatures should have crushed the humans, but the attack had not gone according to plan.

Flamel and his companions had fought back. Absently, the Italian rubbed his leg where he'd been struck by a silver arrow of pure auric energy. A star-shaped black bruise covered his thigh from knee to hip, and he knew he would be walking with a limp for weeks. It had been the twins who had saved them, the twins who had destroyed the gargoyles and grotesques of Notre Dame.

Machiavelli had stood in silence, seeing for himself the evidence that Sophie and Josh were indeed the twins of legend. It had been an amazing demonstration of power. Although the girl had learned only the very basics in two of the elemental magics-Wind and Fire-it was obvious that her natural skill was extraordinary. And when the twins had combined their auras to heighten and intensify the girl's powers, he had realized that Sophie and Josh Newman were truly exceptional.

Machiavelli's public relations department had released the story that the destruction of the cathedral's stonework was caused by acid rain and global warming. And even now teams of archaeologists and students from the universities of Paris were working to clear the parvis. The square was sealed off behind strips of tape and metal barricades.

The Italian stared hard at the screen, but it revealed nothing. Why had Dee gone back to that place?

"Should we follow?" The driver's voice crackled with static.

"Yes," Machiavelli said quickly. "Follow, but do not approach and do not apprehend. Keep this line open."

"Yes, sir."

Machiavelli waited impatiently, eyes fixed on the static image of the car on the screen. The driver spoke urgently to the men in the other two cars, ordering them to take up positions by the side entrances to the great cathedral. The main doors, which opened out onto the square, were closed. The immortal watched as the driver passed in front of the dashboard camera and disappeared off to the left, phone pressed to his ear. "He's heading for the cathedral," the driver said breathlessly. "He's gone inside. There's no way out," he added quickly.

The ambient sound changed as the man ran indoors. Footsteps echoed, doors slammed; then Machiavelli heard the tinny sounds of excited voices. He listened to the driver grow louder, more demanding, more insistent, but he could not make out the words. Moments later, the driver came back on the phone. "Sir: there are some architects and planners here to examine the damage. The subject would have had to come right past them, but they say no one has entered the cathedral in the last hour." A note of fear crept into the man's voice; Machiavelli's reputation for ruthlessness was legendary, and no one wanted to report a failure. "I know it's impossible, but I think… we-we've lost him." The man's voice faltered. "I… I have no idea how, but it looks like… he's not in the cathedral. We'll seal off the building and get some more men for a search…"

"Negative. Let him go. Return to base," Machiavelli said very softly, and hung up. He knew where Dee was. The Magician wasn't in the cathedral. He was under it. He'd returned to the catacombs beneath the city. But the only thing in the ancient City of the Dead was the Elder Mars Ultor.

And yesterday, Dee had entombed the Elder in bone. he stink of frying food wafted across the junkyard, completely dispelling the odors of metal and oil and the wet musky scent of the dogs.

Flamel was standing on the bottom step to the hut. Even with the extra height, he had to look up into the knight's face. The man the Alchemyst had introduced as William Shakespeare had gone inside and slammed the door with enough force to shake the entire building. Moments later black smoke had started to leak from the chimney. "He cooks when he's upset," Palamedes had explained.

Josh swallowed hard, then pinched his nose shut, forcing himself to breathe through his mouth as the smoke from the building drifted around them. Already sickened by his Awakened senses, he knew that he had to get away from the smell of smoke and grease or he was going to throw up. He saw his sister looking at him, eyes wide with concern, and he jerked his head to one side. She nodded, then coughed, eyes watering as more smoke eddied around them. Stepping carefully, avoiding the booby-trapped potholes in the muddy ground, the twins quickly moved away from the dilapidated metal building. Josh rubbed the heel of his hand across his lips. He could actually taste the cooking oil and grease on his tongue. "Whatever it is," he muttered, "I'm not eating it." He glanced sideways at his sister. "I guess there are a few disadvantages to having Awakened senses."

"Just a few." She smiled. "I thought I was getting used to it," she added.

"Well, I'm not," Josh sighed. "Not yet, anyway." The Elder Mars had Awakened him only the previous day-though it felt like a lifetime ago-and he was still completely overwhelmed by the assault on his senses. Everything was brighter, louder and a lot smellier than it had ever been before. His clothing felt harsh and heavy against his skin, and even the air left a bitter taste on his lips.

"Joan told me that after a while, we'll be able to blank out most of the sensations and only concentrate on what we need to know," Sophie said. "Remember how sick I was when Hekate first Awakened me?"

He nodded. Sophie had been so weak that he'd had to carry her.

"It doesn't seem to have hit you so hard," she said. "You look pale, though."

"I feel sick," Josh said. He nodded toward the hut, where a plume of gray-black smoke was curling from the crooked chimney, leaking the stink of bubbling fat and rancid oil into the air. "And that's not helping. I wonder, would it smell as bad if our senses weren't Awakened?"

"Probably not." She attempted a joke. "Maybe this was why human senses dulled over time. It was all just too much to handle."

Flamel suddenly looked over at the twins and raised an arm. "Stay close; don't wander off," he called. Then, followed by Palamedes, he climbed the remainder of the steps and jerked open the door. The two immortals disappeared into the gloomy interior and slammed the door behind them.

Sophie glanced at her twin. "Looks like we're not invited." Although she kept her voice carefully neutral, Josh could tell she was angry; she always sucked in her lower lip when she was irritated or upset.

"Guess not." Josh pulled the neck of his T-shirt up over his nose and mouth. "What do you think's going on in there? You think if we got closer we'd be able to hear what they're talking about?"

Sophie looked quickly at him. "I'm sure we would, but do you really want to get any closer to that stink?"

Josh's eyes narrowed as a thought struck him. "I wonder…"

"What?"

"Maybe that's why the smell is so bad," he said slowly. "They must know we won't be able to take it and it'll keep us away."

"You really think they'd go to all that trouble? What-so they can talk about us?" Sophie looked at her brother again and her eyes winked briefly silver. "That's not your idea, Josh."

"What do you mean it's not my idea?" he demanded. "I thought of it." He paused and then added, "Didn't I?"

"For one, it's too smart," Sophie argued. "And it sounds like something Mars would think. From what I can tell from my memories-or the Witch's-there was a time when he thought everyone was after him."

"And were they?" Josh asked. Although the Elder was terrifying, he couldn't help feeling incredibly sorry for him. When Mars Ultor had touched him, Josh had felt the smallest bit of the warrior's unending pain. It was unbearable.

"Yes," Sophie said, eyes blinking silver, her voice now little more than a whisper. "Yes, they were. By the time he became Mars Ultor-the Avenger-he was one of the most hated and feared men on the planet."

"Those are the Witch's memories," Josh said. "Try not to think about them."

"I know." She shook her head. "But I can't help it. It all sort of creeps in around the edges of my mind." She shuddered and wrapped her arms around her body. "It's scaring me. What happens… what happens if her thoughts take over mine? What happens to me?"

Josh shook his head. He had no idea. Even the thought of losing his twin was terrifying. "Think about something else," Josh insisted. "Something the Witch couldn't know."

"I'm trying, but she knows so much," Sophie said miserably. She spun around, trying to focus on their surroundings and ignore the strange and foreign thoughts at the back of her mind. She knew she should be strong, she needed to be strong for her brother, but she couldn't get past the Witch's memories. "Everyone I look at, everything I see, reminds me how things have changed. How am I supposed to think of something ordinary when all this is happening? Look at us, Josh: look at where we are, look at what's happened to us. Everything has changed… changed completely."

Josh nodded. He shifted the map tube on his shoulder, the heavy sword rattling inside. From that very first moment back in the bookshop when he'd popped his head up over the edge of the cellar and seen Flamel and Dee fighting with spears of green and yellow energy, he'd known the world would never be the same again. That had been-what?-four days ago, but in those four days, the world had turned upside down. Everything he'd thought he knew was a lie. They had met myths, fought legends; they had traveled halfway around the world in the blink of an eye to fight a primeval monster and watch stone carvings come to lumbering life.

"You know," Sophie said suddenly, "we really should have taken last Thursday off."

Josh couldn't resist a grin. "Yeah, we should have." He'd spent weeks trying to talk Sophie into taking a day off so they could visit the Exploratorium, the science museum close to the Golden Gate Bridge. Ever since he'd heard about it, he'd desperately wanted to see Bob Miller's famous Sun Painting, a creation of sunlight, mirrors and prisms. Then his smile faded. "If we'd done that, then none of this would have happened."

"Exactly," Sophie said. She looked at the towering metal walls of rusting cars, the pockmarked muddy landscape and the red-eyed dogs. "Josh, I want things the way they were. Ordinary." She turned back to her twin, her eyes catching and holding his. "But you don't," she said flatly.

Josh didn't even bother trying to deny it. His sister would know he was lying; she always did. And she was right: even though he was exhausted and barely able to cope with his Awakened senses, he didn't want things to go back to the way they'd been; he didn't want to go back to being ordinary. He'd been ordinary all his life-and when people did notice him, they only saw him as half of a set of twins. It was always Josh and Sophie. They went to summer camp together, went to concerts and movies together and had never spent a holiday apart. Birthday cards were always addressed to the two of them; party invitations came with both of their names on them. Usually, it didn't really bother him, but over the past few months, it had all started to grate on him. What would it be like to be seen as an individual? What if there were no Sophie? What if he was just Josh Newman, not half of the Newman twins?

He loved his sister, but this was his chance to be different, to be an individual.

He'd been jealous of Sophie when her senses had been Awakened and his hadn't. He'd been scared of her when he'd seen her do battle, in control of impossible powers. He'd been terrified for her when he'd seen the pain and confusion the Awakening had caused. But now that his own senses were Awakened and the world had turned sharp and brilliant, he'd had a momentary glimpse of his potential and he was beginning to understand what he might become. He'd experienced the Nidhogg's thoughts and Clarent's impressions, he'd caught fleeting glimpses of worlds beyond his imagination. He knew-beyond any shadow of a doubt-that he wanted to go to the next stage and be trained in the elemental magics. He just wasn't sure he wanted to do it with the Alchemyst. There was something wrong with Nicholas Flamel. The revelation that there had been other twins before them had been shocking and disturbing, and Josh had questions-hundreds of questions-but he knew he wasn't going to get a straight answer from the Alchemyst. Right now he didn't know who to trust-except Sophie-and the realization that she would prefer not to have her powers was a little frightening. Even though his Awakened senses had given him a pounding headache and a sick sour stomach, had made his throat raw and his eyes gritty, he wouldn't give them up. Unlike his twin, he realized, he was glad he hadn't taken Thursday off.

Josh pressed his hand to his chest. Paper rustled under his T-shirt, where he still wore the two pages he'd snatched from the Codex. A thought occurred to him. "You know," he said softly, "if we had gone to the Exploratorium, then Dee would have kidnapped Nicholas and Perenelle and he'd have the entire Codex. He probably would've already brought the Dark Elders back from their Shadowrealms. The world might have already ended. There's no ordinary to go back to, Soph," he finished in an awed whisper.

The twins stood in silence, trying to comprehend it all. The very idea was terrifying: it was almost incomprehensible that the world they knew could end. Back on Wednesday they would have laughed at the idea. But now? Now they both knew that it could have happened. And worse-they knew it might still happen.

"Or at least, that's what Nicholas says," Josh added, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"And you believe him?" Sophie asked, curious. "I thought you didn't trust him."

"I don't," Josh said firmly. "You heard what Palamedes said about him. Because of Flamel, because of what he did and didn't do, hundreds of thousands of people have died."

"Nicholas didn't kill them," Sophie reminded him. "Your friend," she said sarcastically, "John Dee, did that."

Josh turned away and looked at the metal hut. He had no answer to that because it was the truth. Dee himself had admitted to setting fire and plague loose on the world in an attempt to stop the Flamels. "All we know is that Flamel has lied to us right from the very beginning. What about the other twins?" he asked. "Palamedes said Flamel and Perenelle had been collecting twins for centuries." Even saying the word collecting made him feel queasy and uncomfortable. "Whatever happened to them?"

A gust of icy wind whipped across the junkyard, and Sophie shivered, though not because of the cold air. Staring hard at the metal hut, not looking at her brother, she spoke very slowly, picking her words with care. She could feel herself growing angry. "Since the Flamels are still looking for twins, that means all the others… what?" She spun around to look at her brother and found he was already nodding in agreement.

"We need to know what happened to the other twins," he said firmly, voicing exactly what she was thinking. "I hate to ask, but does the Witch know?" he said carefully. "I mean, do you know if the Witch knew?" He still found it hard to grasp that the Witch of Endor had somehow passed all her knowledge on to his sister.

Sophie paused for a second, then shook her head again. "The Witch doesn't seem to know a lot about the modern world. She knows about the Elders, the Next Generation and some of the oldest human immortals. She'd heard about the Flamels, for instance, but she'd never met them before Scatty brought him there with us. All I know is that she's been living in and around Ojai for years, without a phone, a TV or radio."

"OK, then forget about it, don't even think about her again." Josh picked up a pebble and tossed it against the wall of crushed cars. It rattled and bounced and a shape flickered behind the metal. The red-eyed dogs raised their heads and watched him carefully. "You know, I just had a thought…," he said slowly.

Sophie watched him, silent.

"How did I end up working for the Flamels, a couple who collect twins, and you end up in the coffee shop across the road? It can't be a coincidence, can it?"

"I guess not." Sophie nodded, the tiniest movement of her head. She'd started thinking the same thing the second Palamedes had mentioned the other twins. It couldn't be a coincidence. The Witch didn't believe in coincidence, nor did Nicholas Flamel, and even Scatty said she believed in destiny. And then of course there was the prophecy… "Do you think you got the job because he knew you had a twin?" she asked.

"After the battle in Hekate's Shadowrealms, Flamel told me that he'd only started to suspect that we were the twins mentioned in the prophecy the day before."

Sophie shook her head. "I hardly remember anything about that day."

"You were asleep," Josh said quickly, "exhausted after the battle." The memory of the fight chilled him; it was the first time he had seen how alien his sister had become. "Scatty said that Flamel was a man of his word and told me that I should believe him."

"I don't think Scatty would lie to us," Sophie said but even as she was speaking, she wondered if these were her thoughts or the Witch's.

"Maybe she didn't." Pressing both hands to his face, Josh rubbed his fingers over his forehead, pushing back his overlong blond hair. He was trying to remember exactly what had happened last Thursday. "She wasn't agreeing with him when he said he hadn't known who we were. He said that everything he'd done had been for our own protection: I'm thinking she was agreeing with that," he finished. "And the last thing Hekate said to me before the World Tree burned was 'Nicholas Flamel never tells anyone everything.'"

Sophie closed her eyes, trying to blank out the sights and sounds of the junkyard, concentrating hard now, thinking back to early April, when they'd both started the part-time jobs. "Why did you go for that particular job?" she asked.

Josh blinked in surprise, then frowned, remembering. "Well, Dad saw an ad in the university newspaper. Assistant Wanted, Bookshop. We don't want readers, we want workers. I didn't want to do it, but Dad said he'd worked in a bookshop when he was our age and that I'd enjoy it. I sent in a resume and was called for an interview two days later."

Sophie nodded, remembering. While Josh was in the bookshop, she'd gone across the road to wait for him in a small coffee shop. Bernice, the owner of The Coffee Cup, had been there talking to a striking-looking woman who Sophie now knew was Perenelle Flamel. "Perenelle," Sophie said so suddenly that Josh looked around, half expecting to see the woman behind him. He would not have been surprised.

"What about her?"

"On the day we got our jobs. You were being interviewed in the bookshop and I was having a drink. Bernice was talking to Perenelle Flamel. While Bernice was making my chai latte, Perenelle started a conversation with me. I remember her saying that she hadn't seen me in the neighborhood before, and I told her I'd come along because you'd been called for an interview in the bookshop." Sophie closed her eyes, thinking back. "She didn't say then that she was one of the owners of the shop, but I remember her asking me something like, 'Oh, I saw you with a young man outside. Was that your boyfriend?' I told her no, it was my brother. Then she said, 'You look very alike.' When I told her we were twins, she smiled, then she quickly finished her drink and left. She crossed the street and went into the bookstore."

"I remember when she came in," Josh agreed. "I didn't think the interview was going particularly well. I got the impression that Nicholas-or Nick… whatever his name is-was looking for someone older for the job. Then Perenelle came in, smiled at me, and called him to the back of the shop. I saw them both looking at me. Then she left the store as quickly as she'd arrived."

"She came back into The Coffee Cup," Sophie murmured. Then she stopped as memories and events slotted into place. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Josh, I just remembered something. She asked Bernice if she was still looking for staff. She suggested that if my brother was working across the street, it would be perfect if I was working at The Coffee Cup. Bernice agreed and offered me the job on the spot. But you know what, when I turned up for work the next day it was the strangest thing. I could swear that Bernice looked a little surprised to find me there. I even had to remind her that she'd offered me the job the day before."

Josh nodded. He remembered his sister telling him that. "Do you think Perenelle somehow made her give you the job? Could she do that?"

"Oh yes." Sophie's eyes turned briefly silver. Even the Witch of Endor acknowledged Perenelle as an extraordinarily powerful Sorceress. "So do you think we got the jobs because we're twins?" she asked again.

"I have no doubt about it," Josh said angrily. "We were just another set of twins to be added to the Flamels' collection. We've been tricked."

"What are we going to do, Josh?" Sophie asked, her voice as hard as her brother's. The thought that the Flamels had somehow used them made her feel sick to her stomach. If Dee hadn't showed up in the shop, then what would have happened to them? What would the Flamels have done to them?

Catching Sophie's hand, Josh pulled his sister behind him toward the stinking metal hut, stepping carefully around the potholes. The dogs sat up, heads swiveling to follow them, red eyes glowing. "There's no going back. We have no choice, Soph: we have to see this through to the end."

"But what is the end, Josh? Where does it end… how does it end?"

"I have no idea," he said. He stopped and turned to look directly into his sister's blue eyes. He took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. "But you know what I do know? This is all about us."

Sophie nodded. "You're right. The prophecy is about us, we're gold and silver, we're special."

"Flamel wants us," Josh continued, "Dee wants us. It's time to get some answers."

"Attack," Sophie said, hopping over a muddy puddle. "When I knew him-I mean, when the Witch knew him-Mars always said that attack was the best form of defense."

"My football coach says the same thing."

"And your team didn't win a single game last season," Sophie reminded him.

They had almost reached the hut when a wild-eyed William Shakespeare appeared, a blazing frying pan clutched in both hands. ithout a second thought Josh shrugged the map tube off his shoulder and shook out the sword. It settled easily into his hand, his fingers wrapping around the stained leather hilt. He took a step forward, putting himself between Shakespeare and his sister.

The immortal didn't even look at them. He turned the blazing pan upside down and shook out the contents. What looked like half a dozen blackened sausages dropped onto the muddy ground. They hissed and sizzled but continued to burn, spiraling sparks into the air. One of the red-eyed dogs came out from beneath the hut, and a long forked tongue snatched up a chunk of still-burning meat and swallowed it whole. The flames turned its eyes to rubies, and when it licked its lips, curls of gray smoke leaked from the corner of its mouth.

Shakespeare bent down and roughly patted the dog's head. He was about to turn and climb the steps when he spotted the twins. The dull evening light reflected off his overlarge glasses, turning them to silver mirrors. "There was a little mishap with our evening meal," he said, a quick smile revealing his bad teeth.

"That's OK. We weren't that hungry," Sophie said quickly. "And I'm trying to give up meat."

"Vegetarians?" Shakespeare asked.

"Sort of," Sophie said, and Josh nodded in agreement.

"There might be some salad inside," the immortal said vaguely. "Neither Palamedes nor I are vegetarians. There's fruit," he added. "Lots of fruit."

Josh nodded. "Fruit would be perfect." Even the thought of meat set his stomach churning.

Shakespeare seemed to notice the sword in Josh's hand for the first time. "Keep up your bright swords," he murmured. Stepping forward, he produced a surprisingly pristine white handkerchief, pulled off his glasses and started to polish them. Without the thick lenses, Sophie noticed, he looked more like the image of the famous playwright she'd seen in her textbooks. He put his glasses back on and looked at Josh. "It is Clarent?"

Josh nodded. He could feel it tremble slightly in his hands and was aware of a slow warmth soaking into his flesh.

Shakespeare leaned forward, his long narrow nose inches from the tip of the blade, but he made no attempt to touch it. "I saw its twin many times," he said absently. "The blades are identical, but the hilts are slightly different."

"Was this when you were with Dee?" Sophie asked shrewdly.

Shakespeare nodded. "When I was with the doctor," he agreed. He reached out and tentatively touched the tip of the blade with his index finger. The dark stone sparkled and rippled with a tracery of pale yellow, as if a liquid had been poured down the blade, and there was a hint of lemon in the air. "Dee inherited Excalibur from his predecessor, Roger Bacon, but this was really the weapon he wanted to find. The twin blades are older than the Elders and were ancient long before Danu Talis was raised from the seas. Individually, the swords are powerful, but legend has it that together they have the power to destroy the very fabric of the earth itself."

"I'm surprised Dee didn't find it," Josh said a little breathlessly. He could feel the sword buzzing in his hands, and strange images floated at the edge of his consciousness. Somehow he knew that these were Shakespeare's memories.

A circular building in flames…

A pitifully small grave, and a young girl standing over the opening, tossing in a handful of dirt…

And Dee. A little younger than Josh remembered him; his face unlined, his hair dark and full, his goatee without a hint of gray.

"The Magician always believed the sword had been lost in a lake deep in the Welsh mountains," Shakespeare continued. "He spent decades hunting for it there."

"Flamel found it in a cave in Andorra," Sophie said. "He believed Charlemagne hid it there in the ninth century."

Shakespeare smiled. "So the Magician was wrong. It is gratifying to know that the doctor is not always correct."

Sophie stepped out from behind Josh and pushed down his arm. The wind coming across the sword blade moaned. "Are you really… really William Shakespeare? The Bard?" she asked. Even after all she had seen and experienced over the past few days, she still found the idea awe-inspiring.

The man stepped back and executed a surprisingly elegant sweeping bow, leg outstretched, head bent almost to waist level. "Your servant, my lady." The whole effect was slightly ruined by the stench of stale body odor that rolled off him. "Please call me Will."

Sophie wasn't sure how to react. "I've never met anyone famous before…," she started, and then stopped when she realized what she was saying.

Shakespeare straightened. Josh coughed and backed away, eyes watering. "You have met Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel," Shakespeare said in his precise English, "Dr. John Dee, the Comte de Saint-Germain and, of course, Niccolo Machiavelli," he continued. "And no doubt you encountered the charming Jeanne d'Arc."

"Yes," Sophie said with a shy smile, "we met all of them. But none of them are as famous as you are."

William Shakespeare took a moment to consider, and then he nodded. "I am sure Machiavelli and certainly Dee would disagree. But yes, you are correct, of course. None of them would have my"-he paused-"my profile. My work has thrived and survived, whereas theirs is not quite so popular."

"And did you really serve Dee?" Josh asked suddenly, realizing that here was an opportunity to get some answers.

Shakespeare's smile faded. "I spent twenty years in Dee's service."

"Why?" Josh asked.

"Have you ever met him?" Shakespeare replied.

Josh nodded.

"Then you will know that Dee is that most dangerous of enemies: he truly believes that what he is doing is right."

"That's what Palamedes said," Josh murmured.

"And it's true. Dee is a liar, but I came to understand that he believes the lies he tells. Because he wants to believe, he needs to believe."

A quick spattering of rain rattled across the junkyard, pinging off the crushed metal cars.

"But is he right?" Josh asked quickly, ducking as big drops of rain hit the side of the metal hut. He reached out and grabbed the man's arm, and instantly his aura flared bright brilliant orange, while a pale yellow aura outlined the man's body. Orange and lemon mingled, and while the results should have been pleasant, the two odors were sour and tainted by Shakespeare's unwashed smell.

Dee, younger, his face unlined, hair and beard dark, staring into an enormous crystal, a young wide-eyed William Shakespeare by his side.

Images in the crystal…

Lush green fields…

Orchards laden down with fruit…

Seas churning with fish…

"Wait-you think Dee should bring the Elders back to this world?"

William Shakespeare started for the stairs. "Yes," he said, without turning around. "My own research has led me to believe it may be the right decision."

"Why?" the twins demanded.

The Bard rounded on them. "Most of the Elders have abandoned this world. The Next Generation toy with humani and use the earth as both a playground and a battleground, but the most dangerous of all are we humani. We are destroying this world. I believe we need the Dark Elders to return so that they can save the earth from our destruction."

Stunned, the twins looked at one another, completely confused now. Josh spoke first. "But Nicholas said the Dark Elders want humans as food."

"Some do. But not all Elders eat flesh; some feed off memories and emotions. It seems a small price to pay for a paradise without famine, without disease."

"Why do we need the Dark Elders?" Sophie asked. "Between the Alchemyst and Dee and the others like them, surely they must possess enough power and knowledge to save the world?"

"I do not believe so."

"But Dee is powerful…," Josh began.

"You cannot ask me anything about Dee; I have no answers."

"You spent twenty years with him; you must know him better than anyone on this earth," Sophie protested.

"No one truly knows the Magician. I loved him like a father, like an older brother. He was all that I admired, all that I wanted to be." A single tear suddenly appeared under the immortal's thick glasses and rolled down his cheek. "And then he betrayed me and killed my son." n the catacombs deep beneath the city of Paris, Dr. John Dee fastidiously brushed dust off the arm of his suit, tugged at his cuffs and straightened his bow tie. He snapped his fingers and a sulfurous yellow ball blossomed before him, bobbing at head height. It exuded the smell of rotten eggs, but its stench was so familiar that Dee no longer even registered the foul odor. Dirty yellow light splashed across two arching columns of polished bones that had been shaped to resemble a doorframe. Beyond the opening there was utter blackness.

Dee stepped into the underground chamber to face a frozen god.

In his long lifetime the Magician had experienced wonders. He had come to accept the extraordinary as ordinary, the strange and wonderful as commonplace. Dee had seen the legends of the Arabian Nights come to life, had fought with monsters from Greek and Babylonian myth, had traveled through realms that people believed were lies created by the travelers Marco Polo and Ibn Battutah. He knew that the myths of the Celts and the Romans, the Gauls and the Mongols, the Rus, the Viking and even the Maya, were more than stories-they were based on fact. The gods of Greece and Egypt, the spirits of the American plains, the jungle totems and the Japanese Myo-o had once lived. Now they were remembered as little more than fragments of myths and snatches of legend, but John Dee knew that they had once walked this earth. They were part of an Elder race who had ruled the world for millennia.

