"The Sorceress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Scott Michael)

UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY

Over the sign the words Indians Welcome had been daubed in red paint and beneath it, in larger fading red letters, were the words Indian Land. She knew they had been painted there in 1969 when the American Indian Movement had occupied the island.

The Sorceress had spent the remainder of the afternoon systematically going over the island, looking for some way to escape. There were no boats, though there was plenty of wood and lumber, and she briefly considered making a raft, using towels and blankets from the cell exhibits to lash the wood together. In 1962, three prisoners had supposedly escaped by building their own raft. But Perenelle knew that nothing was going to get past Nereus and his savage daughters. From her second-floor position on the dock over the bookshop, Perenelle could see the heads of the Nereids bobbing in the water directly in front of her, long hair floating behind them like seaweed. From a distance they might have looked like seals, but these creatures were unmoving, and fixed her with cold unblinking eyes. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of jagged teeth as they chewed still-wriggling fish. No doubt they had heard what she'd done to their father.

She had found clothes on her tour of the island and was now dressed in a set of coarse prison trousers and shirt, both of which were at least two sizes too large for her and which scratched everywhere. The clothes had been part of the display that had once greeted the many visitors to the island. But since Dee's company had taken over, there had been no visitors to Alcatraz for months. Perenelle discovered that many of the cells were decorated with artifacts and items that would once have belonged to the prisoners. Going through the cells, she had found a heavy black coat hanging on a peg and taken that. Although it smelled musty and felt slightly damp, it was still a lot warmer than the light silk dress she'd been wearing, and meant that she would not have to expend her energy keeping warm. She had found no food but had discovered a dusty metal cup in the kitchen, and once she'd cleaned it out, there were plenty of rainwater pools scattered around the island. The water tasted slightly of salt, but not enough to make her feel ill.

As the afternoon had worn on, she'd finally ended up on the dock, where all the visitors-prisoners and tourists-to Alcatraz would have started and finished their journeys. She'd discovered a flight of stairs to the left of the bookshop that led up to the second floor, and had climbed up. Now, leaning on the rail, she looked out over the waves. The city was tantalizingly close, just over a mile and a half away. Perenelle had grown up on the cold northwestern coast of France, in Brittany. She was a strong swimmer and loved the water, but swimming the treacherous and chilly waters of the bay was out of the question-even if Nereus and his daughters had not been waiting. She realized she really should have learned how to fly when they were in India in the days of the Mughal Empire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would." Perenelle smiled. "Nicholas might not."

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

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

"But you have friends in the city?" the ghost pressed.

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

"Two hundred and more years…"

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

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

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

"You did not want to run?" the ghost asked.

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

"Why didn't you?" de Ayala wondered aloud.

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

"And you did not agree?"

"Did you ever hear of an Italian called Niccolo Machiavelli?" Perenelle asked.

"I have not."

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

"He does not sound like anice person," de Ayala said.

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

"And you wanted to?" de Ayala asked.

"Yes, I was in favor of imprisoning him in Temujin's Mongol Empire Shadowrealm."

"But your husband said no?"

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

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

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

"Would you both have been able to disappear completely?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, she's not in San Francisco right now." Perenelle smiled. "But it matters not."

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

"I will scry."

"Whom will you call?" the ghost asked, curious.

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

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

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

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

"He is."

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

"On fire, the last time I saw him."

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

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

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

"The English Magician, Dee, is with him," Palamedes added.

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

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

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

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

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

The light turned green and the cab pulled away. Behind them, Big Ben chimed midnight. rightened, aching and exhausted, Sophie tried her best to edge away from the tramp. He had squeezed in between the twins and she could feel a chill damp seeping from his bundled overcoats into her jeans and across her left arm. On his opposite side she noticed her brother also inch away, and from the corner of her eye, she could see that Nicholas had pressed himself back into the shadows. She watched as he raised his right hand and let it casually rest across his mouth, covering the lower half of his face, and she got the feeling that he was trying to hide from the old man.

"Oh, but this will not do." Gilgamesh pushed himself up and flopped down into the small pull-down seat directly facing them. "Now I can see you properly." He clapped his hands lightly. "So what have we here?"

Sodium streetlights and the passing headlights of other cars briefly illuminated the interior of the cab. Tilting her head to one side, Sophie focused on the homeless man, her enhanced senses taking in every detail. Surely this couldn't be the person they had come to London to see, the immortal called Gilgamesh, the oldest human on the planet. Nicholas had called him a king, Palamedes had said he was insane; he looked neither, just a harmless old vagrant wearing too many clothes and in need of a haircut and beard trim. But if the last few days had taught her anything, it was that no one was what they seemed.