One of the greatest of the Elders was Mars… and less than twenty-four hours earlier, Dee had encased him in a tomb of solid bone.

The Magician stepped into a vast but low-ceilinged circular chamber, the floating light painting everything sallow, the color of pale butter, and looked around the chamber. Although he'd known about its location for decades, he'd never had a reason to venture down to face the Sleeping God before, and everything had happened so quickly yesterday that he hadn't had a chance to examine the sepulchre. He ran his hand down a section of the smooth wall beside the door, the scientist within him recognizing the materials: collagen fiber and calcium phosphate. The walls here were not stone-they were bone. Dee spotted two indentations against the far wall. Between them were two dimpled depressions, and suddenly he knew what he was seeing and realized where he was. He was looking at a set of eyes and a nose. The chamber had not been hollowed from a single piece of bone, as he'd thought-he was inside an enormous skull. Terrifyingly, the skull looked almost human. Dee felt a shiver run down his spine; he'd never encountered them, but he'd heard stories of Shadow-realms inhabited by cannibal giants. Yesterday, the walls had been smooth and polished; today they looked like a candle that had been left too close to a fire. Long-frozen stalactites of bone dripped like sticky toffee from the ceiling; huge bubbles had been caught and frozen as they popped; dribbles and streams of thick liquid curled in ornate patterns.

In the center of the room was a long rectangular raised stone plinth splashed and spattered with globules of what looked like yellow wax. The ancient slab was cracked in two.

And on the floor before the plinth was a gray statue partially encased in yellow. It depicted an enormous man on hands and knees, caught as he attempted to climb to his feet. The figure was dressed as a warrior, wearing the metal and leather armor of the ancient past, his left arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide, while his right arm was buried in the floor up to his wrist. His body from the waist down also disappeared into the ground. On the figure's back, two hideous child-sized creatures had been frozen as they'd attempted to leap forward on goatlike hooves. Stick-thin, ribs and bones visible, their mouths gaped to reveal maws filled with jagged teeth, and their outstretched hands were tipped with dagger-sharp claws.

Gathering up his coat so that it would not brush the floor, and hitching up his trousers, Dee hunkered down for a closer look at the statues. The piece looked like something from a museum, a classical sculpture by Michelangelo or Bernini, perhaps-Phobos and Deimos on the back of Mars Ultor. Dee moved his hand and the ball of light floated over the satyrs' heads. The detail was incredible; every strand of hair had been preserved, the drool caught on their chins, and one of them-Phobos, he thought-even had a cracked nail. But these were no statues; yesterday, they had been savage living creatures, and Mars had loosed them on him. It would have been a terrible death. The satyrs fed off panic and fear… and over the centuries Dee had learned that there was much to fear. The knowledge of what the Elders could do to him always sent queasy swells of panic through his stomach. Phobos and Deimos would have feasted for months.

The Magician leaned forward to look at the helmet that completely covered Mars's head. Beneath the yellow coating of hardened bone, the gray stone was still visible. It sparkled like granite, but this was no natural rock. For a single instant, Dee felt something like pity for the Dark Elder. The Witch of Endor had caused his aura to become visible and to harden, stonelike, around his body, trapping him within an impossibly heavy crust. If the god peeled it off, his aura bubbled up like lava and hardened again immediately. Mars, who had once roamed the world and been worshipped as a god by a dozen nations under scores of names, had been practically immobile for millennia. Dee found himself wondering what crime the God of War had committed that had so offended the Witch that she had condemned him to this lingering undeath. It must have been terrible indeed. Then the Magician's lips twitched in a smile as a thought struck him. Reaching out, he rapped his knuckles on the helmeted head. The sound was dull and flat in the bone-wrapped chamber. "I know you can hear me," Dee said conversationally. "I was just thinking that this seems to be your destiny," he continued. "First the Witch trapped you in your own aura, and then I wrapped you in solid bone."

Wisps of black smoke suddenly curled from the Dark Elder's helmet.

"Ah, good," Dee murmured. "For a moment there I thought I'd lost you."

Eyes blazed crimson in the blackness behind the helmet. "I am not so easy to kill." Mars's voice was a gravelly rasp, touched with an indefinable accent.

Dee straightened and dusted off his spotless knees. "You know, every Elder I've killed has said that. But there is blood in your veins. And what lives can be slain." He showed his small teeth in a tiny smile. "Admittedly, you are difficult-in fact, well-nigh impossible-to kill, but it can be done. I know. I've done it. Why, less than a week ago, I slew Hekate."

The interior of the helmet glowed bright red for an instant and the glow faded. Locked in place by granite and bone, Mars could not move, and yet Dee could clearly feel the Elder's eyes on him. Black smoke curled up out of the slit in his helmet, and where his eyes should have been were now two crimson balls flecked with blue. "Have you come back to gloat, Magician?"

"Not intentionally." Dee walked behind the trio of statues, examining them from every angle. "But now that I'm here, I might as well gloat anyway." He ran his hands across the Elder's shoulder, and Dee felt his own aura flicker as the merest buzz of energy crackled through him. Even buried beneath a sheath of stone and bone, the Elder's aura was powerful.

"When I escape," Mars rumbled, "as I surely will, you will be my first priority. Even before I discover the whereabouts of the Witch of Endor, I will find you, and my vengeance will be terrible."

"I'm scared," Dee said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "The Witch has kept you locked in stone for millennia. You've not managed to shake off that curse yet. And you know that if anything happens to the Witch, then the spell dies with her, leaving you trapped like this forever." The Magician moved around in front of the Elder again. "Perhaps I should have the Witch killed. Then you will never escape."

There was a peculiar snuffling sound within the helmet, and it took the Magician a few moments to realize that the Elder was laughing. "You! Kill the Witch? I was called the God of War; my powers were terrible. And yet I could not kill her. If you move against her, Magician, she will do something horrible to you-and ensure that your agony lasts a millennium. She once reduced an entire Roman legion to figures about the size of her fingernail, and then strung them together on a silver wire so that she could wear them as a necklace. She kept them alive for centuries." The Elder chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. "She used to collect amber paperweights; within each one was a person who had displeased her. So yes, go and attack the Witch! I am sure she will be particularly creative with your punishment."

Dee crouched down before the Elder's head. He laced the fingers of his hands together and stared into the smoking dark interior of the stone helmet. Two crimson dots glowed back at him. The Magician moved his fingers and the globe of yellow light came down and settled behind his head. He hoped the harsh light would blind Mars, but the two red orbs stared at him, unblinking. With a flick of his wrist, Dee dismissed the light, sending it bobbing close to the ceiling, where it softened and faded, painting the room in sepia. "I have come here to make you an offer," Dee said after a long moment of silence.

"There is nothing you can offer me."

"There is one thing," Dee said confidently.

"Did you come of your own accord, or were you sent by your masters?" Mars asked.

"No one knows I am here."

"Not even the Italian?"

Dee shrugged. "He may suspect, but there is nothing he can do." He stopped and then waited. Dee was a great believer in silence. In his experience, people often spoke to fill the quiet.

"What do you want?" Mars asked eventually.

The Magician dipped his head to hide a smile. With that single question, Dee knew that the Elder would give him exactly what he wanted. The Englishman had always prided himself on his imagination-it was part of what made him one of the most powerful magicians and necromancers in the world-but even he could not comprehend what it must be like to be trapped for centuries in a hard stone shell. He had heard the desperation in the God of War's voice the previous day when he had pleaded with Sophie to lift the curse, and it had given him an idea.

"You know that I am a man of my word," Dee began.

Mars said nothing.

"True, I have lied, cheated, stolen and killed, but all with one single intention: to bring the Elders back to this world."

"The end justifies the means," Mars grumbled.

"Just so. And you know that if I give you my word, my oath, then I will carry through with my promise. Yesterday, you said you could read my intent clearly."

"I know that in spite of your faults-or possibly even because of them-you are an honorable man, though it is a peculiar definition of honor," Mars said. "So yes, if you give me your word, I will believe you."

Dee stood up quickly and walked around behind the statue, so that Mars could not see the triumphant grin on his face. "The Witch of Endor will never lift your curse, will she?"

Mars Ultor remained quiet for a long time, but Dee made no move to break the silence. He wanted to give the Elder time to think through what he'd just said; he needed him to admit that he was doomed for all eternity to wear the stone shell.

"No," the god finally admitted in a ghastly whisper. "She will not."

"Maybe someday I will learn what you did to earn such punishment."

"Maybe. But not from me."

"So you are trapped… or maybe not."

"Explain yourself, Magician."

Dee started walking counterclockwise around the frozen Elder. He kept his voice low and unemotional as he outlined his plan. "Yesterday, you Awakened Josh, the sun twin. You touched him; you are connected to him."

"Yes, there is a connection," Mars agreed.

"The Witch touched the moon twin, gifted her with the Magic of Air, and also poured her complete compendium of knowledge into her," Dee continued. "Yesterday, you said that the girl must know the spell that would free you."

"And she said she did," Mars whispered.

Dee slapped his hand off the statue's shoulder as he spun to crouch in front of it. Electrical energy snapped around the room. "And she refused you! But would she refuse you if her brother's life-wait, better still, her parents' lives-were in danger? Would she? Could she?"

The smoke curling from behind the Elder's full-face visor turned white, then gray-black. "Even knowing me, knowing what I am, what I did, what I am capable of, she still faced me down to rescue her brother," Mars said very slowly. "I believe she would do anything to save her brother and her family."

"Then here is my oath to you," Dee continued. "Find the boy for me, and I swear I will bring the girl, her brother and their parents here to stand before you. When she is faced with their deaths, I guarantee she will free you of this terrible curse." rom the outside, the long metal structure sitting in the middle of the muddy clearing had looked dilapidated and run-down, but like everything else in the junkyard, it was just a fa?ade. Inside, it was neat and spotlessly clean. One end of the room was used for cooking and eating; a sink, a fridge and a stove sat next to a table. The middle section of the hut contained a tiered desk holding a desktop computer hooked up to two matching screens, while at the far end of the hut, a large flat-screen TV faced two leather couches. A trio of low metal towers held dozens of DVDs.

When the twins followed Shakespeare inside, they realized immediately that they had walked in on an argument. Flamel and Palamedes were standing at either end of the small wooden kitchen table, the knight with his arms folded across his massive chest, Flamel with his hands clenched into fists. The air was sour with their mixed auras.

"I think you should wait outside," Nicholas said quietly, looking from Josh to Sophie, then turning back to the knight. "We'll be done in a few moments."

Sophie moved to leave, but Josh pushed her forward into the hut. "No. I think we should wait here," he said firmly. He looked from Palamedes to the Alchemyst. "If you have anything to say, you should say it in front of us. After all, this is about us, isn't it?" He glanced sidelong at his sister. "We're the… what's the word?" he asked.

"The catalyst," she supplied.

Josh nodded. "The catalyst," he said, though that wasn't the word he had been hunting for. He looked around the room, eyes lingering on the computer, and then turned to his twin. "I just hate it when adults send you out of the room when they're talking about you, don't you?"

Sophie agreed. "Hate it."

"We weren't talking about you," Flamel said quickly. "This has nothing to do with you, actually. This has to do with a little unfinished business between Mr. Shakespeare and me."

"Right now," Josh said, stepping into the room, concentrating hard on keeping his voice even and preventing it from trembling, "just about everything that happens concerns us." He looked directly at the Alchemyst. "You've nearly killed us. You've changed our lives ir… irev… irevo…"

"Irrevocably," Sophie said.

"Irrevocably," Josh said. "And if you two have a problem, then it's our problem and we need to know about it."

Sophie put her hand on Josh's shoulder and squeezed encouragingly.

Palamedes grinned, a quick flash of white teeth. "The boy has spirit. I like that."

Nicholas's face was an impassive mask, but his pale eyes were clouded. A vein throbbed on his forehead. Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded toward Palamedes. "If you must know, then, I have no argument with the Saracen Knight." He moved his head slightly, indicating the smaller man in the stained overalls, who was now standing before an open fridge, pulling out bags of fruit. "I have a problem with this man. A major problem."

Shakespeare ignored him. "What will you have to eat?" he asked, looking at the twins. "I know you do not want any meat, but we have plenty of fruit, fresh this morning. And Palamedes picked up some nice fish in Billingsgate Fish Market earlier." He dumped several bags of fruit into the sink, then turned the taps on full. Water thundered into the metal sink.

"Just the fruit," Sophie said.

Palamedes looked at the twins. "This dispute has nothing to do with you," he said. "It goes back centuries. But yes, I agree that you are affected by it. We all are." He turned back to the Alchemyst. "If we are to survive, then we-all of us-must put aside old arguments, old habits. However," he rumbled, "let me suggest that we discuss this after we eat."

"We want some answers now," Josh said. "We're tired of being treated like children."

The knight bowed and looked at the Alchemyst. "They have a right to answers."

Nicholas Flamel rubbed his hands against his face. There were bruise-colored bags under his eyes, and the wrinkles on his forehead had deepened. Sophie noticed that tiny spots had started to appear on the backs of his hands. The Alchemyst had said that he would age at the rate of at least a year for every day that passed, but she thought he looked at least ten years older than he had a week ago. "Before we go any further," Nicholas said, his French accent more evident now that he was tired, "I must admit I am uncomfortable discussing anything in front of…" He raised his head and looked at Shakespeare. "That man."

"But why?" Sophie asked, frustrated. She pulled out a wooden chair and collapsed into it. Josh took the chair beside her. The knight remained standing a moment longer, then he too sat. Only the Alchemyst and the Bard still stood.

"He betrayed Perenelle and me," Flamel snarled. "He sold us out to Dee."

The twins turned to look at the Bard, who was arranging grapes, apples, pears and cherries on plates. "This much is true," he said.

"Because of him, Perenelle was wounded and nearly died," the Alchemyst snapped.

The twins looked at the Bard again. He nodded. "It was in 1576," Shakespeare said quietly, looking up from the table, his pale blue eyes magnified behind his glasses, huge with unshed tears.

Josh sat back in astonishment. "You're arguing about something that happened more than four hundred years ago?" he asked incredulously.

Shakespeare turned to speak directly to Sophie and Josh. "I was but twelve years old, younger than you are now." His lips moved, revealing his yellowed teeth. "I made a mistake-a terrible mistake-and I've spent centuries paying for it." He glanced back to Flamel. "I was apprenticed to the Alchemyst. He was running a small bookshop in Stratford, where I grew up."

Josh turned to look at Nicholas.

"He did not treat me well."

Flamel's head rose quickly and he opened his mouth to respond, but Shakespeare pressed on.

"I was not uneducated; I had attended the King's New School, and I could read and write English, Latin and Greek. Even then, at that early age, I knew I wanted to be a writer, and I prevailed upon my father to find me a position in Mr. Fleming's bookshop." Shakespeare's eyes were fixed on the Alchemyst now, and his language and even his accent were changing, becoming formal, almost archaic. "I wanted to read and learn and write; Mr. Fleming had me sweeping floors, running errands, carrying parcels of books across town."

The Alchemyst opened his mouth again but then closed it, saying nothing.

"And then Dr. Dee appeared in Stratford. You should know that he was famous then. He had served two queens, Mary and Elizabeth, and survived with his head still on his shoulders, which was no mean feat in those days. He was close to Elizabeth-it was said that he had even chosen the date for her coronation. He was reputed to have the largest library in England," Shakespeare continued, "so it was entirely natural that he called upon the Flemings' bookshop. Surprisingly, the Flemings, who rarely left the premises and never the town, were not at home that day. The shop was in the charge of one of their assistants, a horse-faced man whose name I have never been able to remember."

"Sebastian," Flamel said softly.

Shakespeare's damp eyes fixed on the Alchemyst's face and he nodded. "Ah yes, Sebastian. But Dee was not interested in him. He spoke to me, in English first, then Latin, then Greek. He asked me to recommend a book-I suggested Ovid's Medea, which he purchased-and then he asked me if I was happy in my present position." Shakespeare's pale blue eyes locked onto Flamel's. "I told him I was not. So he offered me an apprenticeship. Given the choice between a lowly position as a bookseller's assistant and an apprenticeship with one of the most powerful men in England, how could I refuse?"

Josh nodded. He would have made the same choice himself.

"So I became Dee's apprentice. More than that, perhaps: I came to believe that he even regarded me as a son. What is undeniable is that he created me."

Sophie leaned forward over the table, confused. "What do you mean, he created you?"

Shakespeare's eyes clouded with sadness. "Dee saw something in me-a hunger for sensation, a yearning for adventure-and offered to train and educate me in ways the Flemings-the Flamels-either would not or could not. True to his word, the Magician showed me wonders. He took me to worlds beyond comprehension, he fed my imagination, allowed me access to his incredible library, which gave me the language to shape and describe the worlds I had experienced. Because of Dr. John Dee I became William Shakespeare the writer."

"You've missed the bit where he asked you to creep into our home at dead of night and steal the Codex," Nicholas Flamel said icily. "And when you failed, he accused us of being Spanish spies. Fifty of the Queen's Men surrounded the bookshop and attacked without warning. Sebastian was injured and Perenelle was struck with a musket ball in the shoulder, which almost killed her."

Shakespeare listened to the words and nodded very slowly. "Dee and I were not in Stratford when that happened, and I only learned about it much, much later," he said in a raw whisper. "And by then it was too late, of course. I was deep under Dee's spell: he had convinced me that I could become the writer I wanted to be. Even though it sounded impossible, I believed him. My father was a glove maker and wool merchant; there were no writers, no poets or playwrights or even actors in my family." He shook his head slightly. "Perhaps I should have followed my father into the family business."

"The world would have been a poorer place," Palamedes said quietly. The Saracen Knight was watching Shakespeare and the Alchemyst closely.

"I married. I had children," Shakespeare continued, speaking more quickly now, focused only on Flamel. "A girl first, my beautiful Susanna, then two years later, the twins, Hamnet and Judith."

Sophie and Josh straightened, glancing quickly at one another; they hadn't ever heard about Shakespeare's twins.

There was a long pause and finally the immortal Bard sucked in a deep shuddering breath. He spread his long-fingered hands on the wooden table and stared hard at them. "I discovered then why Dee was interested in me. He had somehow known that I would have twins, and he believed that they were the legendary twins prophesied in the Codex. In 1596, I was in London and no longer living at home in Stratford. Dee visited my wife and offered to educate the twins. She foolishly agreed, even though by that time, ugly rumors were beginning to circulate about the doctor. A few days later, he attempted to have Hamnet Awakened. The Awakening killed him," he finished simply. "My son was eleven years old."

No one spoke into the long silence that followed, the only sound the pattering of rain on the metal roof.

Finally, Shakespeare looked up and stared at Flamel. His eyes were brimming and there were tears on his cheeks. He came around the table until he was standing directly in front of the Alchemyst. "A foolish boy betrayed you out of ignorance and stupidity. Ultimately, I paid for that action with the life of my son. Nicholas, I am not your enemy. I hate Dee in ways you cannot even begin to understand." Shakespeare gripped the Alchemyst's arm, fingers tightening. "I have waited a long time to meet you. Between us, we know more about the Magician than anyone else on this planet. I am tired of running and hiding. It is time to pool our knowledge, to work together. It is time to take the fight to Dee and his Dark Elders. What say you?" he demanded.

"It's a good strategy," Josh said, before Flamel could answer. He was aware, even as he spoke, that he had no idea what he was talking about. It was Mars speaking. "You've spent a lifetime running; Dee won't expect you to change tactics."

Palamedes rested his huge forearms on the table. "The boy is right," he sighed. "The Magician has effectively trapped you here in London. If you run, he will capture you."

"And if we stay here, he'll capture us," Josh said quickly.

Nicholas Flamel looked around the table, obviously troubled by what he'd heard. "I'm not sure…," he said finally. "If only I could speak to Perenelle; she would know what to do."

Shakespeare grinned delightedly for the first time since they'd arrived. "I think we can arrange that." erenelle Flamel stood framed in the doorway and stared down into the gloom. The heavy metal door that had once sealed this opening lay on the ground behind her, battered and twisted, ripped off its hinges by the weight of the spiders that had surged out of the prison cells below. With Areop-Enap's retreat to its cocoon, the surviving arachnids had vanished, and all that remained on the surface of Alcatraz were the dried-up husks of dead flies and the shells of spiders. She wondered who-or what-had sent the flies. Someone powerful, certainly; someone who was probably even now plotting their next move.

Perenelle tilted her head to one side and pushed her long black hair back over her ear, closed her eyes and listened. Her hearing was acute, but she could pick up nothing moving. And yet the Sorceress knew the cells were not empty. The island's prison was full of blood drinkers and flesh eaters, vetala, minotaur, Windigo and oni, trolls and cluricauns-and, of course, the deadly sphinx. The sunlight had recharged Perenelle's aura, and she knew she could handle the lesser creatures-though the minotaur and the Windigo would give her some problems-but she was fully aware that she could not deal with the sphinx. The eagle-winged lion fed off magical energy; just being close to it would drain her aura, leaving her helpless.

Perenelle pressed her hand to her growling stomach. She was hungry. The Sorceress rarely needed to eat anymore, but she recognized that she was burning a lot of energy and needed calories to fuel it. If Nicholas were there it would not be a problem; many times on their travels, he had used his alchemical skills to transmute stones into bread, and water into soup. She knew a couple of horn-of-plenty spells she'd learned in Greece that would give her enough to eat, but casting them would mean using her aura, whose distinctive signature would draw the sphinx upon her.

She'd encountered no humans on the island-she doubted any could have survived a single night on Alcatraz with their sanity or body intact. She remembered reading a newspaper report recently-about six months ago-that had said Alcatraz had been acquired by a private corporation and was closing to the public. The state park was going to be turned into a multimedia living history museum. Now that she knew Dee owned the island, she guessed that that wasn't the truth. Worse, though, with no humans having been on the island for at least six months, it was looking less and less likely she'd discover anything edible left behind. It wouldn't be the first time she'd gone hungry in her long life.

The Magician had gathered an army in the cells, creatures from every nation and the myths of every race. Without exception, they were the monsters who had been the source of human nightmares for millennia. And if there was an army, that meant a war was coming. Perenelle's full lips curled in a wry smile. So it looked as if she was the only human on Alcatraz… along with assorted mythical beasts, nightmare monsters, vampires and werebeasts. There were Nereids in the sea, a vengeful Crow Goddess locked up in a cell deep below the island and an incredibly powerful Elder or Next Generation attacking her from somewhere on the mainland.

Perenelle's smile faded; she was sure she'd been in worse situations at some time in her past, but right now she couldn't remember when. And she'd always had Nicholas with her. Together, they were unbeatable.

The tiniest breeze blew up from below, ruffling her hair, and then dust motes whirled and a shape flickered in the gloom. Perenelle darted back out into the sunlight, where she was strongest. She doubted it was the sphinx; she would have smelled its unmistakable odor: the musky scent of lion, bird and serpent.

A shape materialized in the doorway, taking on depth and substance as the light hit it, a figure composed of red rust particles and the shining scraps of spiderweb: it was the ghost, Juan Manuel de Ayala, the discoverer and Guardian of Alcatraz. The specter bowed deeply. "It is good to see you hale and well, madame," he said in archaic, formal Spanish.

Perenelle smiled. "Why, did you think I would be joining you as a spirit?"

A semitransparent de Ayala floated in the air and considered the question carefully; then he shook his head. "I knew that if you had fallen on the island, you would not have remained here. Your spirit would have gone wandering."

Perenelle nodded in agreement, eyes clouding in sorrow. "I would have gone to find Nicholas."

The perfect teeth that the ghost sailor had never possessed in life flashed in a grin. "Come, madame, come: I think there is something you should see." He turned and floated back down the stairs. Perenelle hesitated; she trusted de Ayala, but ghosts were not the brightest creatures and were easily fooled. And then, thinly and faintly, Perenelle caught the scent of mint-little more than a suggestion-on the damp salty air. Without a second's hesitation, the Sorceress followed the ghost into the shadows. icholas Flamel sat in front of the two matching LCD computer screens. William Shakespeare sat on his left while Josh hovered over their shoulders, trying to keep as far away from the English immortal as possible and breathe only through his mouth. When Shakespeare moved, he trailed an odor in his wake, but when he sat still, the stink gathered around him in a thick cloud. Palamedes and Sophie had gone outside to feed the dogs.

"Trust me; it is quite simple," Shakespeare explained patiently, eyes huge behind his glasses, "the merest variation of the scrying spell Dee taught me over four hundred years ago."

"Should I mention at this point that the computer is turned off?" Josh interjected, suddenly realizing what apparently no one else had. "Only the screens are on."

"But we only need the screens," Shakespeare said enigmatically. He looked at the Alchemyst. "Dee always used a reflective surface for scrying…"

"Scrying?" Josh frowned. He'd heard Flamel use the same word. "What do you mean?"

"From the ancient French word deserter," Shakespeare murmured, "meaning 'to proclaim' or 'to show.' In Dee's case, it meant 'to reveal.' When I was with him, he carried a mirror everywhere."

Flamel nodded. "His famous 'shew-stone,' or magical lens. I've read about it."

"He demonstrated it to Queen Elizabeth herself at his home at Mortlake," Shakespeare said. "She was so terrified by what she saw that she ran from the house and never returned. The doctor could look into the lens and focus in on people and places across the world."

Flamel nodded. "I've often wondered what it was."

"That sounds like TV," Josh said quickly. And then he realized he was talking about something in the seventeenth century.

"Yes, very like television, but without a camera at the other end to transmit the picture. It was a scrap of Elder technology," Shakespeare added, "a gift from his master. I believe it was an organic lens activated by the power of his aura."

"Whatever happened to it?" Flamel wondered aloud.

Shakespeare smiled, tight-lipped. "I stole it from him the night I ran away. I had a mind to keep it for myself and mayhap even use it against him. But then I realized that if it linked Dee to his master, it probably linked his master to me. I dropped it in the Thames at Southwark, close to where we later built the Globe Theatre."

"I wonder if it's still there," Flamel muttered.

"No doubt it is lost beneath centuries of silt and mud. But never mind that; Dee could-and did-use any highly polished surface to scry-mirrors, windows, glass, polished crystals-but then he discovered that liquids worked better. By applying his aura to a liquid, he could alter its properties, turn it reflective and use it to look at people and places from across the globe or from other times and places. With enough time and preparation, he could even look into the closest Shadowrealms. He could also use it to see through the eyes of animals or birds. They became his spies."

"He is astonishing," Flamel agreed, shaking his head in wonder. "If only he'd chosen to work with us, against the Dark Elders."

"The doctor usually used pure springwater, though I have known him to use snow, ice, wine or even beer. Any liquid will do." Leaning forward, Shakespeare tapped the black plastic frame around the computer screen. "And what do we have here… but liquid crystal?"

The Alchemyst's pale eyes widened and he nodded slowly. From under the neck of his T-shirt, he pulled the tiny pair of pince-nez he wore around his neck on a string and popped them onto his nose. "Of course," he whispered. "And the properties of liquid crystal can be altered by applying an electrical or a magnetic charge. That changes the orientation of the crystals." He snapped his fingers and a tiny green spark no bigger than a pinprick appeared on his index finger. The foul-smelling hut was touched by the sharp fragrance of mint, and a curling smokelike pattern immediately rolled down both screens. Flamel moved his finger and both screens flashed white, then green, then abruptly turned into dull mirrors that reflected his face, framed by Shakespeare and Josh. "I would never have thought of that. That's genius!"

"Thank you," Shakespeare muttered, sounding a little embarrassed by the praise, blotches of color on his pale cheeks.

"What will you use as a mirror on the other end?" Flamel asked.

"Spiderweb," the Bard said, surprisingly. "I've found that whether it be in a palace or a hovel, there are always spiderwebs. The threads are always sticky with liquid, and they make excellent magical mirrors."

Flamel nodded again, obviously impressed.

"Now all we need is something that links you to Madame Perenelle."

Nicholas peeled off the heavy silver bracelet that wrapped around his right wrist. "Perenelle made this for me herself," he explained, laying it on the table. "A little more than a century ago, a masked bounty hunter chased us across America. His guns were loaded with silver bullets. I think he thought us werewolves."

"Werewolves and silver bullets!" Shakespeare coughed a quick laugh and shook his head. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

"I thought silver bullets worked against werewolves," Josh said, "but I'm guessing not?"

"No," Flamel said. "I've always preferred vinegar."

"Or lemon," Shakespeare said, "and pepper is a very reasonable alternative." He saw Josh's puzzled look and added, "Spray it on them or throw it into their eyes and nose. They will stop and sneeze and that will give you time to escape."

"Vinegar, lemon and pepper," Josh muttered. "I'll remember to add them to my werewolf-hunting kit. And if I don't find any werewolves, I can always make a salad," Josh said sarcastically.

Shakespeare shook his head. "No, no, you would need a good olive oil for a salad," he said seriously, "and olive oil is ineffective against any of the Wereclans."

"Though very useful against bruxa and strega," Flamel murmured absently as he created swirling fractal-like patterns on the two LCD screens.

"I was not aware of that," Shakespeare said. "And how would one use-"

"What happened to the bounty hunter?" Josh interrupted, frustrated, trying to bring the conversation back on track.

"Oh, Perenelle ended up rescuing him from a tribe of Oh-mah."

"Oh-mah?" Josh and Shakespeare asked together.

"Sasquatch… Saskehavis," Flamel said, and for an instant, an image of a tall, primitive-looking, powerfully built human appeared on the screen. It was covered in long reddish hair and carried a huge club made from a gnarled tree root. "Big Foot," he added.

"Big Foot. Of course." Josh shook his head. "So you're saying there are Big Foot-Big Feet-in America?"

"Of course," Flamel said dismissively. "When Perenelle rescued the bounty hunter from the Oh-mah," he continued, stroking the bracelet, "he presented her with his silver bullets as a gift." A green spark crawled across the metal. "I watched her melt down the silver bullets with her aura and shape each link…" The scent of mint filled the hut again. Picking up the bracelet, the Alchemyst closed his fist around the metal band. "She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet."

And abruptly both LCD screens blinked and the trio found they were looking at Perenelle Flamel. ven without de Ayala to guide her, the smell of mint would have drawn Perenelle deeper into the cells. Crisp and clean, it blanketed the stench of the decaying building and the ever-present tang of salt. There was another scent in Alcatraz now: the zoolike stench of too many animals crowded together.

De Ayala stopped before the entrance to a cell and drifted to one side, revealing a huge intricate spiderweb filling the opening. The circular web glistened with trembling liquid droplets. The odor of mint was strongest here.

"Nicholas?" Perenelle whispered, puzzled. It was the distinctive deliciously familiar scent of her husband's aura… but what was it doing here? She tried to peer beyond the web, into the cell. "Nicholas?" she whispered again.

Abruptly, each individual droplet in the web shimmered and coalesced. The spider web turned briefly reflective, so that it was as if she were looking into a huge mirror, and then it faded and darkened, revealing the intricate pattern beneath. A crackling green thread curled across each delicate strand and she distinctly heard Nicholas's voice-"She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet"-the instant before the web came to glowing life again and three astonished-looking faces appeared out of the gloom, staring at her.

"Nicholas!" Perenelle's voice was a ragged whisper. She fought hard to keep her aura from blazing. This was impossible-but then, that was the world she lived in. Instinctively, she knew this was a form of scrying, using the liquid on the spiderweb as a viewing source… and she also knew that her husband should not have been able to do this; he'd never mastered this particular art. But Nicholas was always surprising her, even after more than six hundred years of marriage. "Nicholas," she whispered. "It is you!"

"Perenelle! Oh, Perenelle!"

The joy in Nicholas's voice took her breath away. The Sorceress blinked back tears, then focused hard on her husband, examining him critically. The lines on his forehead had deepened, and there were new wrinkles around his eyes and nose, the bags under his eyes were bruise black and his hair was silvered, but it didn't matter: he was alive. She felt something shudder and relax inside her. The sphinx had taunted her that Nicholas was doomed; the Morrigan had said the Nidhogg was loose in Paris. Perenelle had been almost afraid to even think about Nicholas and what might have happened to him. But here he was: looking older, certainly; tired, definitely; but very much alive!

The boy, Josh, was there also, just behind Nicholas. He too looked tired. His forehead was smudged and his hair wild, but otherwise he seemed well. She could see no sign of Sophie. And where was Scathach? Perenelle kept her face expressionless as she shifted her gaze to the man sitting beside her husband. He was vaguely familiar.

"I've missed you," Nicholas said. He lifted his right hand, fingers spread wide. Half a world away, Perenelle unconsciously mimicked the gesture, her fingers matching his. She was careful not to touch the spider web, conscious that she might break the connection.

"You are unharmed?" Nicholas's voice was little more than the tiniest whisper, and his image flickered as the web undulated in the breeze that blew in from the open door at the other end of the corridor.

"I am unharmed and well," she said. "Quickly, Perry, there is not much time. Where are you?"

"I'm not far from home; I am on Alcatraz. And you?"

"Farther afield than you, I'm afraid. I am in London."

"London! The Morrigan told me you were in Paris." Nicholas smiled. "Ah, but that was yesterday; today we are in London, but not for long, if I can help it. Can you leave the island?"

"Unfortunately not." She smiled sadly. "This is Dee's island. There is a sphinx loose in the prison corridors, the cells are full of monsters and the seas are guarded by Nereids."

"Stay safe: I will come for you," Nicholas said firmly.

Perenelle nodded. She had absolutely no doubt that the Alchemyst would try to get to her; whether he would arrive in time was another matter. "I know you will." They had lived together for so long and, for most of the last century, in such relative comfort and obscurity, and with so little contact with Elders or Next Generation, that she sometimes forgot that his knowledge was incalculable. "Have you a plan?"

"In Paris, I retrieved our old map of the world's ley lines," he said quickly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "There is a line somewhere on Salisbury Plain that will take us directly to Mount Tamalpais. We'll head there when…" He hesitated.

Perenelle caught the hesitation and felt a surge of alarm. "When? What are you up to, Nicholas?"

"There's something I have to do in London first," he said. "Someone I want the children to meet."

She immediately thought of a dozen names, none of them good. "Who?"

"Gilgamesh." Perenelle opened her mouth to protest, but the stony look on her husband's face stopped her. His eyes flashed and his head moved almost imperceptibly toward Josh. "I'm going to ask him to teach the children the Magic of Water."

"Gilgamesh," she repeated, "the King." Forcing a smile to her lips, she added, "Give him my regards."

"I'll do that." Flamel nodded. "I'm sure he'll remember you. And I'm hoping he will direct us to the ley line that will take us home," he added.

"Tell me quickly, Nicholas: is all well? Are the children safe?"

"Yes. The twins are here with me," Nicholas said. "Both have been Awakened, and Sophie has received both the Magic of Air and the Magic of Fire. Unfortunately, Josh has not yet received any training."

Perenelle was watching Josh as her husband spoke. Even without the wavering image, she sensed, rather than saw, his disappointment.

"There is much to tell you," Flamel continued.

"Obviously. But Nicholas, you are forgetting your manners," Perenelle chided him. "You have not introduced me to…" Recognition dawned even as she was about to ask the question. "Is that Master Shakespeare?"

The man next to Nicholas bowed as deeply as he could from his sitting position. "Your humble servant, madam."

Perenelle remained silent. She felt the twinge in her shoulder where she'd been shot in the attack following Shakespeare's betrayal, but unlike Nicholas, she had never held any grudge against the boy. She knew how dangerously persuasive Dee could be. Finally, she inclined her head. "Master Will. You are looking well."

"Thank you, madam. Almost four hundred years ago, I wrote a line in your honor-'Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety'-it seems that line still holds true. You are as beautiful as ever." He drew in a quick shuddering breath. "I owe you an apology, madam. Because of what I did, you were nearly slain. I made a mistake."

"You chose the wrong side, Will."

"I know that, madam." The sadness in the immortal's voice was almost palpable.

"But you did not make a mistake: surely the mistake would have been remaining on that side?" she asked lightly.

The Bard smiled and bowed his head, silently thanking her.

"Perry, I have wronged Mr. Shakespeare. He is no friend to the Magician." Nicholas waved his hand. "And he has made this communication possible."

Perenelle bowed. "Thank you, Will. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see Nicholas safe and well."

Color touched Shakespeare's cheeks and flowed up over his balding head. "It is my pleasure, madam."

"And you, Josh. How are you?"

The boy nodded. "Good, I guess. Really good."

"And Sophie?"

"Great. She learned Fire and Air. You should have seen what we did to the gargoyles at Notre Dame."

Perenelle turned her green eyes on her husband, and her eyebrows rose in a silent question.

"As I said, much to tell you." The Alchemyst leaned forward. He started off speaking in English but slipped into the French of his youth. "We were trapped, surrounded, facing the Guardians of the City. The boy fed the girl's aura with his own-silver and gold together. Their power was incredible: they defeated the combined magic of Dee and Machiavelli. Perenelle, we have them: finally, we have the twins of legend!"

The spiderweb rippled as a sudden foul gust blew down the corridor. Nicholas's image dissolved into a million tiny faces, each one reflected in the droplets on the web. Then the drops flowed back together again and the reflective surface reappeared.

"Madame…," de Ayala whispered urgently, "something approaches."

"Nicholas," Perenelle said quickly. "I've got to go."

"I'll get to you as fast as I can," the Alchemyst responded.

"I know you will. Just be careful, Nicholas. I can see age upon your face."

"Perry, a last word of advice, please," Nicholas added. "Mr. Shakespeare thinks that we need to stand and fight. But we are in the heart of Dee's London and desperately outnumbered. What do you think we should do?"

"Oh, Nicholas," Perenelle said softly in the forgotten Breton dialect of her long-lost youth. Something subtle happened to the bones and angles of her face, turning them hard. Her green eyes took on a glasslike appearance, and she reverted to English. "There is a time to run and a time to stand and face the enemy. Nicholas, often have I urged you to stop and fight. You have half a millennium of alchemical knowledge to use against Dee and his Dark Elders. But you've always told me you couldn't-you were waiting to find the twins. Well, now you have them. And you've told me they are powerful. Use them. Strike a blow at the heart of Dee's empire, let him see that we are not entirely defenseless. It's time, Nicholas, time to stand and fight."

The Alchemyst nodded. "And you. Can you stay safe until I get to you?"

Perenelle had just started to nod when the horror leapt through the spider web, teeth and claws extended toward her face. he Alchemyst, Josh and Shakespeare saw Perenelle start to nod… and then the image shattered into pixels, but not before they had all seen the flash of curled claws. Instinctively, all three jerked back from the screens.

"What… what happened?" Josh asked, confused. The left screen was completely black, but the right was speckled with clumps of sparkling red and green spots.

Flamel's left hand locked into a white-knuckled fist around the silver bracelet. Mint green fire danced across the metal as the fingertips of his right hand pressed against the monitor. The LCD cycled through a rainbow of colors, and then ten narrow and irregular colored streaks appeared on the blackness, long wavering vertical strands that gave tantalizing glimpses of an empty corridor on the other side of the world. But there was no sign of Perenelle.

"What was that?" Josh asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. "I have no idea." Then he curled his right hand into a claw and reached toward the screen. Five of the narrow colored bands matched up with his fingers. "Something leapt at Madame Perenelle and slashed at her. It must have come at her through the web." He tapped the glass with a fingernail. "It looks like we're still connected through the torn shreds of web. I can try again."

"Is she… is she OK?" Josh asked, worried. He noticed that the silver bracelet was now in two halves; its center had melted into flat silver droplets. "Nicholas?"

Flamel said nothing. He was trembling, his face bloodless and gaunt, lips outlined in blue. The word Perenelle formed on his lips, but he didn't say it aloud.

The screen image wavered… and then they saw Perenelle.

She was backing away from them, hands spread protectively before her. A long scratch ran across her bare shoulder and down one arm, the flesh red and angry-looking.

"Perenelle," Flamel whispered, the sound escaping in a ragged gasp.

And then they saw it. A creature was moving slowly down the stone corridor, advancing on the Sorceress. Josh had never seen anything like it before: it was both beautiful and horrific in equal measure. The creature was about his height, and while the plump red-cheeked face was that of a young man, the body was skeletal, bones and ribs clearly visible through gray-white skin. Talons that were a cross between human feet and birds' claws click-clacked across the floor, and although it had human hands, its nails were long and black, sharply curled, like a cat's. Huge leathery bat's wings grew out of its bony spine and dragged along the floor behind it.

And then a second figure appeared. It was a female. Gossamer black hair framed her delicately beautiful face. But if anything, her body was even more emaciated than the boy's. Her wings were ragged and torn, and she dragged her left leg behind her.

"Vetala," Flamel whispered in horror. "Blood drinkers, flesh eaters."

Another figure appeared before Perenelle. Vague and insubstantial, this one looked human and male. His hands rose into threatening fists and he moaned.

Flamel's aura bloomed bright green around his body, and the smell of mint was overpowering. "I've got to help her," he said desperately.

Suddenly, Palamedes burst through the door into the hut. "Your aura-douse it now!" he commanded.

Wide-eyed, Sophie was at the knight's heels, while behind her the red-eyed dogs crowded in the doorway and began to bark and growl.

"Perenelle's in trouble," Josh said, looking at Sophie. He knew his sister really liked the woman.

"Flamel: stop!" the knight shouted.

But the Alchemyst ignored him. Rolling the halves of the ruined silver bracelet into the palm of his left hand, he closed his fingers over them and brilliant emerald green light engulfed his fist. Then he pressed his right hand to the LCD screen. "Perenelle!" he called.

Flamel's mint odor was blanketed by the warmer spice of cloves as the knight clamped his hands onto the Alchemyst's shoulders. "You've got to stop, Nicholas. You'll bring destruction down on top of us!"

Abruptly, the Alchemyst's aura flared even brighter, flaming first to brilliant emerald, then luminescent jade and finally a deep olive green. The knight was flung backward away from Nicholas, a suit of chain mail forming over his body even as he crashed against the wall with enough force to dent the metal. Green fire crawled across the links of his armor. "Will-stop him!" Palamedes shouted, his accent thick with fear. "Break the link!"

"Master, please…" Shakespeare grabbed the Alchemyst's sleeve and tugged. Tiny bitter-green flames immediately coursed up his arm, sending him staggering back, beating at the cold fire.

Josh crouched beside the Alchemyst, staring at the screen. "What are you trying to do?" he demanded.

"Strengthen Perenelle's aura with my own," Nicholas said desperately. "The vetala will tear her apart. But I fear I'm not strong enough." The terror in his voice was clear.

Josh looked up at his sister, saw her head move in the tiniest of nods and then turned to Nicholas. "Let me help," he said.

"Let us help," Sophie added.

The twins took up positions on either side of the Alchemyst, Sophie on his right, Josh on his left, and each placed a hand on his shoulder. Josh looked at his sister and asked, "Now what do we do?"

And then the mixture of scents in the room became overpowering, almost nauseating: orange and vanilla, clove and mint, mingling with the odors of fried food, stale body odor and the ripe smell of damp dogs.

The Saracen Knight shouted, but his words were lost as the twins' auras crackled around them, gold and silver, sizzling and spitting as they touched the Alchemyst's now dull green aura, which immediately flared and brightened, sparkling with gold motes and silver threads.

"Alchemyst," Palamedes shouted desperately, "you have doomed us all!"

"Perenelle!" Nicholas cried, splaying his fingers against the working monitor. Coiling threads of green, yellow and silver spiraled down his arm, wrapped around each finger and disappeared into the screen.

The screen to the right cracked down the middle, thick black smoke curling upward, and then Perenelle's voice, thin and high, was clearly audible.

"Nicholas! Stop! Stop now!" She sounded terrified.

In the left-hand monitor they saw her ice white aura shimmer into existence around her and then quickly wink out.

"Nicholas!" Perenelle screamed. "You have killed me!"

And then the screen melted into a stinking puddle of bubbling plastic and molten glass. r. John Dee strolled into the arrivals concourse in London City Airport. He was unsurprised to see a man in a two-piece black suit, white shirt and dark glasses, holding a card with the name DEE neatly printed on it. The Magician had phoned ahead and let the London offices of Enoch Enterprises know he was arriving.

"I am Dr. John Dee," he said, handing the man his small overnight bag but holding on to his laptop bag. "Yes, sir, I recognized you. Follow me, please." Dee thought he could hear a trace of the Middle East in the man's accent; he was almost positive it was Egyptian. He followed the man to an anonymous black limousine parked directly outside arrivals in the no-parking zone. The driver pulled open the rear door and stepped back, and in that instant, Dee's nostrils caught a familiar scent and he abruptly realized that this car and driver had not come from his company. For a heartbeat he thought about turning and running… but then he realized he had nowhere to go. "Thank you," he said politely, sliding into the darkened interior. The door shut with a soft pneumatic click. The odor in the enclosed compartment was enough to take his breath away. He sat quietly and heard the thump when his suitcase was put into the trunk; moments later, the car pulled smoothly and silently away from the curb.

The Magician put his laptop bag beside him, then turned to look at the hooded figure he knew would be sitting at the other end of the leather seat. Forcing a smile to his face, he bowed slightly. "Madam, I must say I am surprised-and delighted, of course-to see you here."

The shape in the gloom moved and cloth rustled. Then the interior light clicked on, and Dee, though he had been alerted by the smell to what he was going to see, started at the terrifying sight of the huge lioness's head inches from his own. The light gleamed off vicious-looking incisors and glistened off thick whiskers. The Dark Elder Bastet raised her head and glared at him with her huge yellow slit-pupiled eyes. "I am really beginning to dislike you, Dr. John Dee," she growled.

The doctor forced himself to smile, then lowered his gaze from the sharp teeth and brushed an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. "You are in the majority, then; a lot of people dislike me. But fair is fair," he added lightly, "I dislike a lot of people. In fact, most people. But, believe me, madam, I have nothing but your best interests at heart."

The light clicked off and Bastet became invisible in the gloom.

A thought struck Dee and he asked, "I thought your aversion to iron prevented you from using modern conveniences like cars."

"Iron is not toxic to me, unlike some of the other Elders. I can tolerate it for short periods of time. And much of this vehicle is carbon fiber."

Dee nodded gravely, filing away the information that iron was not toxic to all Elders. He'd always assumed that it was the coming of iron that had driven the Elders out of this world. After more than four hundred years in their service, there was still so much he did not know about them.

The car slowed, then stopped. Through the dark tinted window Dee could just about make out the glowing red traffic light. He waited until the light changed to green before trusting himself to speak again. "Can I ask what I have done to anger you?" he murmured, pleased that he'd managed to keep his voice from trembling. Bastet was a First Generation Elder and one of the original rulers of Danu Talis. After the sinking of the island, she had been worshipped for generations in Egypt, and countries and peoples from the Incas to the Chinese honored cats in memory of the time she had walked the ancient humani world.

Dee heard paper rustle and pages turn and he realized that the Elder was reading in complete darkness.

"You are trouble incarnate, Dr. Dee. I can smell it coming off you like that ridiculous sulfur aura you prefer." There was the sound of paper being slowly and methodically shredded. "I have perused your file. It does not make for inspiring reading. You may be our premier agent in this world, but I would argue you have been particularly useless. You have failed again and again in your mission to capture the Flamels, and have left a trail of death and destruction in your wake. You are tasked with protecting the Elders' existence, and yet three days ago you destroyed not just one but three interlinked Shadowrealms. This latest adventure in Paris has come close-dangerously close-to revealing our presence to the humani. You even permitted the Nidhogg to rampage through the streets."

"Well, that really was Machiavelli's idea…," the Magician began.

"Many Elders have called for your destruction," Bastet continued in a deep growl.

The sentence shocked Dee into silence. "But I serve the Dark Elders loyally. I have done so for centuries," he argued plaintively.

"Your methods are crude, antiquated," the cat-headed Elder went on. "Consider Machiavelli: he is a scalpel, neat and precise; you are a broadsword, crude and blundering. You once almost burned this very city to the ground. Your creatures killed a million humani in Ireland. One hundred and thirty thousand died in Tokyo. And despite this loss of humani life, you still failed to secure the Flamels."

"I was told to capture the Flamels and the Codex by any means possible. That was the priority," Dee snapped, anger making him reckless. "I did what I had to do to achieve that goal. And three days ago, let me remind you, I delivered the Book of Abraham the Mage."

"But even there you failed," Bastet whispered coldly. "The Codex was incomplete, lacking the final two pages." The Elder's breathing changed and Dee was suddenly aware in the darkness that her meat-tainted breath was dangerously close to his face. "Magician, you enjoy the protection of a powerful Elder-perhaps the most powerful of us all-and that has kept you alive thus far," Bastet pressed on. Huge glowing yellow eyes appeared out of the gloom, the pupils as narrow as knife blades. "When others called for your punishment or death, your master has protected you. But I wonder-and I am not alone in this-why does an Elder use such a flawed tool?"

The words chilled him. "What did you call me?" he finally managed to whisper. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt huge in his mouth.

Bastet's eyes blazed. "A flawed tool."

Dee felt breathless. He tried to calm his thundering heart. It had been more than four hundred years since he'd last heard those three words, but they'd remained vividly etched in his memory. He'd never forgotten them. In many ways they had shaped his life.

Turning his face away from the stink of Bastet's breath, Dee rested his forehead against the cool glass and looked out into the night flashing past in streaks of light. He was driving through the heart of twenty-first-century London, and yet when he closed his eyes and remembered the last time he had felt this way, the last time he had heard those words, he felt as if he were back in the city of Henry VIII.

Memories, long buried but never forgotten, came flooding back, and he knew the Elder's use of those three bitter words could not have been accidental. She was letting him know just how much she knew about him.

It was April 23, 1542, a cold showery day in London, and John Dee was standing before his father, Roland, in their house on Thames Street. Dee was fifteen years old-and looked older than his years-but at that moment he felt like a ten-year-old. He had locked his hands into fists behind his back and was unable to move, afraid to speak, breathless, heart thundering so hard it was actually shaking his entire body. He knew if he moved he would fall over, or turn and run like a child from the room, and if he spoke he would break down and weep. But he would not show any weakness in front of Roland Dee. Over his father's right shoulder, through the tiny diamond-paned window, John could see the top of the nearby Tower of London. Standing still and silent, he allowed his father to continue reading.

John Dee had always known he was different.

He was an only child, and it had been obvious from an early age that he was gifted with an extraordinary ability for mathematics and languages; he could read and write not only English, but also Latin and Greek, and had taught himself French and a little German. John was entirely devoted to his mother, Jane, and she always sided with him against his domineering father. Encouraged by his mother, John had set his sights on attending St. John's College, Cambridge. He had thought-had hoped-that his father would be delighted, but Roland Dee was a textile merchant who held a minor position in Henry's court and was almost fearful of too much education. Roland had seen what happened to educated men at court: it was too easy to upset the king, and men who did that too often ended up in prison or dead, stripped of their lands and fortune. John knew his father wanted him to take over the family business, and for that he needed no further education than the abilities to read and write and add up a column of figures.

But John Dee wanted more.

On that April day in 1542, he had finally plucked up the courage to tell his father he was attending college, with or without his permission. His grandfather, William Wild, had agreed to pay the fees, and Dee had enrolled without his father's knowledge.

"And if you go to this school, what then?" Roland demanded, bushy beard bristling with rage. "They will fill your head with useless nonsense. You will learn your Latin and Greek, your mathematics and philosophy, your history and geography, but what use is that to me, or to you? You will not be content with that. You will seek more knowledge, and that will send you down some dark paths, my boy. You will never be satisfied, because you will never know enough."

"Say what you will," the fifteen-year-old boy had managed to answer. "I am going."

"Then you will become like a knife that is sharpened so often it becomes blunt: you will become a flawed tool… and what use have I for a flawed tool?"

Dr. John Dee opened his eyes and focused once more on the streets of modern London.

He had rarely spoken to his father after that day, even when the old man was locked up in the Tower of London. Dee had gone to Chelmsford, and then to the newly founded Trinity College, and quickly established a reputation for himself as one of the most brilliant men of his age. And there were times when he remembered his father's words and realized that Roland Dee had been right: his quest for knowledge was insatiable, and it had taken him down some very dark and dangerous paths. It had ultimately led him to the Dark Elders.

And somewhere at the back of his mind, in that dark and secret place where only the most hurtful memories are buried, lurked those three bitter words.

A flawed tool.

No matter what he achieved-his extraordinary successes, his amazing discoveries and uncannily accurate predictions, even his immortality and his association with figures who had been worshipped by generations as gods and myths-those three words mocked him, because he was secretly afraid that his father had been correct about that too. Perhaps he was a flawed tool.

Clearing his throat, he lifted his forehead from the window, fixed a quizzical smile on his face and turned back to the dark interior of the car. "I was not aware that you had a file on me."

Leather squeaked as Bastet changed position. "We have files on every immortal and mortal humani who is in our service. Yours happens to be bigger than all the rest combined."

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. It is, as I have said, a litany of failures."

"I am disappointed that you should view it that way," Dee said softly. "Luckily, I do not answer to you. I answer to a higher authority," he added, with the smile still fixed on his face.

Bastet hissed like a cat with its tail caught.

"But enough of these pleasantries," the Magician continued, rubbing his hands quickly together. "What brings you to London? I thought you had returned to your Bel Air mansion after our adventure in Mill Valley."

"Earlier today I was contacted by someone from my past." The Dark Elder's voice was a low angry rumbling. "Someone I thought long dead, someone I never wanted to talk to again."

"I'm not sure what this has to do with me…," the Magician began.

"Mars Ultor made contact with me."

Dee straightened. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could just about make out Bastet's cat head silhouetted in black against the lighter rectangle of the window. "Mars spoke to you?"

"For the first time in centuries. And he asked me to help you."

Dee nodded. When he had left the catacombs earlier, the Elder had still not responded to his offer to bring the twins back to Paris and force Sophie to lift the curse.

Cloth rustled and the cat smell of the Goddess grew stronger. "Is it true?" she asked, close enough to make Dee recoil from her foul breath.

The Magician turned away, blinking tears from his eyes. "Is…" He coughed. "Is what true?"

"Can you release him? The Witch cursed him; that is a curse she will not lift."

One of the reasons the English Magician had survived in the lethal court of Queen Elizabeth and for centuries afterward was that he never made a promise he could not keep, or a threat he didn't intend to carry out. He took a moment to consider his response, careful to keep his face neutral. Although it was dark in the back of the car, he knew that it made no difference to the cat-headed Elder. She could easily see in the dark. "The Witch transferred all her knowledge and lore into the girl, Sophie, who we now know to be one of the twins of legend. The girl even admitted that she knew how to reverse the spell, but when Mars asked her-begged her-to do so, she refused. All I have to do is give her a good reason not to refuse the next time we ask." Dee's cruel lips twisted in a smile. "I can be very persuasive."

The Dark Elder grunted.

"You don't sound very happy about that. I would have thought you would be thrilled to have someone like Mars back in your ranks."

The Elder laughed, an ugly sound. "You know nothing about Mars Ultor, the Avenger, do you?"

The Magician took a moment before replying. "I know some of the myths," he admitted.

"Once he was a hero; then he became a monster," Bastet said slowly. "A force of nature, untamable, unpredictable and deadly beyond belief."

"You don't seem to like him very much."

"Like him?" Bastet echoed. "I love him. And it is precisely because I love him that I do not want him abroad in the world again."

Confused, Dee shook his head. "I would have thought we needed Mars in the coming battle."

"His rage is liable to devastate this world and every adjoining Shadowrealm… and then either some humani hero or warrior Elder will be forced to destroy him utterly. At least in the catacombs, I know where he is and I know he is safe."

Dee tried to make sense of what he was hearing. "How can you claim that you love him and yet want him condemned to that living death?"

Dee felt, rather than heard, the swish of nails as they arced through the air before his face. The leather seat popped and hissed as it was punctured. When she spoke, the Elder's voice was trembling with emotion. "The humani nations called Mars by many names through the ages. I called him Horus… and he is my baby brother."

Stunned, Dee sat back in the seat. "But why then did the Witch curse him?" he asked. "You're suggesting that this curse actually protects him."

"Because she loved him even more than I did. The Witch of Endor is his wife." etala.

The Sorceress backed away from the creature that had come through the web. It had obviously been sleeping in the cell beyond. She had caught the hint of movement in the last instant before it had appeared, but she hadn't been quick enough to escape its flailing claws. A ragged nail had sliced her flesh, and her shoulder and arm stung as if they had been burned. She knew she needed to get back into the sunshine as quickly as possible and wash out the wound. Perenelle shuddered to think what foulness might be hiding under the vetala's fingernails.

Behind the vampire, the spider web hung in ragged tatters. Tiny green sparks danced across the web, and she wondered if these were what had awakened the creature. Each strip still showed a sliver of Nicholas, Josh and Shakespeare.

And then the second creature stepped through the dangling threads of web.

Perenelle noted that the two creatures were alike enough to be twins. Their faces were beautiful, with fine delicate Indian features, flawless skin and enormous liquid brown eyes. She knew that they would usually keep their black bat wings wrapped around them, concealing their emaciated gray-skinned bodies and clawed hands and feet until the moment before they struck.

Backing down the corridor, Perenelle stepped slowly away from the vetala, desperately trying to remember what she knew about them. They were primitive and beastlike, creatures of the night and darkness, and like many of the vampire clan who were nocturnal, they were photosensitive and could not stand sunlight.

She needed to reach the stairs behind her… but she dared not turn her back to run.

De Ayala appeared behind the two vetala. The ghost raised both hands and flowed through the creatures. It moaned, a long terrifying howl of utter despair and absolute loneliness that echoed and reechoed off the damp stones. The vetala ignored the ghost. Their huge eyes were focused on the Sorceress, mouths slightly parted to reveal perfectly white teeth, chins damp with saliva. De Ayala winked out of existence and then doors slammed and rattled above their heads with enough force to send dust drifting down on top of them. The vetala didn't even react. They simply continued to inch ever forward.

"Madame, I cannot help you," de Ayala said desperately, appearing alongside the Sorceress. "It is as if they know I am a ghost and powerless to harm them."

"They look hungry," Perenelle murmured, "and they know they cannot eat you." She stopped, suddenly noticing that the shreds of spiderweb behind the vampires had started to glow a dull lambent green. She caught fragmentary glimpses of her husband outlined in his aura.

"Perenelle."

Nicholas's voice was the merest gossamer whisper. There was a flicker of movement alongside him, and then his aura flared, bright enough to shed a dull green glow through the rags of web over the corridor on Alcatraz.

The Sorceress knew a dozen spells that would defeat the vampire, but to use them meant activating her aura… and that would bring the sphinx. She continued backing away; once she reached the stairs, she was going to turn and run and hope to make it to the door before the creatures brought her down. She thought she could make it. These were forest creatures; their claws were designed for soft earth and tree bark, and she had seen how their long nails slipped on the stone floor. Their folded wings were also awkward and cumbersome. Perenelle took another step back, moving toward the lighted rectangle of the door behind her. Now that she could feel the heat of the sun on her back, she knew she was close to the steps.

And then, in the shreds of dangling web, she saw Sophie and Josh standing on either side of her husband. They were all staring intently at her, frowning hard. Nicholas's aura glowed bright emerald. On his right-hand side, Sophie blossomed silver, and Josh, on his left, bloomed gold. The spiderweb glowed like a lantern and the entire corridor lit up.

"Perenelle."

The two vetala turned, hissing like cats at the sound and sudden light, and Perenelle saw her husband reach out to her, fingers wide. Light particles danced at the end of his fingertips… and at that moment, she knew what he was going to do.

"Nicholas! Stop! Stop now!" she screamed.

Coiling spirals and twisting circles of crackling silver, green and gold energy spun from the tattered web. Hissing and spitting, they bounced off the walls and ceiling and then gathered around Perenelle's feet, creating a puddle of light that gradually sank into the stones. The Sorceress gasped as a warm wave of energy flowed up her legs and through her chest and exploded into her head. Images danced at the corner of her mind; thoughts and memories that were not hers.

The Eiffel Tower ablaze with lights…

The Nidhogg rampaging through the streets…

Valkyries in white armor…

The same women trapped, in ice…

Gargoyles slithering down off Notre Dame…

The hideous Genii Cucullati advancing…

Unbidden, her aura shimmered into existence around her, ice white and glacial, and her hair spread in a dark sheath behind her.

"Nicholas," Perenelle shouted as the web blackened to dust and her aura faded to nothing. "You have killed me!"

And then, howling through the very stones of Alcatraz, came the triumphant cry of the sphinx.

Even the vetala turned and fled. n a stinking flurry of flapping wings, the sphinx appeared at the end of the corridor, huge lion paws scraping along on the floor. Crouching low, belly to the ground, the creature spread her eagle's wings and screamed triumphantly in a language that predated the first Egyptian pharaoh. "You are mine, Sorceress. I will feast off your memories and then eat your bones." The sphinx's head was that of a beautiful woman, but her eyes were slit-pupiled and the tongue that waved in the air was long, black and forked. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and drew in a deep shuddering breath. "But what's this… what's this?" Her tongue darted, tasting the air. She took a couple of steps down the corridor, claws clicking on stone. "How can this be? You are powerful… powerful indeed… too powerful." And then she stopped, her flawless face creasing into an ugly frown. "And strong." Her voice faltered. "Stronger than you should be."

Perenelle had half turned to make a dash for the stairs, but then she suddenly stopped and turned back to face the sphinx. The corners of her eyes crinkled and the tiniest of smiles curled her lips, turning her face cruel. Bringing her hand up to her face for a closer look, she gazed at it in wonder as a glasslike glove grew over each finger and down into her palm. The glass turned from transparent to translucent and then opaque. "Why, of course I am," she whispered. And then she laughed aloud, the shocking sound echoing off the walls. "Thank you, Nicholas; thank you, Sophie and Josh!" she shouted.

The woman's smile frightened the sphinx, but her laughter terrified her. The creature took a tentative step forward, then backpedaled. Despite her fearsome appearance and appalling reputation, the sphinx was a coward. She had grown up in a time of monsters, and it was fear and cowardice that had kept her alive through the millennia.

The Sorceress faced the creature and brought her palms together, thumb against thumb, fingers touching. Suddenly, her aura blazed white light, bleaching the entire corridor of color, and then crackled around her in a protective oval of harshly reflective mirrorlike crystals. Every crumbling brick, each rusting pipe, the mold-spattered ceiling, the tattered cobwebs and the crumbling metal cell-door bars were picked out in exquisite detail. Long angular shadows stretched down the corridor toward the sphinx, though Perenelle herself cast no shadow.

The woman flung out her right hand. A globe of white light that almost looked like a snowball burst from her palm and bounced once, twice on the floor, bounced again and then rolled to a stop between the filthy paws of the sphinx.

"And what am I supposed to do about this?" the creature snarled. "Catch it in my mouth and bring it back to you?"

Perenelle's smile was terrifying as her hair rose in a dark cloud behind her.

The sphere started to grow. Spinning, twisting, turning, sparkling ice crystals grew in layers on it. The air temperature abruptly plummeted and the sphinx's breath plumed white on the air.

The sphinx was a creature of the desert. All her long life, she had known arid heat and searing sunshine. Certainly, in the weeks since she had been tasked with guarding Alcatraz, she had grown used to the chill of the prison island, the damp bite of the bay's rolling fog banks, the sting of rain, the bitter winds. But she had never experienced cold like this. This was a chill so extreme that it burned. Countless tiny crystals erupted out of the glowing sphere and alighted on her flesh like fiery embers. A snowflake no bigger than a dust mote landed on her tongue: it was like sucking a hot coal. And still the ball grew bigger.

Perenelle took a step closer. "I should thank you."

The sphinx stepped back.

"If I had turned and run, you would have chased me down. But when you reminded me that I was more powerful than before, I realized the gift my husband and the twins had given me."

The sphinx screeched like a feral cat as the icy air bit and stung her human face. "Your powers will not last. I will drink them."

"You will try," Perenelle said quietly, almost gently. "But to do that you need to concentrate and focus on me. And personally, I have always found it hard to concentrate when it is cold." She smiled again.

"Your aura will fade." The sphinx's needle-sharp teeth began to chatter. Thin curls of ice were forming on the wall.

"True. I have a minute, perhaps less, before my aura fades back to normal. But I have enough time."

"Enough time?" The creature shuddered. Frost now coated the sphinx's chest and legs; her pale cheeks turned red, her lips blue.

"Enough time to do this!"

The snowball was now the size of a large pumpkin. The sphinx lashed out at it, an enormous lion's paw cutting through the frozen crystals. When she jerked her paw back, the skin and nails were burned black by the intense chill.

"A shaman on the Aleutian Islands taught me this pretty spell," Perenelle said, moving closer to the sphinx. The creature immediately tried to back away, but the floor was slick with crackling ice and her feet shot out from beneath her, sending her crashing to the ground. "The Aleut are the masters of snow and ice magic. There are many different types of snow," the Sorceress said. "Soft…"

Feather-soft snowflakes curled out of the spinning ball and flurried around the sphinx, hissing onto her skin, burning and melting the moment they touched.

"Hard…"

Stone-sharp chips of ice danced away from the ball, stinging the sphinx's human face.

"And then there are blizzards."

The ball erupted. Thick snow blasted against the creature, coating her chest and face. She coughed as the freezing crystals swirled into her mouth. Feet scrabbling, she attempted to back away, but the entire hallway was now a sheet of ice. The sphinx raised her wings, but they were weighted down beneath a thick coating of frost and could barely move.

"And of course, hail…"

Pea-sized chips and chunks of ice battered the ancient creature. Snow pellets and hailstones ricocheted out of the spinning ball, puncturing tiny holes in her wings.

Howling, the sphinx turned and fled.

An ice storm pursued her, hail bouncing and pinging off the floor, shattering against the ceiling, rattling off the metal cell doors. Inch-thick ice bloomed along the length of the corridor, metal bars shattered with the intense chill, bricks crumbled to dust and whole chunks of ceiling collapsed under the weight of the heavy ice.

The sphinx had almost reached the end of the corridor when it collapsed around her, burying her under tons of rock and metal. And then the cracking and snapping ice flowed over it all, sealing the rubble beneath eighteen inches of iron-hard permafrost.

Perenelle staggered as her aura winked out of existence.

"Bravo, madame," the ghost Juan Manuel de Ayala murmured, appearing out of the gloom.

The Sorceress leaned against a wall, breathing in great heaving gasps. She was trembling with exertion, and the effort had left her with aching joints and stiff muscles.

"Have you killed her?"

"Hardly," Perenelle said tiredly. "Slowed her down, irritated her, frightened her. I'm afraid it will take more than that to kill a sphinx." She turned and slowly climbed the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall.

"The snow and ice was impressive," de Ayala said, floating backward up the stairs so that he could admire the solid plug of glacier at the end of the corridor.

"I was going to try something else, but for some reason, I had an image of two warrior women trapped in ice; they looked like Valkyries…"

"A memory?" de Ayala suggested.

"Not one of mine," Perenelle whispered, then sighed with relief as she stepped out into the glorious morning sunshine. With the last remnant of her aura, she trailed her fingers across her wounds, cleansing them. Then, closing her eyes, she tilted her face to the light. "I think they were Sophie's memories," she said in wonder. Then she stopped, a sudden thought chilling her. "Valkyries and the Nidhogg abroad in the world again," she said in wonder. Instinctively, the Sorceress turned to the east and opened her eyes. What was happening to Nicholas and the children? How much trouble were they in? lchemyst," Palamedes shouted desperately, "you have doomed us all!"

Flamel lay slumped before the destroyed screens. His skin was the color of yellowed parchment, there were new wrinkles around his eyes and the lines etched into his forehead had deepened. When he turned to look at the Saracen, his eyes were glassy and unfocused, the whites tinged with green.

"I told you not to use your aura," the knight snarled. "I warned you." Palamedes rounded on Shakespeare. "Prepare for battle. Alert the guards." The Bard nodded and hurried outside, the red-eyed dogs silent now, fanning out around him in a protective shield. The knight's chain-mail armor appeared ghostlike around his huge frame, then solidified. "What did I say, Alchemyst? Death and destruction follow you. How many will die tonight because of you?" he shouted before he raced out the door.

Josh blinked black spots from in front of his eyes. He saw his sister swaying and caught her arm. "I'm exhausted," he said.

Sophie nodded in agreement. "Me too."

"I could actually feel the energy flowing up through my body and down my arm," he said in wonder. He looked at his fingertips. The skin was red and there were water blisters forming over his fingerprints. He helped his twin to a chair and sat her down, then knelt in front of her. "How do you feel?"

"Drained," Sophie mumbled, and Josh noticed that her eyes were still flat, mirrored silver discs. He was disturbed to see a distorted image of himself reflected in them. It was such a tiny change to her body, and yet it lent her face a sinister and almost alien appearance. As he watched, the silver gradually faded and the normal blue returned. "Perenelle?" she said, but her mouth was dry and the words came out thickly. "What happened to her?" she whispered hoarsely, then added, "I need some water."

Josh was getting to his feet when Shakespeare appeared by his side with two glasses of muddy-colored liquid. "Drink these."

Josh accepted both glasses but took a tentative sip of his first before handing it to his sister. He made a face. "Tastes sweet. What's in it?"

"Just water. I took the liberty of adding a spoonful of natural honey to each," the immortal said. "You have just used a lot of calories and burned through much of your bodies' natural sugars and salts. You will need to replace them as quickly as possible." He smiled crookedly, showing his bad teeth. "Consider it the price of magic." He placed a third glass, larger than the others, swirling with brown honey, on the table by the Alchemyst. "And you too, Nicholas," he said gently. "Drink quickly. There is much to do." Then he turned and hurried out into the night.

Sophie and Josh watched Nicholas raise the glass to his lips and sip the sticky liquid. His right hand was trembling and he caught it with his left and held it steady. He saw them looking at him and tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace of pain. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw. "You saved her."

"Perenelle," Sophie repeated. "What happened?"

Nicholas shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Those creatures…," Josh began.

"Vetala," Nicholas said.

"And what looked like a ghost," Sophie added.

Nicholas finished the water and put the glass down with a shudder. "Actually, that gives me cause for hope," he said, and this time his smile was genuine. "Perenelle is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. She can communicate with the shades of the dead; they hold no fear for her. Alcatraz is an isle of ghosts, and ghosts are mostly harmless."

"Mostly?" Josh said.

"Mostly," Nicholas agreed. "But none can harm my Perenelle," he added confidently.

"Do you think anything has happened to her?" Sophie said, just as Josh opened his mouth to ask the same question.

There was a pause, and then Flamel answered. "I don't think so. We saw her aura flare. Augmented by our auras-yours especially-she would be briefly powerful."

"But what did she mean when she said you had killed her?" Sophie asked, her voice stronger now.

"I do not know," he said quietly. "But this I am sure of: if anything had happened to her, I would know. I would feel it." He came slowly and stiffly to his feet, pressing his hands into the small of his back. He looked around the empty hut and nodded toward the twins' backpacks. "Get your stuff; we need to get out of here."

"And go where?" Josh demanded.

"Anywhere away from here," Nicholas said. "Our combined auras will have acted like a beacon. I'll wager every Elder, Next Generation and immortal in London is heading this way right now. That's what has Palamedes so upset."

Sophie stood. Josh reached out to steady his sister, but she shook her head. "I thought you were going to stay and fight," she said to Nicholas. "That's what Perenelle wanted you to do, and isn't that what Shakespeare and Palamedes both said we should do also?"

Flamel climbed down the steps and waited until the twins had joined him outside in the cool night air before he replied. He looked at Josh. "And what do you think? Stay and fight or flee?"

Josh looked at him in astonishment. "You're asking me? Why?"

"You are our tactician, inspired by Mars himself. If anyone knows what to do in a battle, it is you. And, as Perenelle reminded me, you two are the twins of legend: you are powerful indeed. So tell me, Josh, what should we do?"

Josh was about to protest that he had no idea… but even as he was shaking his head, he suddenly knew the answer. "With no idea what's coming at us, it's impossible to say." He looked around. "On the one hand, we are secure behind a cleverly designed and booby-trapped fortress. We know there is a protective zone around the castle and that the houses are occupied by creatures loyal to the knight. I'm sure that Shakespeare and Palamedes have other defenses. But if we do stay and fight, we'll be stuck here, and since this is Dee's country, there will be time for him to bring in reinforcements, completely trapping us." He looked at his sister. "I say we run. When we fight, we need to do it on our terms."

"Well said." The Alchemyst nodded. "I agree. We run now and live to fight another day."

Palamedes appeared out of the darkness, trailing the scent of cloves. His transformation into the Saracen Knight who had fought with King Arthur was now complete. He was dressed from head to foot in smooth black metal plate armor over a suit of black chain mail. A chain-link coif completely protected his head and neck and spread over his shoulders. Over that was a smooth metal bascinet helmet with a long nose guard. A curved shamshir sword dangled by his side and an enormous claymore sword was strapped to his back. The armor made the already-huge man look monstrous. Before he could speak, Shakespeare hurried up, five of the red-eyed dogs silently following him. "How bad is it?" Palamedes rumbled.

"Bad," Shakespeare murmured. "A little while ago, a few individuals-immortals, mainly, and some humani bounty hunters-entered the streets patrolled by the larvae and the lemurs. They did not get far." Shakespeare's aura crackled dull yellow and the air was touched with lemon. A suit of modern police body armor grew over the immortal's soiled mechanic's overalls. He carried a mace and chain loosely in his left hand, the studded head of the mace trailing in the mud. One of the dogs licked it with its forked tongue. "The larvae and lemurs are our first line of defense," he continued, looking from the Alchemyst to the twins. "They are loyal, but none too bright. And once they feed, they'll sleep. The attackers will be at the walls before midnight."

"The castle will hold," Palamedes said confidently.

"No castle is completely impregnable," Josh said simply, and then stopped as a huge red-eyed shape loomed out of the night. Everyone turned to follow his gaze. It was the largest of the dogs. Its fur was matted with filth and there was a long cut on its back dangerously close to its spine.

"Gabriel!" Shakespeare cried.

In the space of a single heartbeat, between one step and the next, the dog transformed. Muscle flowed, bones popped and cracked and the dog reared up on its two hind legs, neck shortening, the planes and angles of its face and the line of its jaw shifting. The dog became an almost-human-looking young man with long dun-colored hair. Curling purple-blue tattoos spiraled on his cheeks, ran down his neck and spread across his bare chest. He was barefoot, wearing only rough-spun woolen trousers with a red and black check pattern. Bloodred eyes peered from beneath badly cut bangs.

"Gabriel, you're hurt," the Bard said.

"A scratch," the dogman answered. "Nothing more. And the creature who did it to me will do nothing more." He spoke in a singsong accent that Sophie recognized as Welsh.

One by one the dogs standing around Shakespeare blinked into a human shape.

"Are you Torc Allta?" Josh asked, remembering the creatures that had guarded Hekate's Shadowrealm.

"They are kin to us," Gabriel said. "We are Torc Madra."

"Gabriel Hounds," Sophie said, eyes sparkling silver. "Ratchets."

Gabriel turned to look at the girl, his forked tongue tasting the air like a snake's. "It has been a long time since we were called by that name." The tongue appeared again. "But you are not entirely human, are you, Sophie Newman? You are the Moon Twin, and young, young, young to be carrying the knowledge of ages within you. You stink of the foul witch, Endor," he said dismissively, turning away, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Hey, you can't talk to my-" Josh began, but Sophie jerked his arm, pulling him back.

Ignoring the outburst, Gabriel turned to Palamedes. "The larvae and lemur have fallen."

"So soon!" cried the Saracen Knight. Both he and Shakespeare were visibly shaken. "Surely not all?"

"All. They are no more."

"There were nearly five thousand…," Shakespeare began.

"Dee is here," Gabriel said, his voice little more than a growl. "And so too is Bastet." He rolled his shoulders and grimaced as the wound on his back opened.

"There is something else, though, isn't there?" Flamel said tiredly. "The Dark Elders' followers and Dee's agents in the city are a ragtag alliance of opposed factions who would just as soon fight one another as go into battle together. To kill the larvae and lemurs would take an army, trained and organized, loyal to one leader."

Gabriel inclined his head slightly. "The Hunt is abroad."

"Oh no." Palamedes drew in a great ragged breath and shrugged the longsword from his back.

"And their master," Gabriel added grimly.

Josh looked at his sister, wondering if she knew what the Torc Madra was talking about. Her eyes were flat silver discs and there was an expression not of fear but almost of awe on her face.

"Cernunnos has come again," Gabriel said, a note of absolute terror in his voice. And then, one by one, all the ratchets threw back their heads and howled piteously.

"The Horned God," Sophie whispered and she started to shiver. "Master of the Wild Hunt."

"An Elder?" Josh asked.

"An Archon." was told this Perenelle woman was trapped, weak, defenseless," Billy the Kid said firmly into the narrow Bluetooth microphone that ran along the line of his unshaven jaw. "That's just not true." Through the Thunderbird's bug-spattered windshield, he could clearly see Alcatraz across the bay. "And I think we have a problem. A big problem."

Half a world away, Niccolo Machiavelli listened carefully to the voice on the speakerphone as he packed his overnight bag. He couldn't remember the last time he had packed for himself; Dagon had always taken care of that. "And why are you calling me?" Machiavelli asked. He packed a third pair of handmade shoes, then decided two pairs were enough and took them out of the case again.

"I'll be straight with you," Billy admitted reluctantly. "I didn't think I needed you. I was sure I'd be able to take care of the woman myself."

"A mistake that has cost many their lives," Machiavelli mumbled in Italian; then he reverted to English. "And what changed your mind?"

"A few minutes ago, something happened on Alcatraz. Something odd… something powerful."

"How do you know? You're not on the island."

The Italian clearly heard the awe in the American immortal's voice. "I felt it-from three miles away!"

Machiavelli straightened. "When? When exactly?" he demanded, checking his watch. Crossing the room, he opened his laptop and ran his index finger across the fingerprint reader to bring it back to life. He'd received a dozen encrypted e-mails from his spies in London, reporting that something extraordinary had happened. The e-mails had come in at 8:45 p.m., just over a quarter of an hour ago.

"Fifteen minutes ago," Billy said.

"Tell me exactly what happened," Machiavelli said. He pressed a button on the side of his phone that started to record the conversation.

Billy the Kid climbed out of the car and raised a pair of battered military green binoculars to his deep blue eyes. He had parked close to the Golden Gate Bridge; ahead and to his right the distant island looked calm and peaceful, basking under a cloudless noon sky, but he knew that the image was deceptive. He frowned, trying to remember precisely what had happened. "It was… it was like an aura igniting," he explained. "But powerful, more powerful than any I've ever encountered in my life."

Machiavelli's voice was surprisingly clear on the transatlantic line. "A powerful aura…"

"Very powerful."

"Was there an odor?"

Billy hesitated, instinctively breathing in, but he smelled only the ever-present salt of the sea and the bitter tang of pollution. He shook his head, then, realizing that Machiavelli could not see him, spoke. "If there was, I don't remember. No, I'm sure there wasn't."

"How did you experience it?"

"It was cold, so cold. And it sparked my own aura. For a few minutes I had no control." Billy's voice shook a little. "I thought I was going to burn up."

"Anything else?" Machiavelli asked, keeping his voice calm, willing the American to focus. Every immortal human knew that an uncontrolled aura could completely consume the human body it wrapped around; the process was known as spontaneous human combustion. "Tell me."

"Lucky I was parked when it happened; if I'd been driving I would have wrecked the car. I went completely blind and totally deaf. Couldn't even hear my own heartbeat. And when I could hear again, it sounded as if every dog in the city was howling. All the birds were screaming too."

"Perhaps it was the sphinx slaying the Sorceress," the Italian murmured, and Billy frowned, his sensitive ears picking up what might have been a note of regret in the man's voice. "I understand she has been given permission to kill the woman."

"That's what I thought too," Billy said. "I've got a scrying bowl. Anasazi pottery, very rare, very powerful."

"The best, I'm told," Machiavelli agreed.

"When I got my aura back under control, I immediately tried to scry the island. I got a glimpse, just a quick image of the Sorceress standing against a wall in the exercise yard. She was sunning herself, as calm as you please. And then-and I know this is impossible-she opened her eyes and lifted her face to look up… and I swear she saw me."

"It may well be possible," Machiavelli murmured. "No one knows the extent of the Sorceress's powers. And then…?"

"The liquid in my scrying bowl froze into a solid chunk of ice." The Kid looked down onto the passenger seat, where the fragments of the ancient bowl lay wrapped in the morning's newspaper. "It shattered," he said, a note of despair in his voice. "I've had that bowl a long time." And then his voice hardened. "The Sorceress is still alive, but I can't sense the sphinx. I think Perenelle has killed her," he said, in awe.

"That too may be possible," Machiavelli said slowly. "But it is unlikely. Let us not jump ahead. All we know for certain is that the Sorceress is still alive."

The Kid drew in a deep breath. "I thought I could take Perenelle Flamel on my own; now I know I can't. If you have any special European magic or spells, then it's time to bring them." Billy the Kid laughed, but there was nothing humorous in the sound. "We're only going to get one chance to kill this Sorceress; if we fail, then we won't be leaving the Rock alive."

Niccolo Machiavelli found himself nodding in agreement. He wondered if the American knew that the Morrigan had also gone missing. But what the Kid could not know was that at the precise moment the aura had been pulsing out from the island, a similar energy had blinked to life in North London. Machiavelli quickly skimmed the e-mails he'd received; they were all reporting on what had to be an incredibly powerful aura bursting to life.

… more powerful than any I have ever encountered, before…

… comparable to an Elder's aura…

… reports of auras spontaneously flaring on Hampstead Heath and Camden Road and in Highgate Cemetery…

Interestingly, two e-mails reported the distinctive odor of mint.

Flamel's signature.

Machiavelli shook his head in admiration. The Alchemyst must have connected with Perenelle. Scrying was relatively simple, and while it usually worked best over short distances, the Flamels had married in 1350, and they had lived together for more than 650 years. The connection between them was very strong, and it stood to reason that they should be able to make that connection over thousands of miles. But scrying should not have activated Flamel's and Perenelle's auras in such a dramatic way. Unless… unless Perenelle had been in danger and the Alchemyst had fed her aura with his own. Machiavelli frowned. But Nicholas was weakening; that process should have-would have-killed him.

The twins!

Niccolo Machiavelli shook his head in disgust. He must be getting slow in his old age, he thought. It had to be connected to the twins. He had seen them work together at Notre Dame to defeat the gargoyles. They must have given Flamel some of their strength, and he, in turn, had somehow managed to connect to Alcatraz and Perenelle. That was why the aura's signature was so strong.

"Why did you contact me?" Machiavelli wondered aloud.

"You weren't my first call," the Kid admitted. "But I can't get in touch with my master. I thought I should warn you… and I hoped that maybe you had some way of defeating this Perenelle Flamel. Have you ever met her?"

"Yes." Machiavelli smiled bitterly, remembering. "Just the once. A long time ago: in the year 1669. Dee had lost track of the Flamels after the Great Fire in London, and they had fled to continental Europe. I was holidaying in Sicily when I spotted them entirely by chance. Nicholas was ill, laid low with food poisoning, and I ensured that the local physician added some sleeping potion to his medicine. In my arrogance I thought I could defeat Perenelle first and then go after the Alchemyst." The Italian held his left hand up to the light. A fine tracery of scars was still visible across his flesh, and there were others on his shoulders and back. "We fought for an entire day-her sorcery against my magic and alchemy…" His voice trailed away into silence.

"What happened?" Billy asked eventually.

"The energies we released caused Mount Etna to erupt. I almost died on the island that day."

Billy the Kid lowered the binoculars, then turned his back to the bay and sat down on a low stone wall. He stared at his battered cowboy boots; the leather was scuffed and torn, almost worn through in places. It was time to get a new pair, but that meant driving down to a shoemaker he knew in New Mexico, who still crafted boots and shoes to the traditional pattern. Billy had some friends in Albuquerque and Las Cruces, others in Silver City, where he'd grown up, and Fort Sumner, where Pat Garrett had shot him down.

"I could raise a gang," he said slowly. He expected the Italian to object and was surprised when he heard nothing. "It would be just like in the old days. I know some immortals-a couple of cowboys, a Spanish conquistador and two great Apache warriors-who are loyal to us. Maybe if we all attacked the island together…"

"It is a good idea, but you would probably be condemning your friends to death," Machiavelli said. "There is another way." The line crackled. "There is an army on the island-an army of monsters. I think that rather than attacking Perenelle, we should simply awaken the slumbering beasts. Many have slept under enchantment for a month or more; they will be hungry… and will go in search of the nearest warm-blooded meal: Madame Perenelle."

Billy the Kid nodded, and then a thought struck him. "Hey, but won't we be on the island too?"

"Trust me," Machiavelli said. "Once we awaken the sleeping army, we will not be hanging around. I will see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty p.m. local time, when my plane lands. If everything goes according to plan, Perenelle will not live to see out the day." r. John Dee was terrified.

Standing beside him, Bastet drew a sharp breath and shivered, and Dee realized that she too was scared. And that frightened him even more.

Dee had known fear before and had always welcomed it. Fear had kept him alive, had sent him running when others had stood and fought and died. But this was no ordinary terror: this was a bone-deep, stomach-churning, flesh-crawling repulsion that left him bathed in icy sweat. The cold analytical part of his mind recognized that this was not a rational fear; this was something stronger, something primal and ancient, a terror lodged deep in the limbic system, the oldest part of the human brain. This was a primeval fear.

In his long life Dee had encountered some of the foulest of the Elders, ghastly creatures that were not even vaguely human. His research and travels had led him into some of the darkest Shadowrealms, places where appalling nightmare creatures floated in emerald skies or tentacled horrors writhed in bloodred seas. But he had never been this frightened. Black spots danced at the corners of his vision and he realized he was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating. Desperately attempting to calm his breathing, he concentrated on the source of his fear-the creature striding down the middle of the empty North London street.

Most of the streetlights were dead, and the few that were not shed a ghastly sodium glow over the figure, painting it in shades of yellow and black. It stood close to eight feet tall, with massive arms and legs that ended in goatlike hooves. An enormous rack of six-pointed antlers curled out of each side of its skull, adding at least another five feet to its height. It was wrapped in mismatched hides of animals long extinct, so that Dee found it hard to tell where the skins ended and the creature's hairy flesh began. Resting on its left shoulder was a six-foot club shaped from the jawbone of a dinosaur, one side ragged with a line of spiky teeth.

This was Cernunnos, the Horned God.

Fifteen thousand years ago, a frightened Paleolithic artist had daubed an image of this creature on a cave wall in southwest France, an image that was neither man nor beast, but something caught in between. Dee realized that he was probably experiencing the same emotions that ancient man had felt. Just looking at it made him feel small, inconsequential, puny.

He had always believed that the Horned God was just another Elder-maybe even one of the Great Elders-but earlier that day Mars Ultor had revealed something shocking, something quite terrifying. The Horned God was no Elder. It was something older, far older, something that existed at the very edges of myth.

Cernunnos was one of the legendary Archons, the race that had ruled the planet in the incredibly distant past. Yggdrasill had been a seed when the Horned God had first walked the world, Nidhogg and its kin only newly hatched, and it would be hundreds of millennia before the first humani appeared.

The Horned God stepped forward and light washed across its face.

Dee felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He'd been expecting a mask of horror, but the creature was beautiful. Shockingly, unnaturally beautiful. The skin of its face was deeply tanned, but smooth and unlined, as if it had been carved out of stone, and oval amber eyes glowed within deep-sunk sockets. When it spoke, its full-lipped mouth barely opened and its long throat remained still.

"An Elder and a humani, a cat and its master, and which is the more dangerous, I wonder?" Its voice was surprisingly soft, almost gentle, though completely emotionless, and although he heard it speak in English, Dee was sure he could hear the buzzing of a hundred other languages saying the same words in his head. Cernunnos came closer and then bent on one knee, first to stare at Bastet and then to look down on Dee. The Magician looked into the Horned God's eyes: the pupils were black slits, but, unlike a serpent's, they were horizontal, like flat black lines. "So you are Dee." The buzzing voices swirled in Dee's head.

The Magician bowed deeply, unwilling to look into the amber eyes, desperately trying to control his fear. A peculiar musky odor enveloped the Archon, the smell of wild forests and rotting vegetation. Dee was struck with the scent and realized it probably had something to do with the emotions he felt. He had seen worse creatures, certainly more shocking creatures, so what was it about the Horned God that terrified him so much? He focused on the savage-looking club the ancient creature was leaning on. It looked like the jaw of a sarcosuchus, the supercroc from the Cretaceous Period, and he found himself wondering just how old the Archon was.

"We are delighted by your presence," Bastet hissed loudly. Dee thought he could hear the tremor of fear in her voice.

"I do not think so," Cernunnos said, straightening.

"We-" Bastet began, but suddenly the huge club swung around and came to a stop, its teeth inches from her feline skull.

"Creature: do not speak to me again. I am not here by choice. You." Cernunnos turned its amber eyes on Dee. "Your Elder masters have invoked an ancient debt that has existed between us going back to the dawn of time. If I assist you, then my debt to them is wiped clean. That is the only reason I am here. What do you need?"

Dee took a deep breath. He bowed again, and then bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling. An Archon was putting itself at his command. When he spoke, he was pleased that his voice was steady and controlled. "How much have you been told?" he began.

"I am Cernunnos. Your thoughts and memories are mine to read, Magician. I know what you know; I know what you have been, I know what you are now. The Alchemyst, Flamel, and the children are with the Saracen Knight and the Bard behind their makeshift metal fortress. You want me and the Wild Hunt to force an entrance for you." Although the Archon's face remained an unwrinkled mask, Dee imagined he heard what might be a sarcastic note in the Horned God's voice.

The Magician bowed again, attempting to control his thoughts. "Just so."

The Archon turned its huge head to look at the metal walls of the used-car lot. "Promises have been made to me," it rumbled. "Slaves. Fresh meat."

Dee hurried on. "Of course. You can have Flamel, and anyone else you want. I need the children and the two pages from the Codex that remain in Flamel's possession." Dee bowed again. With the power of the Horned God and the Wild Hunt it commanded, he could not fail.

"I am instructed to tell you this," Cernunnos said softly, moving its head slightly, looking down on the Magician, amber eyes glowing in its dark face: "that if you fail, your Elder masters have given you to me. A gift, a little recompense for arousing me from my slumbers." The huge horned head tilted to one side, and horizontal pupils expanded to turn its eyes black and bottomless. "I have not had a pet in millennia. They do not tend to last long before they turn."

"Turn?" Dee swallowed hard.

A wave of stinking fur, claws, teeth and eyes made yellow by the lights flowed down the streets, boiling out of the houses, leaping through windows, flattening fences, pushing up through sewers. Filthy foul-smelling creatures gathered in a huge silent semicircle behind the Archon. They had the bodies of enormous gray wolves… but they all had human faces.

"Turn," Cernunnos said. Without moving its body, its head swiveled at an impossible angle to regard the silent army behind it, and then it looked back at Dee. "You are strong. You will last at least a year before you become part of the Wild Hunt." alamedes rounded on the Alchemyst. "See what you have done!" Anger had thickened his accent, making his words almost unintelligible.

Flamel ignored him. He turned to Shakespeare. "There is an escape route?" he asked calmly.

The Bard nodded. "Of course. There's a tunnel directly under the hut. It comes up about a mile away in a disused theater." He smiled crookedly. "I chose the location myself."

Flamel turned to Sophie and Josh. "Get your stuff. Let's go; we can be well away before the Horned God arrives." Before either of them could object, the Alchemyst had caught the twins each by an arm and pushed them back toward the hut. Josh angrily shook off the immortal, and Sophie jerked herself free. The Alchemyst was about to object when he realized that neither Palamedes nor Shakespeare had moved. He turned to look at the smaller man. "Quickly; you know what the Horned God is capable of, and once the Wild Hunt have tasted blood, even it will have little control over them."

"You go," Shakespeare said. "I will stay here. I can hold them and give you the time you need to escape."

Nicholas shook his head. "That is madness," he said desperately. "You will not escape. Cernunnos will destroy you."

"Destroy my body, possibly." Shakespeare smiled. "But my name is and will always be immortal. My words will never be forgotten as long as there is a human race."

"And if the Dark Elders return, then that might be sooner than you think," Flamel snapped. "Come with us," he said, and then added gently, "Please."

But the Bard shook his head. His aura crackled warm and pale around his body, filling the air with lemon. Modern armor flickered into plate armor and chain mail before finally settling into the ornate and grotesque armor of the Middle Ages. He was fully wrapped in shining yellow metal, smooth and curved, designed to deflect any blow, spikes jutting from his knees and elbows. He pushed back the visor on the helm that encased his head, pale eyes glowing, magnified behind the glasses he still wore. "I will stay and fight alongside the Gabriel Hounds. They have been loyal to me for centuries; now I will be loyal to them." He smiled, his teeth a ruined mess in his mouth.

"William…," Flamel whispered, shaking his head.

"Alchemyst, I am not entirely defenseless. I have not lived this long without learning some magic. Remember, at the heart of all magic is imagination… and there was never a greater imagination than mine."

"Nor a greater ego," Palamedes interjected. "Will, this is a battle we cannot win. We should go, regroup and fight another day. Come with us." There was almost a note of pleading in the Saracen Knight's voice.

The immortal Bard shook his head firmly. "I'm staying. I know I cannot win. But I can hold them here for hours… maybe even until the dawn. The Wild Hunt cannot run abroad during the hours of sunlight." He looked at the Alchemyst. "This is something I have to do. I betrayed you once; let me now make amends."

Nicholas stepped forward and gripped the Bard's armor-clad arm with enough force to bring both their auras fizzing alight. "Shakespeare: knowing what I know now, I would be honored to stand and fight with you. But let us do as Palamedes says: let us choose our battles. You do not have to do this for me."

"Oh, but I'm not doing this just for you," Shakespeare said. He turned his head slightly, glancing sidelong at the silent twins. "I am doing this for them." Armor squeaking and creaking, he stepped closer to Sophie and Josh and looked into each of their faces. Now he smelled strongly of lemon, sharp and clean, and they could see their own reflections in the shining armor. "I have witnessed their powers. These are the twins of legend, of that I have no doubt. Those of us loyal to the Elders have a duty to train these twins, to nurture them and bring them to their full potential. There is a time coming when they will need their powers… indeed, when the very world will need them." Stepping back, he shook his head, his eyes huge and damp behind his glasses. "And I am also doing this for Hamnet, my dear dead son. My twin boy. His sister was never the same after his death, though she lived for many years thereafter. I was not there to help him, but I can help you."

"You can help us by leaving with us," Sophie said softly. "I know what's coming." She shuddered as dark disturbing images appeared at the edges of her consciousness.

"Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt." Shakespeare nodded, and then he looked around at the Gabriel Hounds, some still in their dog shapes, though most had now assumed their human guises. "Wolfmen against dogmen. It will be an interesting battle."

"We need you," Josh said urgently.

"Need me?" Shakespeare looked surprised. "Why?"

"You know so much. You could teach us," he said quickly.

The Bard shook his head, armor winking. He lowered his voice and spoke directly to Josh and Sophie. "The Alchemyst knows more-much more-than I. And Sophie has access to the knowledge of the ages; she knows more than she thinks. You do not need me. I cannot teach you the elemental magics. That is your priority: if you are to have any chance of surviving the days to come, you need to master the five pure magics."

"Five!" Josh looked startled. "I thought there were only four elements." He looked at Sophie. "Air and Fire, and then Water and Earth."

"Four elements?" Shakespeare smiled. "You're missing Aether, the fifth magic. The most mysterious, the most powerful of all. But to master it, you have to first control the other four." He lifted his head, turned to the Alchemyst and raised his voice. "Go now. Take them to Gilgamesh the King. And Nicholas," he added gravely, "be careful. You know what he is like."

"What is he like?" Josh asked quickly, suddenly nervous.

The Bard turned pale blue eyes on Flamel. "You have not told them?" He looked at the twins and then dropped his visor, completely masking his face. When he spoke again, his voice echoed hollowly. "The king's noble mind is overthrown. He is mad. Quite, quite mad."

Josh rounded on the Alchemyst. "You never said-"

And then a sound filled the night. It was the bellow of a stag: ancient and primal, the bestial coughing echoed off the metal walls and trembled up through the ground, setting the puddles vibrating and shivering.

In response, Sophie's aura appeared unbidden around her body, automatically molding itself into protective armor; Josh's aura blinked into existence as a weak gold shadow around his head and hands.

The damp oily odor of rusting cars and the wet fur of the Gabriel Hounds was suddenly swamped by a repellent stink. The twins immediately recognized the smell from a working vacation they had spent with their parents in Peru: it was the putrid odor of the jungle, heavy with the cloying scent of rot and damp, of decaying trees and noxious deadly flowers.

And then Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt attacked. osh suddenly realized he had Clarent in his hands, though he had no memory of pulling the sword from the map tube. The leather-wrapped hilt was warm and dry in his sweat-dampened palms, and he felt a tickle like an insect on his skin. The ancient weapon crackled, wisps of gray-white smoke coiling off the blade as the tiny crystals set into the stone winked with red and black light.

A flood of feelings and ideas almost overwhelmed him. They weren't his thoughts, and because he'd handled the sword before and experienced its emotions, he didn't think they belonged to the sword. These feelings were new and strange. He felt… different: confident, strong, powerful. And angry. Above all else he felt a terrible anger. It burned in the pit of his stomach, making him double over in pain. He could actually feel the heat flowing up from his stomach into his chest and down through his arms. His hands grew almost uncomfortably hot, and then the smoke leaking off Clarent changed color, turning an ugly red-black. The sword twitched in his hands.

The pain disappeared, and as he straightened, Josh found that he was not afraid. All the fears of the past five days were gone.

He looked around, taking in the defenses and the number of defenders. He had no idea of the scale of the army they faced, and although the metal fortress was well made, he instinctively knew it would not hold till the dawn. It was designed to stand against human attackers. He automatically looked up, trying to gauge the time from the position of the stars, but they were hidden behind a layer of amber-tinted clouds… and then he remembered that he was wearing a watch. Eight-twenty-five. At least nine hours till dawn, when the Wild Hunt would retreat to their twilight Shadowrealm.

Tapping the stone blade against the palm of his left hand, he looked around, eyes narrowing. How would he attack a place like this? Scathach would know; the Warrior Maid would be able to tell him what they were up against and where the first attack would occur. He was guessing that the attackers had not brought siege engines, so storming the walls would be both time-consuming and costly. The Horned God would need to create an opening…

And then Josh suddenly realized that he didn't need the Warrior Maid to instruct him. He already knew. Sophie had been right: when Mars had Awakened him, he'd passed on his martial knowledge.

Josh turned to watch Palamedes and Shakespeare. The Gabriel Hounds had clambered up along the metal walls and joined those others already on the metal parapets. In total there were perhaps a hundred warriors, and Josh knew that there were not enough. They were all armed with bows and arrows, crossbows and spears. Why no modern weapons? he wondered. The archers had a handful of arrows in their quivers, the spearmen two or three spears apiece. Once they had fired their arrows and thrown their spears, they were useless. They would have to stand and wait for their attackers.

Josh found himself turning toward the gate, and almost of its own accord his hand came up, pointing the tip of the sword at the entrance. He knew that the weakest part of any fortress was its gate. Josh's lips twisted in an ugly smile. "He will concentrate his attack here," he said to no one in particular, staring hard at the gate, and a coil of gray-black smoke curled off the blade, almost in agreement. This was where the Horned God would attempt to create its opening.

At that moment a blow struck the gates with enough force to set the walls ringing. Cars shifted and moved in their tall stacks. Another blow, as if from a battering ram, vibrated through the night. Somewhere off to the right, a car toppled and crashed to the ground. Glass shattered.

The stag cried out again, a sound of raw power.

Clarent seemed to react to the sound. It twitched and actually turned in Josh's palm. Heat coiled around his wrist, and suddenly his aura crackled orange.

"Josh…," Sophie whispered.

Josh turned to look at his twin and saw that she was staring at his hands. He looked down. A pair of gauntlets had appeared on his hands where they gripped the hilt of the stone sword. They looked like soft leather gloves, and they were stained and worn, the leather scraped, dappled with what looked like dirt and mud.

Another tremendous blow struck the gate.

"We don't have enough troops to hold the walls," Josh said, thinking aloud. He pointed with Clarent. "Palamedes and Shakespeare should open the gates. The Gabriel Hounds can pick off the attackers as they bunch up in the narrow entrance."

Flamel stepped forward and reached out for Josh. "We need to get out of here."

The moment his fingers touched the boy's shoulder, Josh's aura intensified around him, yellow threads of power crawling across his chest and arms. The Alchemyst jerked his fingers back as if they had been burned. The stone sword glowed briefly gold, then faded to an ugly red-speckled black as a wash of emotions took Josh by surprise.

Fear. A terrible all-consuming fear of beastlike creatures and shadowy humans.

Loss. Countless faces, men, women and children, family, friends and neighbors. All dead.

Anger. The overriding emotion was one of anger-a simmering, all-consuming rage.

The boy slowly turned to look at the immortal. Their eyes locked. Josh immediately knew that these new emotions had nothing to do with the sword. He had held Clarent before and had come to recognize the peculiarly repulsive nature of its memories and impressions. He knew that what he'd just experienced were the Alchemyst's thoughts. When the man had touched him, he'd felt Flamel's fear, loss and anger, and something else also: for a single instant there had been the vaguest ghostly impression of children… lots of children, in the clothes and costumes of a dozen countries from across the centuries. And as the immortal human had jerked his hand away, Josh had been left with the impression that all the children had been twins.

Josh took a step toward the Alchemyst and stretched out his hand, fingers spread wide. Perhaps if he just touched Nicholas and held on tightly, he'd finally have some answers. He would know the truth about the immortal Nicholas Flamel.

The Alchemyst took a step back from Josh. Although his lips still curled into a smile, Josh saw the older man's hands close into fists and caught the suggestion of light as his fingernails turned green. A suggestion of mint touched the air, but it was sour and bitter.

Another crash shook the car yard and the gate vibrated in its frame. Metal screeched and sang as the Wild Hunt launched themselves, scratching and clawing at the walls. Josh hesitated, torn between forcing a confrontation with the Alchemyst and dealing with the assault. Something his father had once said to him popped into his head. They'd been walking on the banks of the Tennessee River and talking about the Civil War Battle of Shiloh. "It's always best to fight just one battle at a time, son," he'd said. "You win more that way."

Josh turned away. He needed to talk to Sophie, tell her what he'd experienced, and then, together, they would confront Flamel. He darted toward Palamedes. "Wait," he called, "don't fire!"

But before he could stop Palamedes, Josh heard the Saracen Knight's deep voice, loud and clear across the junkyard.

"Fire!"

The archers on the parapets released their arrows, which keened and whispered as they cut through the air and disappeared into the night.

Josh bit his lip. They should be conserving their ammunition, but he had to acknowledge that the Saracen Knight knew his tactics. Arrows first, then spears, with the powerful but short-range crossbows held in reserve for close-quarters combat.

"Spears," the Saracen Knight called. "Fire!"

The Gabriel Hounds flung their tall leaf-bladed spears down from the walls.

Josh tilted his head, listening, focusing with his enhanced senses, but he heard no sound from the attacking forces. It seemed incredible, but the Wild Hunt were moving and fighting in absolute silence.

"We need to go," Nicholas said urgently.

Josh ignored him. Then he heard ragged talons and teeth tear at the metal, ripping away fencing, slashing at the piled cars.

"Arrows," Shakespeare called from another section of the wall. "Loose!"

Another tremendous blow shook the gate.

"The gate," Josh shouted, his voice strong and commanding. "They're going to come in through the gate!"

Both Palamedes and William Shakespeare turned to look at the boy.

Clarent blazed red-black in the boy's hand as he pointed. "Concentrate on the gate. That's where they will try and break through."

Palamedes shook his head, but the Bard immediately started moving the Gabriel Hounds under his command toward the gate.

Clarent glowed bright red, twitching in his hand, and Josh unwittingly took a step forward, almost as if the sword was pulling him closer to the enemy.

"One more blow," he murmured. ne more blow," Dee muttered.

Dee and Bastet had stood in silence and watched the Wild Hunt fling themselves at the metal walls. Unlike normal wolves, these creatures moved without barking or even growling; the only sound was the clicking of their claws on the pavement. Most loped on four legs, but some ran on two, stooped and hunched over, and Dee wondered if here was the source of the werewolf legend. The dogs, the Gabriel Hounds, had always protected the humani; the wolves of the Wild Hunt had always hunted them.

About a hundred of the more agile wolves had clawed their way over the fence and up along the stacked cars. And then the defenders had appeared at the parapets. Arrows whistled into the first row of the Wild Hunt, and the moment the arrows touched the human-faced wolves, the creatures changed. Dee glimpsed apemen, Roman centurions, Mongol warriors, Neanderthal cavemen, Prussian officers and English Roundheads… and then they crumbled to dust on the air.

"Cernunnos is wasting his troops," Bastet said shortly. She had stepped back into the shadows and was almost completely invisible, bundled up in a long black leather coat.

"It's a distraction," the Magician said aloud, not looking at the Elder. It was the first time she had spoken since she had been shamed by the Archon, and Dee could almost feel the rage coming off her in slow waves. The Magician doubted that anyone-or anything-had ever spoken to the Elder like that and survived. He was also conscious that he had witnessed her humiliation; Bastet would never forget that. From the corner of his eye, he could see the great cat head turning to look down on him.

"Those attacking the walls are just a distraction," he added quickly, explaining himself. "The main assault will take place at the gate." He paused, then asked: "I am presuming nothing can harm the Archon?"

Bastet's eyes narrowed to slits. "It lives," she hissed. "And so it can die."

"I thought the Archons were only stories," he said quickly. Dee wondered just how much the cat-headed goddess knew about the creature.

The Elder was quiet for a moment before she answered. "In my youth I was taught that at the heart of every story is a grain of truth," she said.

Dee found it hard to imagine the cat-headed goddess as a youngster; he had a sudden absurd image of a fluffy white kitten. Had Bastet ever been young-or had she been born, or hatched, fully grown? There was so much he wanted to know. His eyes narrowed as he looked across the street toward Cernunnos. And now here was a new mystery: the Archon. Dee had spent several lifetimes investigating the legends of the Elders. Occasionally, he had come across fragments of stories about the mysterious race who had ruled the earth in the very distant past, long before the Great Elders raised Danu Talis from the seabed. It was said that the Elders had built their empires upon fragments of Archon technology and had even taken possession and settled some of the cites abandoned by the ancient race. But how had one become indebted to an Elder? Surely the Archons were more powerful than those who had come after them? The Elders, even the Next Generation, were infinitely more powerful than the humani who had followed them into the world.

The Magician watched the Archon lift its huge club and bring it around in a tremendous blow against the solid-looking metal door. The sound exploded into the night and a screech of white-hot sparks spewed into the air. The door shuddered and creaked, and when Cernunnos jerked the club free, it ripped away long strips of metal, leaving them dangling. The huge horned creature dropped the club, gripped both sides of the torn door and wrenched it apart, peeling back the metal as if it were as thin as paper.

Standing back, Cernunnos allowed the Wild Hunt to pour through the ragged opening. The creature turned to look at Dee and Bastet and its beautiful face lit up with a radiant smile. "Dinnertime," it said. osh darted forward, taking up a position where he could watch the gate. He saw the thick metal bulge inward, then rip open, and caught a glimpse-a fleeting impression-of the huge horned creature that had torn the defenses apart with its bare hands. Clarent jerked in his grip again, attempting to pull him forward, closer to the action; Josh had to make an effort to stand still.

And then the Wild Hunt appeared.

They were smaller than he had imagined, but still bigger and broader than any wolves he had ever seen before. And behind the fur and filth, their faces were unquestionably human. The savage creatures surged through the opening, boiling over one another, teeth and claws slashing as they raced forward, but the narrow metal walls kept them bunched close together. There were no barks or growls; the only sounds were the clicking of their claws and the snapping of teeth.

"Arrows," Josh whispered.

"Loose!" Palamedes called from the left-hand parapet, almost as if he'd heard.

A second wave of arrows rained down on the Wild Hunt. For an instant the creatures winked back into the forms they had worn as humans: Spartan warriors, blue-painted Celts, massive Vikings and tall Masai hunters. Then fur, flesh and bones dissolved into age-old dust. Those who came behind blinked grit from their yellow eyes, sneezing as it coated their muzzles.

"Fire!" Shakespeare shouted from the right-hand side.

A third wave of arrows scythed into the wolves. Samurai in full armor, ferocious Gurkas in jungle camouflage and primitive hominids turned from wolves to humans to dust in a heartbeat. Crusader knights in metal and German World War II officers in gray, French legionnaires in blue and savage Vandals in furs briefly assumed their human forms before they disappeared. Josh noticed that they all had smiles on their faces, as if they were relieved to finally be free.

"Three volleys: the Gabriel Hounds are out of arrows," Josh murmured.

"We've got to go now," Flamel snapped, coming around to stand in front of Josh.

"No," Josh answered quietly. "We're not leaving."

"You agreed it was better if we left," Flamel began. "We will fight them, but not today."

"I changed my mind," Josh said shortly. On one level-thinking coldly, practically, logically-he knew that it made sense to run, hide and regroup. He looked for Shakespeare, finding him on a parapet, surrounded by the Gabriel Hounds. The Bard had been prepared to sacrifice himself, to buy time to allow the others to escape. That had nothing to do with logic; that had been an emotional decision. And sometimes emotion won more battles than logic. Clarent shivered in his grip and for the first time Josh caught momentary impressions of the lineage of warriors who had held the ancient blade, who had faced down terrible odds, fought monsters and demons, battled entire armies. Some-many-had died. But none had run. The stone blade whispered agreement in Josh's mind. A warrior didn't run.

"Josh…" Anger had crept into the Alchemyst's voice.

"We're staying!" Josh barked. He turned to look at Flamel, and something in the boy's face and eyes made the Alchemyst step back.

"Then you are putting yourself and your twin in terrible danger," Flamel said icily.

"I think we've been in terrible danger from the moment we met you," Josh said. Unconsciously, he lifted the smoking blade, moving it in the air between them, tracing two waving lines in the air. "We've spent the last couple of days running with you from danger to danger." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a frightening grin. "I think we should have been running from you."

The Alchemyst folded his arms, but not before Josh once again smelled bitter peppermint. "I am going to pretend you did not say that."

"But I did. And I meant it."

"You are overtired," Nicholas said quietly. "You have only recently been Awakened and have not had a chance to deal with that. Maybe a little of Mars's knowledge leaked into you, confusing you, and," he added, nodding to the sword, "you are carrying the Coward's Blade. I know what it can do, the dreams it brings, the promises it makes. It can even make a boy think he's a man." He stopped and took a quick breath and changed his tone, forcing the bitterness from his voice. "Josh, you're not thinking clearly."

"I disagree," Josh retorted. "For the first time I'm thinking very clearly. This-all this-is because of us." He looked over the Alchemyst's shoulder, concentrating on the Wild Hunt.

Flamel followed Josh's gaze and glanced behind him. "Yes," he agreed. "But not because of you, not because of Sophie and Josh Newman. This is because of what you are, and what you can become. This is just another battle in a war that has raged for millennia."

"Winning battles wins wars," Josh said. "My father once told me it's always best to fight one battle at a time. We're fighting this one."

"Maybe you should ask your sister," Flamel countered.

"He doesn't need to," Sophie said quietly. Drawn by the argument, she had come to stand behind her brother.

"So you're in agreement about this?" Flamel demanded.

"The two that are one," Sophie said, watching the Alchemyst's face. "Isn't that what we are?"

Josh turned to focus on the attack. The Gabriel Hounds had thrown their spears and fired the last of their crossbow bolts. The metal corridor was now thick with swirling, cloying dust. Vague shapes moved in the cloud, but none of the enemy had broken through yet. Palamedes and Shakespeare had come down from the walls and were marshaling the hounds around the entrance to the alleyway. Josh suddenly looked up, realizing that the walls were vulnerable, and was unsurprised to see the first of the wolf heads appear over the parapets.

"If anything happens to either of you now," Flamel said desperately, turning away from Josh, concentrating on Sophie, "then everything we have done, everything we have achieved will have been for naught. Sophie, you have the Witch's memories. You know what the Dark Elders did to humanity in the past. And if they capture you and your brother and retrieve the last two pages of the Codex, then they will do that, and worse-much worse-to this world."

The immortal's words stirred horrible memories within Sophie, and she blinked away nightmare images of a devastated flooded earth. She took a deep breath and nodded. "But before they can do anything, the Dark Elders have to capture us." She held out her left hand and it turned into a solid silver glove. "And we're no longer ordinary, no longer entirely human, either," she added bitterly.

"Pull everyone back!" Josh yelled, and when he turned to look at his sister, she was shocked to see that his pupils had turned gold and were speckled with black and red that matched the hues on the stone sword he held. Mars's eyes had been red, she remembered. Josh reached out and, before she could say anything, caught her arm. "We'll pull them back behind the moat," he said. "Then we'll set the moat on fire."

Sophie blinked. She saw Josh, standing tall and straight, Clarent blazing in his left hand, and then her eyes silvered as the Witch's memories flooded her and she saw the ghostly image of Mars in red and gold armor superimposed over her brother. He too carried his sword in his left hand.

Josh spotted the Bard and drew in a deep breath. "Shakespeare!" Strong and commanding, his voice echoed in the silence, and both the Bard and Palamedes looked over. Josh waved and pointed to the walls, which were now gray with wolves pouring over the battlements. "Retreat! Get back behind the moat!"

The Bard started to shake his head, but the big knight simply caught the smaller man around the waist and slung him across his shoulders. Ignoring the kicking and protesting, the Saracen Knight turned and raced back toward Flamel and the twins, with the Gabriel Hounds, in both human and dog form, close at his heels.

"Well done," Palamedes said as he came level with Josh. "We were about to be overrun. You saved us." The Saracen Knight dumped Shakespeare off his shoulder, setting him upright on the ground. He pushed back his helmet and grinned at the immortal. "Oh, if only you were still writing, Will; think what a tale this would make." He looked over at Josh. "That's it. The last of the Gabriel Hounds are with us. Let's fire the moat."

"Not yet. Let them get closer before we set it alight," Josh said confidently. "That'll hold them." He stopped then and looked at Palamedes as doubts bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. "I mean… will it? Have you fought the Wild Hunt before?"

The huge knight nodded. "I've fought them. I've yet to see a living creature that will willingly cross fire. And despite his appearance, Cernunnos is part beast."

"They'll not cross it." A red-faced Shakespeare turned to look at them. His glasses were crooked on his face. "I added a tincture or two to the oils. Some minerals, herbs and exotic spices that the Elders and Next Generation find repulsive for some reason. The moat is lined with mercury, and I've also mixed iron ore and various oxides throughout the liquid. Not even Cernunnos will be able to pass through the flames."

"The Archon is coming," Sophie whispered, but no one heard her. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body to stop herself from shaking. The Witch of Endor had known Cernunnos; known him, feared him and hated him. The Witch had spent centuries searching for the remnants of Archon technology and had systematically destroyed them all, burning the metal books, melting down the artifacts, killing the storytellers who repeated the tales. She was trying to erase her memories of those who had ruled before the Elders. Now those memories threatened to overwhelm Sophie.

A monstrous shape moved in the dusty swirling remnants of the Wild Hunt, and Cernunnos stepped out of the metal alleyway. The creature moved slowly, unhurriedly, its huge club resting lightly on its left shoulder. Tendrils of white fire crawled across its antlers, sparking from one to the other, bathing its beautiful statuelike face in soft light. Tilting its head to one side, it curled its lips in a smile and spread its arms wide. Its mouth worked, but the words that formed in its listeners' heads were not in sync with its lips, and the sound was of a dozen voices talking together. The twins heard it speak in English with a precise Boston accent; in Flamel's head it was the French of his youth; Palamedes heard the voice in the lilting desert tongue of Babylon; while to Shakespeare's ears it spoke Elizabethan English. "I came to feast. I came for the twins. I even came here for a little amusement. I never realized I was coming to collect an old friend." Cernunnos stretched out his right hand, and the stone blade in Josh's grasp blazed red-black fire, dark cinders spiraling up into the night air. "You have something of mine, boy. Give me my sword."

Josh tightened his grip on the weapon. "It's mine now." The Horned God's laugher was light, almost a giggle. "Yours! You have no idea what you're holding." Cernunnos strode forward, its huge goatlike hooves stamping into the mud. It stopped at the edge of the moat and its nostrils wrinkled, the first sign of an expression on its perfect face.

"I know what this is," Josh said. He took a step toward the Horned God. They were now separated by the six-foot-wide moat of thick black liquid. Josh was holding the sword in both hands, trying to keep it level and steady. The weapon was trembling, shivering in his grip. And then he realized that the vibration running up his arms into his shoulders was a regular pulse… like a heartbeat. As the delicious warmth flowed through his body and gathered in his chest and stomach, he felt strong and confident, afraid of nothing and no one. If Cernunnos attacked, Josh knew he'd be able to defeat him. "This is Clarent, the Sword of Fire," he said, his voice echoing and ringing. "I saw what it did to the Nidhogg. I know what it can do to you."

"Threatened by a humani boy," the Horned God said in wonder.

Josh stepped right up to the edge of the moat and stared at the creature across the swirling liquid. Fragments of thoughts danced through his mind, images of the time Cernunnos had carried the sword.

"There is a battle coming," Josh said loudly. "And I think I'm going to need this sword."

Cernunnos smiled. "Remember, it is also called the Coward's Blade," it said, planting its massive club on the ground and then leaning on it, its huge horned head pushed forward, amber eyes staring hard at Josh. "It is a cursed weapon. All who carry it are cursed."

"You carried it."

"Exactly," Cernunnos said. "And look at me. Once this world was mine to command; now I do another's bidding. The blade will poison you, ultimately even destroy you."

"You could be lying to me," Josh said simply, but somewhere at the back of his mind he knew the Archon was not lying.

"Why would I lie to you?" Cernunnos sounded genuinely confused. "I am neither Elder nor Next Generation. I have no need to lie to humani."

Sophie stepped forward to stand just behind her twin. Behind his back, her thumb gently rested against the tattoo burned into her wrist. All she had to do would be to touch the red spot in the gold circle and it would bring her Fire magic to blazing life. The Horned God looked at her, eyes glowing as his pupils contracted to flat black lines. "We have met before," he said, a note of wonder in his voice, looking from face to face.

Shocked, the twins shook their heads.

"We have," the Horned God insisted.

"I think we'd remember," Sophie said.

"You're not exactly forgettable," Josh added.

"I know you," Cernunnos said firmly. "But that's a mystery we will solve later," he added as Nicholas, followed by Palamedes and Shakespeare, hurried over to join the twins. The Horned God looked at each of them in turn, starting and finishing with the Alchemyst. Straightening, he heaved up his dinosaur club and pointed it at Flamel. "Dinner," he said, and then the club moved to point to Palamedes. "Lunch." The club moved back across the Alchemyst's chest to point to Shakespeare. "A snack."

"I feel I should take insult," the Bard muttered.

The Horned God looked at him. "And your Gabriel Hounds will join with the Wild Hunt; the two ancient clans will be reunited." He raised his club. There was movement in the gloom behind the Archon and suddenly the massed wolves surged forward, jaws gaping.

Sophie closed her eyes, focused, pressed her thumb against the circular tattoo and created a tiny flaming ball in the palm of her hand. Digging her fingers into Josh's shoulders, she pulled him away from the edge of the moat as she dropped the burning golden globe into the thick black liquid.

It plopped onto the surface of the oil and floated for a second, then disappeared with a hiss of white steam.

"Oh," she whispered. She felt as if all the air had rushed out of her lungs, leaving her breathless and gasping. Although she had learned the Magic of Fire only the previous day, it had already become a part of her. She had fought the Disir and the gargoyles with it, but she realized she knew little about its properties. There was so much more she needed to know.

The silent Wild Hunt raced toward the moat. Josh suddenly went to one knee and plunged Clarent into the thick liquid. It instantly exploded, roaring alight with a dull boom that sent sticky black flames shooting skyward. The force of the explosion sent both Josh and Sophie spinning backward into the mud-and on the other side of the moat, the Wild Hunt tumbled over one another as they tried to get away from the flames. Some continued to slide forward on the wet ground, while others were pushed into the fire by the press of bodies from behind. They instantly disappeared into gritty black cinders.

"You will pay for that!" Cernunnos stabbed at Josh with his club. "And you, boy… I will have my sword!"

"Let me try this again." Sophie flicked her fingers and sent a thick stream of yellow fire across the Horned God's huge club, which began to blaze with the appalling stench of burning bone. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to point?" erenelle Flamel stepped off the last rung of the rusting ladder and tilted back her head to look at the tiny circle of pale blue sky high above her. Then she frowned. What looked like a cloud was falling toward her, coming straight down the long shaft that connected the surface of Alcatraz to the old smugglers' tunnel deep beneath the island. The cloud twisted and coiled in on itself, then solidified into Juan Manuel de Ayala.

"Madame Perenelle?" the sailor asked in formal Spanish. "What are you doing down here?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Perenelle admitted. "I thought I might visit the Crow Goddess." Yesterday-was it only yesterday?-Perenelle and Areop-Enap had defeated the Morrigan, the Crow Goddess, and her army of birds. The Old Spider had wanted to feed the Morrigan to some of its bird-eating spiders, but Perenelle had refused and instead had asked the Elder to carry the thread-bound creature to the lightless cell deep under the island.

When Perenelle had originally freed Areop-Enap from the prison, she had dismantled an intricate pattern of spears set into the muddy floor outside the door. Each spearhead had been painted with an ancient Word of Power, which created a barrier unbreakable by any of the Elder race. When Areop-Enap had brought the tightly wrapped Morrigan into the cell, Perenelle had drawn upon her extraordinary memory to re-create the pattern of spears around the cave mouth. Then, using mud and shells, she had redrawn the complex patterns on the flat spearheads, locking the Morrigan behind Words of Power and symbols that predated the Elders. Only a human could free her; an Elder or Next Generation could not even approach the invisible and deadly spell spun by the primeval hex.

"Madame," de Ayala said urgently. "We need to get you off the island."

"I know," Perenelle said, lips curling in disgust as her foot sank up to the ankle in stinking fishy mud. "I'm working on it. Did you see any Nereids?"

"There were a dozen sunning themselves on the seaward rocks, and I saw another two around by the landing dock. I saw no sign of their father, Nereus, though I know he must be close by." Wisps of the ghost streamed away as he wrapped his arms tightly around his body. "They cannot come ashore… but he can. And will."

Perenelle took a dozen squelching steps down the corridor. She glanced back at the ghost, surprised. "I did not know that."

"The Nereids have women's bodies but the tails of fish. Nereus has legs of a sort. He sometimes comes ashore in lonely fishing villages to… to eat, or he'll creep aboard a boat at night and snatch an unwary sailor."

Perenelle stopped and peered down the corridor. The far end of the tunnel sloped down into the sea, and she had a sudden image of the Old Man of the Sea crawling up the tunnel toward her. Shaking her head, dismissing the image, she snapped her fingers and created an inch-long candlelike white flame that floated just above the center of her forehead. Like the light on a miner's helmet, it cast a yellow-white beam ahead of her. Perenelle turned back to de Ayala. "Will you stand watch for me, warn me if anyone, or anything, is coming?"

"Of course." The ghost folded in the middle, attempting to bow without legs. "But why are you here, madame? There is nothing down here but the Crow Goddess."

Perenelle's smile lit up the gloom. "That's who I've come to see."

"Have you come to gloat?" The Morrigan's voice was a hoarse, almost masculine rasp.

"No," Perenelle said truthfully. Standing in the middle of the doorway, she crossed her arms over her chest and peered into the cell. "I've come down here to talk to you."

Areop-Enap had spun a beautiful circular orb web in the center of the underground cell. The threads were about the thickness of Perenelle's little finger, and they shimmered liquid silver in the light from the tongue of fire bobbing above her head. Directly in the center of the web, arms outstretched, black-feathered cloak spread out around her, lay the Crow Goddess. It looked as if she were simply perching in midair and could swoop down at any moment.

"You do not look well," Perenelle said a moment later. In the soft light, Perenelle could see that the creature's alabaster skin had taken on a greenish hue. Her black leather suit had dried and cracked in long splits that exposed the goddess's pale skin. The silver studs set into her jerkin were stained and blackened, and the heavy leather belt around her waist was dripping with moisture, the round shields set into it tarnished the same green color as her face.

The Morrigan smiled and licked her black lips with the tip of her tongue. "And you have aged in the hours since we last spoke. We will die together, you and I."

Perenelle moved her hand and the tongue of flame floated closer to the Morrigan. The Crow Goddess tried to twist her head to one side, but it was held fast by the sticky silver web. Reflections appeared in her jet-black eyes, giving them the appearance of having pupils. There was the hint of bone beneath the flesh of her face.

"You look ill," Perenelle said. "You might go before me."

"The Symbols of Binding are poisoning me," the Morrigan snapped, "but no doubt you knew that."

Perenelle twisted to look at the curling square glyph she had painted onto the head of the nearest spear. "I did not. I know they kept Areop-Enap trapped in here, but she seemed otherwise unharmed."

"Areop-Enap is an Elder. I am Next Generation. How did you discover the Symbols?" the Morrigan asked, and gave a deep hacking cough. "Many of the Elders and most of the Next Generation believe that the Symbols of Binding and the Words of Power are nothing more than legend."

"I did not discover them. It was your friend Dee who used them to trap Areop-Enap in this same cell," the Sorceress said.

The Morrigan's dark lips twisted in disgust. "Dee? Dee knew those ancient Words?" She fell silent and then slowly shook her head.

"You do not believe me?" Perenelle asked.

"Oh no, on the contrary. I do believe you. I think I know the English Magician better than anyone else alive, yet the more I discover, the less I realize I know. He never gave me any indication that he had this ancient knowledge," she finished.

"And now you're wondering who taught him," Perenelle said shrewdly. "Areop-Enap said that there was someone with Dee-an Elder, she thought, but so powerful that even the Old Spider could not see them. They must have been protected by an intricate spell of concealment. No doubt it was Dee's masters."

"No one knows Dee's Elder master."

Perenelle blinked in surprise. "Not even you?"

The Morrigan's long white teeth pressed against her black lips. "Not me. No one knows, and those who are curious-Elder, Next Generation or humani-disappear. It is one of the great secrets… though the bigger secret is why his masters continue to protect him and keep him alive, despite his many disasters. For centuries he has failed to capture you and your husband." She coughed a quick gurgling laugh. "The Elders are neither kind nor generous, and certainly not forgiving. I've known humani to be reduced to dust for failing to bow deeply enough to them."

"Do you know what Dee intends to do with all the creatures on this island?"

The Morrigan regarded her silently.

Perenelle smiled. "Does it matter if I know… especially if we are both to die soon?"

The Crow Goddess tried to nod, but her head was stuck fast. "Dee was instructed to collect the creatures, but I am sure he does not know what the Elders intend to do with them."

"But you do," Perenelle guessed.

"I have seen something like this happen before, a long time ago even as you humani measure time. It is an army of sorts," the Crow Goddess said tiredly. "When the time is right, it will be loosed upon the city."

Perenelle gasped. She had a sudden image of the skies above San Francisco filled with ravenous vampires, the sewers crawling with boggarts and trolls, peists in the bay, Windigo and cluricauns in the streets. "There would be carnage."

"That is the idea," the Morrigan whispered. "How do you think the humani would react if they saw monsters of myth and legend in the streets and skies?"

"With terror, disbelief." Perenelle took a deep shuddering breath. "Civilization would fall."

"It has fallen before," the Morrigan said dismissively.

"And risen," Perenelle said quickly.

"It will not rise again. I have heard rumors that there are similar collections-armies, zoos, menageries, call them what you will-on every continent. I would imagine they will be loosed on the world on the same day. The humani armies will waste themselves and their weapons against the creatures… and then, when they are exhausted and weakened, those you call the Dark Elders will return to the earth." The Crow Goddess laughed, then broke into a quick racking cough. "Well, that is the plan. Of course, this cannot happen if Dee does not get the last two pages of the Codex. Without the Final Summoning, the Shadowrealms cannot be drawn into alignment." She coughed again. "I wonder what Dee's master has in store for him if he fails? Something cruel, no doubt," she added almost gleefully.

"But I thought he was your friend?" Perenelle said, surprised again. "You've worked with him down through the centuries."

"Never by choice," the Morrigan snapped. "I am commanded to do Dee's bidding by those Elders he serves." She attempted to turn in the sticky web, but the strands tightened, holding her closer. "And see where it has led me." A glistening black tear gathered at the corner of her eye and then rolled down her cheek. "I will die here today, poisoned by the Symbols of Binding, and I will never see the sky again."

Perenelle watched the black tear drip off the Morrigan's chin. The moment it left her flesh, it turned into a snow-white feather, which floated gently to the ground. "Perhaps Dee will send someone to rescue you."

"I doubt that." The Crow Goddess coughed. "If I die it would be nothing more than an inconvenience. Dee would get a new servant from his Elder master and I would be forgotten."

"It seems we have both been betrayed by the Magician," Perenelle whispered. She watched another black tear fall from the Crow Goddess's face and curl into a white feather the moment it dripped off her chin. "Morrigan… I wish… I wish I could help you," Perenelle admitted, "but I'm not sure I can trust you."

"Of course you cannot trust me," the Morrigan retorted. "Free me now and I will destroy you. That is my nature." Her pale flesh had darkened to a deep blue-green, and tiny spots had popped up on her forehead and across her cheeks. She started to thrash about on the web, black feathers ripping from her cloak to join the small pile of white feathers on the ground below her feet. "It is time to die…" Her eyes opened wide, black and empty, and then slowly, slowly, slowly, curls of red and yellow spiraled across the blackness, turning it a pale orange. Taking a great heaving breath, she closed her eyes and lay still.

"Morrigan?" Perenelle whispered.

The creature did not move.

"Morrigan?" Perenelle asked again. Even though this creature had been her enemy for generations, she felt stricken, appalled that she had stood there and allowed a legend to die.

Abruptly, the Morrigan's eyes snapped open. No longer black, they were now bright red, the color of fresh blood.

"Morrigan…?" Perenelle took a step back.

The voice that came out of the Crow Goddess's lips was subtly different from her usual voice. Traces of an Irish or Scottish accent were clearly audible. "The Morrigan is sleeping now… I am the Badb."

The creature's eyes slowly closed, then blinked open. Now they were a brilliant yellow.

"And I am Macha." The Celtic accent was even stronger, and the voice was deeper, harsher.

The creature's eyes closed again, and when they opened once more, one eye was a deep lustrous red, the other a bright yellow. Two voices rolled from the same mouth, slightly out of sync.

"And we are the Morrigan's sisters." The red and yellow eyes turned to look down at the Sorceress. "Let us talk." thought you were both dead," Perenelle Flamel said. She knew she should be frightened, but all she felt was relief. And curiosity.

The dancing tongue of flame floating above her head shed a warm yellow light over the dark figure of the Crow Goddess stuck to the enormous web. In the blistered green-skinned face, one red and one yellow eye looked down over the Sorceress and when the black lips moved, the two voices spoke as one. "Sleeping, perhaps. But not dead."

Perenelle nodded; it wasn't an unusual idea. She'd grown up in a world of ghosts, she saw the dead every day and spoke to them often, and yet she knew that the voices coming from the Morrigan's mouth were not those of spirits. This was something different. She tried to remember what she knew about the Crow Goddess. The creature was Next Generation, born after the sinking of Danu Talis. She had settled in the lands that would one day be called Ireland and Britain and had quickly come to be worshipped by the Celts as a goddess of war, death and slaughter. Like many of the Elders and Next Generation, she was a triune goddess: she had three aspects. Some Elders visibly altered with the passage of time-Hekate was cursed to physically change from a young girl to an old woman during the course of each day. Others changed with the phases of the moon or the seasons, while still other triune goddesses were simply different aspects of the same person. But from what she remembered, the Macha, the Badb and the Morrigan were three different creatures with different personalities… all of them savage and deadly.

"When Nicholas and I were in Ireland back in the nineteenth century, an old wise woman told me that the Morrigan had somehow killed you both."

"Not quite." For an instant both eyes turned red and the creature spoke with a single voice. "We were never three; we were always one."

Perenelle kept her face impassive, careful to remain neutral. "One body, three personalities?" she asked. Then she nodded. "So that was why the three sisters were never seen together."

"At different times of the month, depending on the phase of the moon, each of us would assume control of this body."

The eyes blinked yellow, the voice changed and the angle of bones beneath the flesh altered, making the face subtly different. "And there were certain times of year when one or the other of us held sway. Midwinter was always my time."

The left eye turned red, the right eye bright yellow and both voices returned. "But this body was usually under the control of our younger sister, the Morrigan." The creature started to cough with enough force to shake the web, and thick black liquid gathered on its lips. The red and yellow eyes flickered toward the pattern of spears behind Perenelle's back. "Sorceress, break the Symbols of Binding… they are poisoning us, killing us."

Perenelle looked over her shoulder. Outside the cave mouth the twelve wooden spears stretching across the corridor formed an interlocking series of triangles and squares. From the corner of her eye she could see a gossamer hint of the black light that buzzed between the metal spearheads upon which she had inscribed in wet mud the ancient Words of Power.

"Sorceress… please. Break the spell," the Crow Goddess whispered. "Our sister, the Morrigan, knows you… and respects you. She knows that you are strong and powerful… but never cruel."

Perenelle stepped back into the corridor and wrenched one of the spears from the mud, breaking the pattern. Instantly, the thrumming she'd been only vaguely aware of vanished and the bitter metallic-tasting air was filled with the normal smells of the underground tunnel: salt and foul mud, rotting fish and seaweed. Holding the spear tightly in both hands, the Sorceress returned to the cell. "This had better not be a trick," she warned. As she brought the spear closer to the Crow Goddess, the head began to glow. Then it popped alight, cold black-white light streaming from it. Perenelle touched the tip of the glowing spear to the small pile of feathers beneath the web and they sizzled, smoked, then curled and crisped. The stink of burning feathers made Perenelle's eyes water and drove her back out of the cell.

The goddess's eyes blinked in the curling smoke. "No trick…"

And then a shudder ran through the body caught in the web and the red and yellow colors flowed from the eyes, leaving them black and empty. "They lie!" the Morrigan screeched. "Do not listen to them!"

Perenelle raised the spear high, bringing the lustrous metal head almost level with the Crow Goddess's face. The black-white light washed over her green-tinged skin and the goddess squeezed her eyes shut and tried and failed to twist her head away. When she opened her eyes again, the red and yellow of the Badb and the Macha had returned. The eyes started flickering from color to color as the two sisters spoke.

"The Morrigan tricked us," the Badb said.

"Imprisoned us, enchanted us, cursed us…," the Macha added.

"She used a foul necromancy spell she learned from Dee's predecessor to bind our spirits, enslave us, then render us powerless…"

"We have been trapped under enchantment for centuries," red-eyed Macha said. "Able to see and hear all that our sister saw and heard, but unable to do anything, unable to move, to act…"

"But the corrosive effect of the Symbols of Binding loosened the spell and allowed us to regain control of this flesh."

"What do you want?" Perenelle asked, curious, but strangely saddened by the story.

"We want to be free." The voices merged, the left eye still glowing red, the right burning yellow. "Our sister may be prepared to sacrifice herself. But we are not. Our sister may be in thrall to Dee and the Elders. We are not. We did not side with the humani after the fall of Danu Talis, but we did not fight against them either. In time, the humani even came to worship us, and their worship made us stronger. Every war they fought, every battle won or lost, they fed us with their pain and memories. They even mourned us when we disappeared from the World of Men. And that is more than any of our own clan, kith or kin did. None of them cared or raised an objection when the Morrigan bound us, trapped us, enchanted us. Sorceress, we owe loyalty to neither Elder nor Next Generation."

Perenelle pressed the butt of the spear on the muddy floor, holding the wood just below the metal head, and leaned on it. The muddy sigil pulsed softly, like a slowly beating heart, warm against the side of her face, and she could feel the faintest thrumming through the length of wood.

"Free us," the Crow Goddess continued urgently, "and we will be in your debt."

"It's a very tempting offer," Perenelle said. "But how do I know I can trust you? How do I know you will not set upon me the moment I free you?"

The web-trapped creature smiled, black lips drawing back from long white teeth. "Because we will give you our word-the word of a warrior, the unbreakable word of the Crow Goddess," the yellow-eyed goddess snapped.

"And because you have the spear inscribed with the Archon glyph," the red-eyed goddess added.

"Archon?" Perenelle asked. She had heard the word perhaps twice before in her long lifetime.

"Before the Elders, the Twelve Archons ruled this planet."

"Before the Elders?"

"The world is older and wilder than you think." The Crow Goddess smiled. "Far older. Much wilder."

Perenelle nodded. "I have always believed that." The idea of the Archons was fascinating-Nicholas would love it-but she focused on more practical matters. "Can you carry me from the island?" she wondered aloud. Her grip tightened on the spear. Much depended on the creature's answer.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then the goddess said, "We cannot do that. As light as you are, you would be too heavy for us. Those of us, Elder and Next Generation, who have the ability to fly have almost hollow bones. We're not strong."

The Sorceress nodded and relaxed. She had already known the answer; nearly two centuries earlier, she had fought a nest of Next Generation harpies on the Palatine Hill above Rome in Italy. She'd discovered then that despite their ferocious appearance and deadly claws, they lacked physical strength. In the time it had taken Nicholas to find a sword and spear in their baggage, Perenelle had swatted them out of the air with her leather cloak and then used her whip, which was woven from a handful of snakes she had pulled from the Medusa's hair, to turn the creatures to stone. If the Crow Goddess had told her that they could carry her off the island, she would have known they were lying.

"At the moment when you thought our sister had died," the Crow Goddess continued, "we sensed your sorrow, your regret at her passing. Free us, Sorceress, and while we control this body, we will not move against you or yours. That is our oath to you."

Unlike her husband, Nicholas, who was a man of science, Perenelle Flamel was a creature of intuition. She always followed her instinct; it rarely failed her, and if she was wrong now and the Crow Goddess attacked her, then she was hoping that a combination of her power and the deadly spear would be effective against the creature.

"Give me your word, then," Perenelle demanded.

"You have it," the two voices buzzed. "We will not harm you. We owe you a debt of honor."

"Close your eyes," Perenelle commanded. She stepped forward, leveling the spear at the web. Gray-white smoke drifted in tall vertical lines and cobwebs hissed and sizzled as she pressed the spearhead to the sticky threads. She tried to cut the strands that would ease the bound Crow Goddess down gently, but then she remembered that this was a creature that was almost impervious to pain. The spear moved in a huge slashing X and the creature tumbled to the ground without a sound. Although free of the web, she was still tightly wrapped in thread.

The red and yellow eyes opened. "Careful, Sorceress," the Crow Goddess muttered as Perenelle approached, holding the spear in both hands. The eyes fixed on the smoking blade. "A cut could be lethal."

"I'll remember that," the Sorceress promised as she carefully, delicately sliced away the almost-invisible cocoon, then peeled it back and freed the Crow Goddess.

The creature surged to her feet and brushed strands of sticky web off her leather cuirass. Then she stretched, leather cracking as she spread her arms wide and arched her back. Both voices buzzed together. "Oh, but it is good to be alive again."

"Is there any danger that the Morrigan could reappear?" Perenelle asked, straightening up, holding tightly onto the spear. A single movement would bring it down on the Crow Goddess.

Eyes flowed from red to yellow, then back to red again. "We will keep our baby sister under control." Then the head snapped around to look at something over Perenelle's shoulder.

Even as she was turning, the woman found herself wondering if she was falling for the oldest trick in the book.

Juan Manuel de Ayala floated framed in the entrance to the cell. The ghost's eyes and mouth were empty holes, and long curling strands of his essence streamed off into the tunnel behind it like a wavering flag.

"What is it?" Perenelle demanded, immediately knowing something was wrong. She waved the spear and the ghost briefly solidified as it looked away from the Crow Goddess and focused on the glowing metal head. "Trouble?"

"Nereus has come." The ghost's voice was high with terror. "The Old Man of the Sea is here."

"Where?" Perenelle demanded.

"Here!" the ghost shouted, and turned, his left arm rising to point into the gloom. "He's just climbed up out of the sea at the other end of the tunnel. He's coming for you!"

And then the stench of long-dead rotting fish and rancid blubber rolled down the length of the tunnel. parking, snapping and crackling, bright red flames roared upward, dirty black oily smoke coiling and twisting into the night air over the car yard. John Dee threw back his head and breathed deeply; all he could smell was the stink of burning rubber and oil, he could detect no magic on the air. "I'm going inside," he said, looking at Bastet.

"I would not advise that," the cat-headed goddess warned.

"Why not?"

The Dark Elder showed her teeth in what might have passed for a terrifying smile. She pulled her long black coat tighter around her narrow shoulders. "It would be a shame if one of the Wild Hunt mistook you for an enemy or the Archon decided to make you one of his pack. He lost wolves this night; he will need to replace them."

"I am not completely defenseless, madam," Dee said. From beneath his coat he pulled the short stone sword Excalibur and strode across the empty street toward the car yard. He stopped at the thick gates. The heavy metal was studded with punctures from the teeth on the Archon's club, and where the metal had split, it had been pulled apart and curled like aluminum foil. Dee brought the sword close to where the Archon would have touched the metal, but nothing happened. If Cernunnos had used any magical power, Excalibur would have reacted, but the blade remained cold and dark. Dee nodded; the creature had used brute strength to tear open the gates. He was beginning to wonder just how much auric or magical power Cernunnos possessed. Legend spoke of the Archons-and even the earliest Elders, the Great Elders, who had come after them-as being either giants or hideous monsters, and sometimes both. But they were never described as magicians or sorcerers. It was the Great Elders who had first developed those abilities.

Dee bit back a smile; now that he suspected that Cernunnos possessed little or no magical power, he was starting to feel more confident. The creature had suggested that it could read his mind, but it could have been lying. He tried to recall exactly what the Archon had said when it had first appeared.

"Your thoughts and memories are mine to read, Magician. I know what you know; I know what you have been, I know what you are now."

Well, that meant nothing. Cernunnos claimed he knew Dee's thoughts but had not proved it in any way. Dee knew that his Elder had briefed the Archon.

"The Alchemyst, Flamel, and the children are with the Saracen Knight and the Bard behind their makeshift metal fortress. You want me and the Wild Hunt to force an entrance for you."

Cernunnos had not revealed anything new, either. It was merely repeating a fact-a fact Dee already knew-and then stating the orders it had received from the Elder. It had only made it sound as if it were reading Dee's thoughts.

Dr. John Dee laughed softly. The creature was certainly ancient, powerful and undoubtedly deadly. But suddenly, it didn't seem quite so frightening.

Gripping the sword tightly, he slipped through the entrance into the narrow metal alleyway. He could hear the fire; it was closer now, crackling and moaning, painting the walls in dancing darting shadows. Dee realized that with every step, he sent up billowing clouds of gritty dust. Squeezing his lips tightly shut, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth: he didn't want to breathe in the gritty remains of the Wild Hunt. He'd been a magician, a sorcerer, a necromancer and an alchemist for too long, and could easily imagine what foul properties the dust contained. He certainly didn't want them in his lungs.

He walked over stone-tipped wooden arrows and leaf-bladed spears and discovered that the ground was littered with short crossbow bolts. The sight took him back to his youth. He'd attended sieges, had studied warfare at the court of Elizabeth and could tell from the broken remains what had taken place: the defenders had trapped most of the Wild Hunt in the narrow alleyway and reduced them to dust. But why had they not held this position and continued to fire down and into the attackers? he wondered. Because they had run out of ammunition, he thought, answering his own question, and had been forced to withdraw to a more defensible position. Beneath the white handkerchief, Dee's lips broke into a broad smile. History had taught him that once the defenders started to retreat, the siege was coming to an end. Flamel and the others were trapped.

Emerging from the metal alleyway, he spotted the flaming moat. It completely encircled a mean-looking metal hut in the center of the camp. Dee hurried forward; he knew a dozen spells that would put out the fire, or he could transmute the oil into sand and use a separate Persian spell that would turn the sand into glass.

The Alchemyst and the twins stood on the opposite side of the fire, the boy and girl close together. Firelight turned their blond hair red and gold. Two other humani stood alongside them, one tall and bulky in black armor, the other short and slight in mismatched armor. Red-haired Gabriel Hounds, in both human and dog shapes, gathered protectively around the shorter man.

The Archon stood outlined before the dancing flames, firelight playing on its rack of antlers, while behind it what remained of the Wild Hunt waited patiently. The wolves' human faces tracked Dee's movements as he picked his way across the potholed expanse of mud. Without moving its body, Cernunnos twisted its head around to regard the Magician. The Horned God's eyes fixed on the stone blade in his hands, which had now started to leak a cold blue smoke.

"Excalibur and Clarent together in the same place," Cernunnos's buzzing voice murmured in Dee's skull. "These are indeed momentous times. Do you know when last these two swords were united?"

Dee was about to tell him that both swords had been in Paris the previous day but decided not to say anything to irritate the creature. A terrifyingly nasty plan was beginning to form at the back of his mind, something so incomprehensible that he was almost afraid to focus on the idea-just in case Cernunnos really could read his thoughts. Taking up a position to the left of the creature, he held Excalibur in his right hand and folded his arms across his chest. The glowing blue blade painted the left-hand side of his face in chill color. "I believe it was here, in England," Dee said. "When Arthur fought his nephew Mordred on Salisbury Plain. Mordred used Clarent to kill Arthur," he added.

"I killed Arthur," Cernunnos said softly. "Mordred too. And he was Arthur's son, not his nephew." The Horned God's head turned back to the fire. "You are a magician; I presume you can douse these flames?"

"Of course." A new smell permeated the already foul air: the rotten-egg stink of brimstone. "Can you not cross through the fire?" he asked, deliberately testing the limits of the Horned God's powers.

"The flames are laced with metal," Cernunnos said shortly.

Dee nodded. He knew from experience that some metals-especially iron-were poisonous to Elders. And to Archons, too, he'd just discovered. He wondered if the two races were related in any way; he had always assumed that while they were similar, they were separate, like Elders and humani.

"I can kill the fire," Dee answered confidently.

The Archon leaned forward, its ripe forest odor suddenly strong as it stared hard into the fire and beyond. Dee followed the direction of its gaze and found it was staring at the boy, Josh. "You can have the twins, Magician, and your pages. I claim the three immortal humani and the Gabriel Hounds for my own."

"Agreed," Dee said immediately.

"And Clarent. I claim the Sword of Fire."

"Of course you can have it," Dee said without hesitation. He deliberately allowed his aura to blossom yellow and stinking around him, knowing it would blanket his thoughts. He had no intention of giving Cernunnos the sword. Dee had spent centuries searching for Excalibur's twin blade and was not prepared to see it disappear into some distant Shadow-realm with the Horned God. His outrageous plan suddenly came together. "I would be honored to present the sword to you myself."

"I would allow that," the Archon said, a touch of arrogance in its voice.

Dee bowed his head so that the creature would not see the triumph in his eyes. He would stand before the Archon, Excalibur in his right hand, Clarent in his left. He would bow to the Horned God and step forward… and then plunge both swords into Cernunnos. The Magician's brimstone aura flared brighter and brighter with excitement. What would it feel like, what would he learn, what would he know after he had killed the Archon? oughing, eyes streaming, Sophie, Josh and the three immortals scrambled away from the searing heat, slipping and falling on the muddy ground. They were safe behind the wall of fire, but they were also trapped.

Josh helped his sister to her feet. Her bangs had been seared to crispy curls and her cheekbones were bright red, her eyebrows little more than smudges.

Sophie reached out to trace a line over Josh's eyes. "Your eyebrows are gone."

"Yours too." He grinned. He touched his cheekbones. His face felt tight, his lips dry and cracked, and he suddenly realized how lucky they'd been. If he'd been standing a couple of inches closer to the moat, he would have been badly burned. Sophie reached out and pressed her little finger against his cheek and he smelled vanilla as a soothing coolness touched his scorched skin. He caught his sister's hand and lifted it away from his face; the pad of her little finger was coated with silver. "You shouldn't be using your powers," he said, concerned.

"It's a simple healing-laying on of hands, Joan called it. It uses little or no aura. We'll never have cuts or bruises again." She smiled.

"I've got a feeling we'll need to be worried about more serious things than cuts," Josh said. He turned to look through the burning curtain of fire. The Horned God stood patiently on the far side of the flames. Its arms were folded across its massive chest, and the smoldering ruin of its club lay at its feet. Although hundreds of the Wild Hunt had turned to dust, at least twice that number still remained. Most had gathered in a semicircle behind Cernunnos, either sitting or lying down, their shockingly human faces staring fixedly at their master. Josh turned in a complete circle. The rest of the Wild Hunt had taken up positions around the camp. They were completely surrounded. "What are they doing?" he wondered aloud.

"Waiting," Palamedes rumbled from behind him.

Josh turned. "Waiting?"

"They know the fire will not burn for long."

"How long?"

"An hour. Maybe two." He turned his face to the skies, gauging the time. "Maybe till midnight, but that's not long enough." He shrugged. The knight's black armor was streaked with mud and dirt and smelled of oil. It squeaked and creaked with every movement. "We built this fortress more for privacy than protection, though it has kept us safe from some of the less savory creatures that haunt this land. It was never designed to keep something like Cernunnos away." He suddenly looked sidelong at Sophie as a thought struck him, his eyes liquid in the reflected firelight. "You have mastered Fire. You could keep the flames alive."

"No," Josh said immediately, instinctively moving in front of his sister. "Even attempting something like that could kill her, burn her up."

The Alchemyst nodded. "Sophie would need to keep the fires burning till dawn; she's not strong enough for that. Not yet. We need to find an alternative."

"I know some spells…," Shakespeare began. "You too, Palamedes. And what of you, Nicholas? Working together, surely we three could-" And then the Bard's head snapped around, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing.

"What is it?" Palamedes asked, turning to squint through the wall of fire.

"Dee," Shakespeare and Flamel said together. Even as they were speaking, the figure of a small man standing alongside the Archon was outlined in sulfurous yellow. He was holding a smoldering blue sword.

"With Excalibur," Flamel added.

As the group watched, the Magician plunged Excalibur into the fiery wall and twisted the blade. Hissing and sizzling, the stone sword pierced the fire, and then a sudden down-draft of icy wind opened a perfectly circular hole, like a window, in the raging flames. Dee peered through the opening and smiled, the fire reflecting off his teeth, bloodred. "Well, well, well, what have we here? Master Shakespeare-apprentice to both the Alchemyst and the Magician. Why, it is practically a family reunion. And Palamedes, the Black Knight, reunited-almost-with the swords that ruled and ruined your master's life. And the twins, of course. So nice of you to bring them home to me, Nicholas, though it would have been so much more convenient if we had concluded this business on the West Coast. Now I'll have to return them to the States. However, surrender them now and we can avoid a lot of unpleasantness."

The Alchemyst laughed, though there was nothing humorous in the sound. "Aren't you forgetting something, John?"

The Magician tilted his head to one side. "You seem to be trapped, Nicholas, behind flames, and surrounded by the Wild Hunt." He jerked his thumb at the huge figure standing by his side. "And, of course, Cernunnos. This time, there is no escape. Not even for you."

"We three immortals are not without power," Flamel said quietly. "Can you stand against all of us?"

"Oh, I don't have to," Dee said. "All I have to do is douse the fire. Even you cannot prevail against an Archon and the Wild Hunt."

Josh stepped forward, Clarent a blaze of black light in his left hand, the dancing shadows making his face look older than its fifteen years. "And what about us? It would be a mistake to forget about us," he snapped. "You were in Paris. You saw what we did to the gargoyles."

"And Nidhogg," Sophie added, at his side.

Clarent moaned and then Josh snapped it forward toward Excalibur. The swords met in the circular opening in the midst of the fire, the two blades crossing in an explosion of black and blue sparks.

And Dee's thoughts washed over Josh.

Fear. A terrible all-consuming fear of beastlike creatures and shadowy humans.

Loss. Countless faces, men, women and children, family, friends and neighbors. All dead.

Anger. The overriding emotion was one of anger-a simmering all-consuming rage.

Hunger. An insatiable hunger for knowledge, for power.

Cernunnos. The Horned God. The Archon. Lying dead in the mud with Dee standing over him, holding Clarent and Excalibur in either hand, the swords blazing red-black and blue-white flames.

The thoughts and emotions came at Josh like blows. He felt his head jerk with each startling image. But the most shocking of all was the sight of the Archon lying in the mud. Dee intended to kill Cernunnos. But to do that he needed Clarent. And Josh was not giving up the Sword of Fire. He tightened his grip on the hilt and pushed hard against Excalibur, but it was like pushing against a rock wall. Holding the sword in both hands, he pressed back against Dee's sword again, stone grating and sparking, but it didn't move. The reflected light turned Dee's face into a grinning skull.

Josh had seen Sophie focus her aura, had watched her shape it around her body; he'd felt its healing properties on his own skin, but he had no idea how she did it. Joan had trained her. But he'd had no one to train him. "Sis…?"

"I'm here." Sophie was instantly by his side.

"How did you…" He groped for the right word. "How do you get your aura to focus?"

"I don't know. I just… I guess I just concentrate really hard."

Josh took a deep breath and frowned, forehead creasing, eyebrows knitting together, concentrating as hard as he could.

Nothing happened.

"Close your eyes," Sophie said. "Visualize really clearly what you want to see happen. Start with something small, tiny…"

Josh nodded. He took another deep breath and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Sophie could focus her aura into her little finger, so why couldn't he just-

There was an instant when he felt something churn in his stomach; then it surged up through his chest, down along both arms, into his hands, which were wrapped around the hilt of the sword. His aura exploded into blazing, blinding light that flowed down the weapon.

Clarent moaned, the sound one of pure agony as the stone blade turned to solid gold. The instant it touched Dee's sword, it doused Excalibur's cold blue-white fire, turning it back to plain gray stone.

Josh blinked in surprise.

And his aura winked out of existence.

Instantly, the gold fire faded from Clarent and was replaced with crimson-black fire. Excalibur reignited in a huge explosion of sparks. Staggered and shaking, Josh managed to retain his grip on Clarent, but the shocking force had sent Dee flying backward, sending up a geyser of mud. He then slid on his back across the filthy oily ground, and Excalibur tumbled through the air to fall point-first into the mud close to his head.

It took a tremendous effort for Josh to pull Clarent back out of the fire. Immediately, the circular window in the flames snapped shut. The boy's face was ghastly, deep blue-black shadows under his eyes, but he still managed a shaky smile for his twin. "See: that was no problem."

Sophie reached out for her brother and put her hand on his shoulder. He felt a trickle of energy from her aura flow into his body, steadying his wobbly legs.

"I wonder what Dee will do next?" she said.

A heartbeat later, thunder boomed and rumbled and lightning flashed almost directly overhead. The rain that followed was torrential. erenelle sloshed through the muddy tunnel, heading back toward the ladder. In one hand she carried the spear; the other was clamped over her nose, but she could feel the nauseating fishy smell coating her tongue and taste it in her throat every time she swallowed.

Juan Manuel de Ayala floated beside her, facing back down the tunnel. There was no sign of the Crow Goddess.

"What are you frightened of?" Perenelle demanded. "You're a ghost; nothing can harm you." Then she smiled, and her voice softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I know what an extraordinary effort it took for you to reach the cave mouth and warn me."

"It was easier once you broke the Spell of Binding," the ghost said. Much of his essence had dissipated, leaving only the merest hint of his face and the outline of his head hanging in the air. His dark shining eyes were brilliant in the gloom. "Nereus is every sailor's nightmare," he admitted. "And I am not frightened for myself I fear for you, Sorceress."

"What's the worst that can happen?" Perenelle asked lightly. "He can only kill me. Or try to."

The ghost's eyes turned liquid. "Oh, he'll not kill you. Not immediately. He'll drag you down to some undersea kingdom and keep you alive for centuries. And when he is finished with you, he'll turn you into some sea creature-like a sea cow or a dugong."

"That's just a story…," Perenelle began, and then stopped, realizing just how ridiculous her statement was: she was running down an underground tunnel accompanied by a ghost, pursuing an ancient Celtic goddess and being followed by the Old Man of the Sea. Reaching the end of the tunnel, she craned her neck and looked up. Far above her, she could see a circle of blue sky.

She tore a narrow strip off the ragged hem of her dress and tied it around her waist. Shoving the spear into the back of the makeshift belt, she reached up to grab the slimy metal rungs of the rusting ladder.

"Perenelle!" de Ayala howled as he flowed upward.

"Leaving so soon, Sorceress?" The voice echoed down the corridor, liquid and bubbling, a gurgling, gargling sound.

Perenelle turned and tossed a tiny spark of light down the tunnel. Like a rubber ball, it bounced off the ceiling, hit a wall, then the ground, and bounced up again.

Nereus filled the darkness.

The instant before he reached out and crushed the light in his web-fingered hand, Perenelle caught a glimpse of a stocky, surprisingly normal-looking man, a head of thick curly hair flowing to his shoulders, mingling with a short beard that was twisted into two tight curls. He was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of overlapping kelp leaves and strands of green seaweed, and in his left hand he held a wickedly spiked stone trident. As the light faded and the tunnel plunged back into darkness, Perenelle realized that the Old Man of the Sea had no lower limbs. Below the waist, eight octopus legs writhed and coiled across the corridor.

The stink of rotting fish intensified, there was a flicker of movement and then one suckered leg wrapped itself around Perenelle's ankle and held fast. A second, sticky and slimy, attached itself to her shin.

"Stay awhile," Nereus gurgled. Another leg snapped around Perenelle's knee, suckers biting deep into her skin. His laughter was like a wet sponge being squeezed dry. "I insist." osh sat, dazed, as the wall of fire started to die down in a billowing cloud of thick white steam. Rain churned the ground to thick sticky mud as thunder rumbled continuously overhead. Lightning flashed, painting everything ash white and ebony black.

"Time to go," Palamedes said decisively, rainwater running off his helmet. He turned to look at Sophie and Josh, Nicholas and Shakespeare. They were all soaked through, the twins' hair plastered to their skulls. "There is a time to fight and a time to run. A good soldier always knows when it is time to do either. We can stand here and fight Dee and Cernunnos and none of us will survive. Except you, perhaps," he said to the twins. Firelight ran amber off his dark skin and matching armor. "Though I am not sure what your quality of life would be in service to the Dark Elders. Nor how long you would survive when they were finished with you."

Bitter smoke curled around them, thick, cloying and noxious, driving them back toward the metal hut.

"Will, take the Gabriel Hounds-"

"I'm not running," the Bard said immediately.

"I'm not asking you to run," Palamedes snapped. "I want you to regroup and not needlessly sacrifice our forces."

"Our forces?" Nicholas asked. "Don't tell me the Saracen Knight has finally chosen a side?"

"Temporarily, I assure you," Palamedes said. He turned back to the Bard. "Will, take the Gabriel Hounds through the tunnel under the hut. Gabriel," he called. The largest of the dogmen hurried over. The blue tattoos on his cheeks were covered in mud and speckled blood, and his dun-colored hair stuck up in all directions. "Protect your master. Get him out of London and bring him to the Great Henge. Wait for me there."

Shakespeare opened his mouth to protest but closed it when the Saracen Knight glared at him.

Gabriel nodded. "It will be done. How long should we wait at the Henge?"

"If I am not back by sundown tomorrow, then take Will to one of the nearby Shadowrealms; Avalon or Lyonesse, perhaps. You should be safe there."

Ignoring the Alchemyst, Gabriel turned bloodshot eyes to look at the twins. "And what of the two that are one?"

Josh and Sophie waited silently as Palamedes took a deep breath. "I'm going to bring them back into London." He looked at the Alchemyst. "We'll take them to the king."

The dogman's savage teeth flashed in a smile. "Leaving them with Cernunnos might be safer."

Sophie and Josh sat in the back of the black London taxi and watched the Alchemyst, Shakespeare and Palamedes huddle together around a flaming barrel that was burning chunks of wood and strips of smoldering black tires. Rain steamed and hissed over the flames, and thick white smoke from the dying moat fires mingled with the greasy black fumes coming out of the barrel.

"I can see their auras," Josh muttered wearily. The unexpected appearance of his own aura had exhausted him. A sick headache pounded just over his eyes, the muscles in his arms and legs were burning and his stomach felt queasy, almost as if he was going to throw up. His hands were numb where they'd gripped Clarent's hilt.

Sophie turned to look out the steamed-up window. Josh was correct: the three immortals were outlined with the faintest of auras-Flamel's emerald green and Palamedes' deeper olive green bracketing Shakespeare's pale lemon yellow.

"What are they doing?" Josh asked.

Sophie hit the window button, but the car was turned off and the electric windows didn't work. She rubbed the palm of her hand across the glass to clear it, then caught her breath. The immortal's auras brightened, and she could feel the crawling trickle of power as it started to dribble from their hands like sticky liquid into the barrel. "Nicholas and Palamedes seem to be lending their power to Shakespeare. The Bard's lips are moving, he's saying something…" She cracked open the door to listen, blinking as a sprinkling of rain spattered into the darkened interior of the car.

"… imagination is the key, brother immortals," Shakespeare said. "All I need you to do is to concentrate and I can create a charm of powerful trouble."

"It's a conjugation," Sophie said in awe. She was abruptly conscious that this was a word she would never have used days earlier, one she wouldn't have even understood.

Josh slid over beside his sister to peer out into the wet night. "What's a conjur… conjurgate…?"

"He's creating something out of nothing, shaping and making something simply by imagining it." She pushed open the door a little farther, ignoring the rain on her face. She knew-because the Witch knew-that this was the most arduous and exhausting of all the magics, requiring extraordinary skill and focus.

"Do it quickly," the Alchemyst said through gritted teeth. "The fire is nearly out and I'm not sure how much strength I have left."

Shakespeare nodded. He pushed both hands deep into the burning barrel. "Boil and bubble, boil and bubble," he whispered, his accent thickening, returning to the familiar Elizabethan he had grown up with. "First, let us have the serpent of the Nile…"

Smoke twisted and curled around the barrel, which suddenly boiled with hundreds of heaving snakes. They tumbled onto the ground.

"Snakes! Why are there always snakes?" Josh groaned and looked away.

"… spotted snakes with double tongue…," Shakespeare continued.

More snakes spilled from the barrel, writhing and slithering around the immortals' feet. The Gabriel Hounds silently backed away, red eyes fixed on the serpents.

"And now for some thorny hedgehogs, newts and blind worms…," Shakespeare continued, his voice rising and falling in a singsong pattern, as if he were repeating a verse. His head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. "… and toads, ugly and venomous," he added, his voice becoming hoarse.

Creatures cascaded from the barrel, hundreds of fat hedgehogs, grotesque toads, slithering newts and curling worms.

"… and finally, screech owls…"

A dozen owls erupted from the flames in a shower of sparks.

Shakespeare suddenly slumped and would have fallen if the Saracen Knight had not caught him. "Enough," Palamedes said.

"Enough?" The Bard opened his eyes and looked around. They were standing ankle-deep in the creatures that had burst from the burning barrel. The ground around them was thick with twisting snakes, hopping toads, curling newts and wriggling worms. "Aye, 'tis done." Lightning flashed overhead as he reached out to squeeze the Alchemyst's arm and quickly embraced the Saracen Knight. "Thank you, my brothers, my friends. When shall we three meet again?" he asked.

"Tomorrow night," Palamedes said. "Now go, go now." He carefully lifted his left leg. A black adder dripped from his ankle. "How long will these last?" he asked.

"Long enough." Shakespeare smiled. Brushing strands of lank hair out of his eyes, he raised his hand to the twins in the car. "We only part to meet again."

"You didn't write that," Palamedes said quickly.

"I know, but I wish I had." Then, surrounded by the hounds, William Shakespeare slipped under the metal hut and disappeared. Gabriel waited until the other hounds had followed him.

"Keep him safe," Palamedes called.

"I will protect him with my life," Gabriel said in his soft Welsh accent. "Tell me, though." He nodded to the mass of creatures in the mud. "These… things…?" He left the question unfinished.

Palamedes' smile was ferocious. "A little present for the Wild Hunt."

The Gabriel Hound nodded, then stooped and transformed into his huge dog form before squirming under the hut and vanishing.

And then, with a final sizzling hiss, the moat fires went out. "Time to go," Flamel said, carefully picking his way through the creatures Shakespeare had conjured. "I didn't know he could do that."

"Created them entirely out of his imagination," Palamedes said. He held open the cab door and ushered the Alchemyst into the back of the car. "Buckle up," he advised, his black armor winked out of existence. "It's going to be a bumpy ride."

The torrential rain died as quickly as it had started, and then the wolves of the Wild Hunt leapt through the gray smoke.

A moment later, Cernunnos stepped across the moat, smoke twisting through its antlers. Throwing back its head, it bellowed a triumphant laugh. "And where do you think you are going?" it demanded, striding toward the car. "There is no escape from the Horned God." olding tightly to the metal rung with one hand, Perenelle tugged the spear free and stabbed it hard into one of the octopus legs holding her. The metal barely touched the slimy skin, but the leg was abruptly snatched back, leaving the woman with a series of puckered sucker marks on her flesh. Before she could stab the creature again, the other two legs disappeared back into the dark tunnel.

"Sorceress, that was positively rude. You could have injured me. A little deeper and you would have cut my leg off."

"That was the idea," Perenelle muttered, shoving the spear back into the makeshift belt and pulling herself up.

"I have not lost a leg in centuries. And it takes such a long time to grow a new one," the creature added petulantly in Greek, its accent appalling.

Ignoring him, Perenelle climbed up another rung, moving closer to the light. She wondered if Nereus would even be able to fit into the narrow shaft. The creature's sickening stench rolled over her, making her eyes water. She swallowed hard as she felt her stomach protest. Shifting sideways in the narrow passageway, she looked down. Nereus was standing at the bottom of the shaft. She could just about make out his head and shoulders in the dim light from above; thankfully, everything below that was hidden in shadow. He raised his trident and waved. "It seems you are trapped, Sorceress. You cannot climb and stab me with your toothpick. But you are not beyond my reach…"

Perenelle caught a glimpse of wriggling octopus legs at the bottom of the shaft. First one, then two, then four, began to snake their way toward her, curling and coiling, feeling along the dripping stones like creeping fingers. "Have you any idea just who I am?" she demanded in English. She repeated the question in ancient Greek.

Nereus shrugged, a movement that sent all his legs rippling. "I confess I do not."

"Then why are you here?" Perenelle asked, pulling herself up another rung of the rusting ladder. She thought he sounded like a bored academic.

"I am paying off an age-old debt," Nereus bubbled. "One of the Great Elders told me that my debt to them would be wiped clean if I returned to this world and came to this island with my daughters. I was told I could have you for myself and that while you would make only an average servant, you might, perhaps after a century or two, make a good wife. All I know is that you are called a sorceress."

"But do you know which sorceress?" Perenelle demanded.

The creature laughed. "Oh, humani, I do not know, nor do I care. In my time, the word had meaning. A sorceress was someone with power, someone to fear, someone to respect. But here, in this time and in this world, the old words, the old titles, mean nothing. Why, a magician, I have discovered, is nothing more than a children's entertainer, someone who pulls rabbits out of hats."

Perenelle's laugh shocked the Dark Elder to silence. "Then you should know this, Old Man: I am no entertainer. I'm surprised your Elder didn't tell you who you were facing on this island. Or perhaps not so surprised. Maybe if you had known, you would not have embarked on this foolish venture." Perenelle's voice echoed down the shaft. "I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. I have lived upon this earth for nearly seven hundred years, and I carry within me the wisdom of the ages. I have trained with some of the finest sorcerers and magicians, wizards and enchanters who ever lived. Some even you will have heard of. I was apprenticed to the Witch of Endor and I am a pupil of two of the greatest sorceresses in history: Circe and Medea."

"Circe?" Nereus rustled uncomfortably, legs quivering. "Medea?" he added, sounding miserable.

"You, above all others, should know my teachers' reputations."

"And were you a good pupil?" Nereus inquired cautiously.

"The best. Know this, Old Man of the Sea: I will never be your wife. I am wed to the Alchemyst, Nicholas Flamel."

"Oh," the Elder said very softly.

"I am the immortal human Perenelle Flamel."

"Ah-that sorceress," Nereus mumbled.

"Yes, that sorceress." Perenelle wrenched a metal spike from the wall, concentrated her aura in the palm of her hand and watched the rusty metal twist and curl, then melt into dirty brown liquid. "Let me show you a trick Circe herself taught me." Opening her hand, she allowed the metal droplets to dribble from her cupped palm. Scores of tiny golden-brown globes fell into the shadows. The molten rain hissed and sizzled as it scattered across Nereus's flesh, and the air suddenly filled with the reek of frying fish. Octopus legs thrashed and pounded against the stones as the Old Man of the Sea howled and squealed in a score of human and inhuman languages. Perenelle flicked the last droplet off her fingertips. She followed the golden teardrop as it plunged straight down… and landed right in the center of Nereus's forehead, just above his nose. This time he screamed so loudly Perenelle could actually hear the sudden explosion of wings as the thousands of seabirds gathered on the island above rose high into the air, crying and calling.

Nereus disappeared into the shadows, trailing the smell of burnt fish in his wake. "You have not heard the last of me, Sorceress Perenelle," he sobbed. "You will never escape alive!"

Fighting the wave of exhaustion that washed over her, Perenelle turned back to the ladder and pulled herself upward. "That's what everyone says," she murmured. "But I'm still alive."

"You could have helped." Perenelle was sitting on one of the steps in the exercise yard. She turned her face to the afternoon sun and allowed the warmth to soak into her body and recharge her aura.

"Why?" Perched on a step below and to Perenelle's right, the Crow Goddess had spread her black cloak out about her and had also turned her face to the sunlight, eyes lost behind mirrored black sunglasses. Her skin had returned to its former alabaster and only the faintest hint of green remained, with the puckered suggestion of pimples around her lips.

Perenelle took a moment to consider and then she nodded. She had no answer to that. Nereus was not their enemy.

"We could have flown away, too," the Crow Goddess suggested without moving her head.

Perenelle was beginning to identify the voices; the Badb's was slightly softer than the harsher and more masculine Machas's.

"Why didn't you?" Perenelle asked. When she'd finally climbed out of the shaft, filthy and almost sick with exhaustion, she'd known that she was in no condition to fight the Crow Goddess. She hadn't expected to find the creature still on the island at all, but it had been crouched by the entrance to the shaft beneath the rusting water tower, carefully sewing long black feathers back onto its cloak. "Why did you stay?"

The Crow Goddess stirred. "We have been trapped within the Morrigan for a long time. She's had lifetimes of fun; now it's our turn. And we decided that there would be no place more exciting than Alcatraz in the hours to come."

Perenelle eased herself up on her elbows to look down at the creature. "Exciting? I think we might have two different definitions of that word."

The Crow Goddess moved her head and eased her dark glasses down her nose with a long black-nailed finger. One red and one yellow eye blinked at the woman. "Remember, humani, we are the Badb and Macha. We are Fury and Slaughter. Our sister is Death. For millennia, we have been drawn to battlefields the world over, where we feasted on the pain and memories of the dead and dying." Black lips pulled back from long white teeth in a terrifying grin. "And right now, this island is exactly where we need to be." She licked her lips. "I think there is going to be a banquet for us soon!" ires spinning in the mud, the heavy taxicab lurched forward. Sophie gasped as her seat belt locked tight, pulling her back into the seat. Josh groaned as his jerked across his aching stomach.

"Sorry!" Palamedes shouted. "Hang on. Here they come…"

Nicholas grabbed the rubber strap over the door and leaned forward. "We're heading straight toward them!" he said, voice rising in alarm.

"I know." Palamedes' bright teeth flashed in the gloom. "Best form of defense is…"

"… attack," Josh finished.

A solid line of the human-faced wolves launched themselves at the cab. Barreling through the still-steaming fire, they did not see the carpet of snakes until it was too late. The serpents rose like question marks, mouths gaping, heads jerking… and the front line of the Wild Hunt dissolved into filthy dust that exploded onto the window, completely coating it. Palamedes calmly squirted water on the glass and hit the windshield wiper switch, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the gray dust into a thick paste.

A trio of huge wolves, bigger and broader than any of the others, leapt across the moat… and straight onto the hedgehogs. Bristling spines rose to pierce the wolves' legs and paws. The beasts crumbled to powder with looks of absolute surprise on their faces.

Cernunnos howled and bellowed as he blundered onto the carpet of serpents and hedgehogs. The snakes struck at him, hedgehog spines stabbed, but without any obvious effect. Josh shuddered and felt sick to his stomach as he watched snakes curl and twist up the Horned God's trunklike legs.

Palamedes revved the cab's engine, then threw it into gear and roared across the narrow metal bridge that spanned the moat, meeting another trio of the Wild Hunt head-on. Two disappeared beneath the tires in geysers of grit, while the third leapt onto the hood and hammered on the glass with jagged claws. The windshield cracked and the Saracen Knight stood on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, sending the wolf sliding off the hood, straight into a nest of vipers.

Josh turned in his seat to watch more of the Wild Hunt fall as they brushed past the oily skin of the poisonous toads; he saw others turn to dust as they stumbled across the newts or trod on worms. The air grew thick and gritty with explosions of opaque dirt. Owls swooped out of the night air, claws extended, scything through the beasts, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

"Shakespeare created all these?" Sophie asked in wonder. She was staring out the back windshield and could see that the ground was carpeted with the heaving mass.

"Every single one," Palamedes said proudly. "Each one generated within his imagination and animated by his aura. And you have to remember, he is mostly self-taught." The knight glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the Alchemyst's eye. "Think what he could have achieved if he'd been properly trained."

Nicholas shrugged uncomfortably. "I could not have taught him this."

"You should have recognized his talent, though."

"Dee!" Josh snapped.

"Aye, Dee did," Palamedes agreed.

"No. Dee. Directly in front of you!" Josh shouted.

Dr. John Dee had crawled out of the smoke and was spinning Excalibur loosely in his left hand, turning it into a whirling circle of blue fire. His right hand dripped yellow energy. And he had taken up a position directly in front of the entrance to the compound, blocking their path.

"What-does he think I'll not run him down?" Palamedes said.

Dee pointed the sword at the cab and then lobbed a ball of energy. It hit the sodden ground, bounced once and then rolled beneath the car. The engine cut out and all the electricity in the vehicle died, sending the car coasting to a halt, power steering locked and useless.

Sophie caught a hint of movement behind them and turned… just as the snake-wrapped Archon stepped through the thick gray clouds. "This is no good," she muttered, tugging Josh's sleeve.

"This is bad," her twin agreed when he saw the Archon. "Very bad."

"What do we do now?"

"It's always best to fight just one battle at a time. You win more that way."

"Who said that?" Sophie asked. "Mars?"

"Dad." osh!" Nicholas shouted.

Josh Newman pushed open the left-hand door, checked to make sure there were no snakes underfoot and hopped out. Clarent whined and keened as he brought it around to bear on Dee. "I'll keep him busy," he shouted. "Can you get the car started?" he asked the knight.

"I'll try," Palamedes said grimly. He twisted around to look at the Alchemyst. "Battery's dead. Can you recharge it?"

"Josh Newman," Dee said pleasantly as the boy approached. "You cannot honestly be thinking about fighting me?"

Josh ignored him. Holding Clarent tightly, both hands wrapped around the hilt, he felt the sword settle comfortably into his grip.

Dee grinned and continued patiently. "I want you to take a moment and think about what you are contemplating doing. I've spent a lifetime with this weapon; you've had Clarent for little more than a day at most. There is no way you can defeat me."

Without warning Josh launched a blistering attack on the Magician. Clarent actually screamed when it hit Excalibur, a screeching cry of triumph. Josh didn't even try to remember the moves Joan and Scatty had taught him; he allowed the sword to take control, to jab and thrust, to cut and parry. And somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he was analyzing Dee's every move, noting his footwork, how he held the weapon, how his eyes squinted just before he lunged.

Clarent tugged Josh forward as it slashed through the air. It was all the boy could do to keep both hands around the hilt. It was like trying to hold on to a lunging dog: a ravenous, rabid dog.

And for an instant, Josh had the ridiculous thought that Clarent was alive and hungry.

"Sophie!" Nicholas roared.

But she didn't hear him. Her only focus was her brother. Sophie pushed open the right-hand door and climbed out, her aura sparking the moment her feet touched the ground, sheathing her in a mirror image of the armor she'd seen Joan wear. Unlike Josh, she had no weapon, but she'd been trained in Air and Fire magic. The girl deliberately lowered the barriers Joan of Arc had put in place to protect her from the Witch of Endor's memories. Right now, she needed to know everything the Witch had known about the Archon Cernunnos.

Rumors, fragments, whispered tales.

Once it had been beautiful. A giant; tall, proud and arrogant. A respected scientist. It had experimented first on others, then, when that was forbidden, upon itself. Finally, it had become repulsive, bony outcroppings appearing from its skull, its toes fusing to thick hooves. Only its face remained, a hideous reminder of its former beauty. The incomprehensible passage of time had destroyed its great intellect, and now it was little more than a beast. Ancient, powerful, still with the ability to warp humans into wolfkind, it inhabited a distant Shadowrealm of dank rotting forests…

No animal likes fire, Sophie reasoned, and if the Archon lived in a wet forest world, it was probably afraid of fire. She felt the briefest flicker of fear-what if her fire failed her again?-but she savagely quashed the idea. Her magic would not fail her this time. In the heartbeat before she pressed her finger against her tattoo, calling upon the Magic of Fire, she used a tiny portion of her aura to bring the Magic of Air to life.

A whipping tornado appeared around the Archon. The remnants of the Wild Hunt, every particle of dust and grit swirled up to surround Cernunnos in a thick buzzing blanket. Blinded, its mouth and nostrils filled with dirt, the creature covered its face. Then Sophie pressed her thumb against the circular tattoo and ignited the dust cloud. In the last second before she slumped to the earth, unconscious, she was aware of the Horned God's scream. It was the most terrifying sound she had ever heard.

"Josh," Dee gasped, desperately parrying the tremendous blows that actually numbed his arms. "There is so much you do not know. So much I can tell you. Questions I can answer."

"There's a lot I already know about you, Magician." Blue-white and red-black sparks exploded every time the twin blades met, showering the fighters with burning specks. Josh's face was flecked with black spots, and Dee's ruined suit was pitted with a score of holes. "You. Were. Thinking. Of. Killing. The. Archon." Josh drove home each word with a blow.

"You've held Clarent," Dee heaved. "You've had a taste of its powers. You know what it can do. Think of it: kill the Archon and you will experience millennia, hundreds of millennia, of knowledge. You will know the history of the world from the very beginning. And not just this world either. A myriad of worlds."

Suddenly, a huge explosion of vanilla-scented heat washed over them and drove them both to their knees. Dee was facing the Archon and crashed backward, hands over his face, blinded by the light. Josh rolled over, saw the Horned God engulfed in green-gold flames and then saw his sister slump unconscious to the ground. Sick with fear, he rolled over onto his hands and knees-and discovered Excalibur lying in the mud by his right hand. His fingers instantly wrapped around the hilt and a bolt of agony shot up through his left hand where he held Clarent. He attempted to drop the Coward's Blade, but he couldn't-it was stuck to his palm, sealed in his clenched fist. Bright red blood seeped between his fingers. He jerked away from Excalibur, and the searing pain in his left hand faded. Scrambling to his feet, he caught the edge of Excalibur's hilt with Clarent's blade, flicked the sword away, then ran around the car to his sister.

Dee scrambled to his knees, blinking glowing afterimages from his eyes. He saw Josh send Excalibur spinning through the air, watched it plop onto the gooey remnants of the steaming moat. It floated on the surface of the thick black oil for a single heartbeat; then the oil bubbled furiously and the blade sank.

Josh dropped to his knees, terrified. He pulled Sophie into his arms and then lifted her onto the backseat just as the engine coughed to life. A sick-looking Nicholas Flamel fell into the car, his hands streaming threads of the green energy he had used to recharge the car.

John Dee had to fling himself out of the way as the car, all its doors still flapping open, howled down the narrow alley, crushing arrows and spears under its wheels. The Magician desperately tried to focus his thoughts and gather enough energy to stop the cab, but he was physically and mentally drained. Pushing himself to his feet, he watched as the Archon crashed to the ground and rolled over and over in the sticky mud, extinguishing the flames that danced and flickered in the furs wrapping its body. Less than a handful of the Wild Hunt had survived the attack, and two of those disappeared into dust as Cernunnos accidentally crushed them.

Metal screaming, sparks fountaining from its fenders and open doors, the black cab scraped through the torn gate and fishtailed onto the damp street as it roared off into the night. Brake lights flared red; then the car turned a corner and vanished.

Standing concealed in the shadows, Bastet pulled a slender cell phone from her pocket and hit a speed dial. Her call was answered on the first ring. "Dee failed," she said shortly, and ended the call. ophie woke up as the taxi rumbled over a speed bump. She was completely disoriented, and it took a long moment for what she first thought were fragments of dreams, and then realized were memories, to fade. She could still hear Cernunnos screaming in her head and, for a moment, actually felt sorry for the creature. Rising slowly and stiffly to a sitting position, she looked around. Josh lay slumped in the seat beside her, breathing heavily, face blackened and swollen where he'd been struck with sparks. The Alchemyst sat in shadow up against the window, staring out into the night. Hearing her move, he turned his head, his weary eyes catching reflections from the city lights.

"I was hoping you would sleep a little longer," he said quietly.

"Where are we?" she asked thickly. Her mouth and lips were dry, and she imagined she could feel the gritty dust of the Wild Hunt on her tongue.

Flamel handed her a bottle of water. "We're on Millbank." He gently tapped the window with his finger and she looked out. "We've just driven past the Houses of Parliament."

Through the rear window, Sophie caught a glimpse of the spectacularly lit English parliament building. The lighting gave it a warm, almost otherworldly appearance.

"How are you feeling?" Nicholas asked.

"Exhausted," she admitted.

"I'm not surprised after what you've just done. You do know that what you did today is unique in human history: you defeated an Archon."

She swallowed more water. "Did I kill it?"

"No," Flamel said, and Sophie found she was secretly relieved. "Though I daresay you could if you were fully trained…" The Alchemyst paused for a moment, then added, "Once you're trained, I don't think there is anything you-or your brother-could not do."

"Nicholas," Sophie said, suddenly sad, "I don't want to be trained. I just want to go home. I'm sick of all this, the running and fighting. I'm sick of feeling ill, of the constant headaches, the pains in my eyes and ears, the knot in my stomach." She realized she was on the verge of tears, and rubbed her face with her hands. She wasn't going to cry now. "When can we go home?"

There was a long silence, and when Flamel finally answered, his accent had thickened, his French ancestry clearly audible. "I am hoping I can take you back to America soon-perhaps even tomorrow. But you cannot go back home. Not just yet."

"Then when? We can't run and hide forever. Our parents are already asking questions. What do we tell them?" She held out her hand and watched a smooth mirrorlike silver skin form over her soft flesh. "How do we tell them about this?"

"You don't," Nicholas said simply. "But maybe you won't have to. Things are moving quickly, Sophie." His accent made her name sound exotic. "Faster than I imagined or anticipated. Everything is coming to a head. The Dark Elders seem to have abandoned all caution in their desperation to capture you and the pages from the Codex. Look at what they have done: they have loosed Nidhogg, the Wild Hunt and even the Archon Cernunnos on the world. These are creatures and beings that have not walked this earth for centuries. For ages they wanted Perenelle and me captured alive for our knowledge of the Codex and the twins; now they want us dead. They do not need us anymore, because they have most of the Book and they know you and your brother are the twins of the prophecy." Nicholas sighed, an exhausted sound. "I once thought we had a month at the most-a month before the immortality spell failed and Perenelle and I dissolved into withered old age. I no longer think that. In little over two weeks it will be Litha: midsummer. It is an incredibly significant day; a day when the Shadowrealms draw close to this world. I believe it will all be over then, one way or the other."

"What do you mean, all over?" Sophie asked, chilled.

"Everything will have changed."

"Everything has already changed," she snapped, fear making her angry. Josh stirred in his sleep but didn't waken. "This is all normal for you. You live in a world of monsters and creatures and fairy tales. But Josh and I don't. Or didn't," she amended. "Not until you and your wife chose us…"

"Oh, Sophie," Nicholas said very softly. "This has nothing to do with Perenelle and me." He laughed quietly to himself. "You and your brother were chosen a long time ago." He leaned forward, eyes bright in the darkness. "You are silver and gold, the moon and the sun. You carry within you the genes of the original twins who fought on Danu Talis ten millennia ago. Sophie, you and your brother are the descendants of gods." s there someone you could call upon for help?" Juan Manuel de Ayala asked.

"I'm not sure there is." Perenelle was leaning on a wooden rail almost directly over the official sign that welcomed visitors to the island.