"Well, this is pleasant," Gilgamesh said, folding his hands in his lap. He smiled happily. He spoke English with a trace of an indefinable accent, vaguely Middle Eastern. "I always say you never know when you wake in the morning how the day will end. I like that: keeps you young."

"And how old are you?" Josh immediately asked.

"Old," Gilgamesh said simply, and grinned. "Older than I look, but not as old as I feel."

Random images flickered into Sophie's head. These were the Witch's memories. Joan of Arc had taught her how to ignore them and dismiss the constant buzzing voices and noises she heard in her head, but this time Sophie deliberately let her guard down…

Gilgamesh, ageless and unchanging.

Gilgamesh, standing tall and proud, a ruler, in the costumes of a dozen ages and as many civilizations: Sumerian and Akkadian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman, and then the fur and leather of Gaul and Britain.

Gilgamesh the warrior, leading Celts and Vikings, Rus and Huns into battle against men and monsters.

Gilgamesh the teacher, in the plain white robes of a priest, oak and mistletoe in his hands.

Sophie's eyes blinked silver and she spoke in a hoarse whisper. "You are the Ancient of Days."

Gilgamesh drew in a quick breath. "It has been a long time since anyone called me that," he said very slowly. "Who told you that?" There was a note almost of fear in his voice.

The girl shook her head. "I just knew."

Josh smiled. "Are you as old as the pyramids?"

"Older, much, much older," Gilgamesh said happily.

"The king's age is measured in millennia and not centuries," Palamedes offered from the front of the car.

Sophie guessed that Gilgamesh wasn't much taller than Josh, but his thickly bundled clothing-coats worn on top of coats, multiple fleeces, T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts-bulked him out, and his mass of wild hair and ragged beard made him look like an old man. Eyeing him closely, trying to see beyond the hair, Sophie discovered that he reminded her of her father, with his high forehead, long straight nose and bright blue eyes peering out of a deeply tanned face. She thought he looked like he was around the same age, too: midforties.

They passed a brightly lit store. It illuminated the interior of the cab in bright yellow-white light, and Sophie also realized that what she'd first taken for dirty and stained patches on the king's bundled clothes were odd symbols and lines of script written onto the cloth in what appeared to be black felt-tip marker. Squinting, she recognized what looked like cuneiform and Egyptian hieroglyphics, and what she had first assumed were tears or pulls in the fabric were long thick jagged stitches that looked almost like early writing. She was sure she had seen ancient clay tablets in her parents' study with similar scratches on them.

Sophie was conscious that the old man was looking at her and her brother, bright blue eyes flickering from her face to Josh's and back again, frown lines on his forehead and on either side of his nose deepening as he concentrated. And even before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say.

"I know you."

Sophie glanced at her brother. The Horned God had said exactly the same words. Josh caught the look, squeezed his lips tightly shut and shook his head slightly; it was a signal they'd used many times when they were growing up. He was telling her to say nothing. "Where did we meet?" he asked.

Gilgamesh put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. He brought his palms together, fingers straight, and then pressed the two index fingers against the cleft beneath his nose and stared at them. "We met a long time ago," he said finally, "when I was young, young, young." Then his blue eyes clouded. "No, that's not right. I saw you fight and fall…" His voice caught and suddenly his eyes shone with tears. His voice turned raw with pain. "I saw you both die."

Sophie and Josh looked at one another, startled, but Flamel moved in the shadows, forestalling their questions. "The king's memory is often faulty," he said quickly. "Do not believe everything he says." He made it sound like a warning.

"You saw us die?" Sophie asked, ignoring Flamel. Gilgamesh's words had awakened gossamer threads of memories, but even as she tried to focus on them, they slipped away and faded.

"The skies bled tears of fire. Oceans boiled and the earth was rent asunder…," Gilgamesh said in a lost whisper.

"When was this?" Josh asked quickly, eager for more information.

"In that time before time, the time before history."

"Nothing the king says can be taken as accurate," Flamel said coldly, voice loud in the suddenly silent cab. His French accent had thickened, as it did when he was under pressure. "I'm not sure the human brain is designed to hold and store something like ten millennia's worth of knowledge. His Majesty often gets confused."

Sophie reached across the seat and squeezed her brother's hand. When he looked at her, this time she squeezed her lips tightly and shook her head, warning him not to say anything. She wanted time to explore the Witch's memories and thoughts. There was something at the very edge of her consciousness, something dark and ugly, something to do with Gilgamesh and twins. She saw her brother nod, a tiny movement of his head, and then he looked back at the tramp. "So… you're ten thousand years old?" he said carefully.

"Most people laugh when they say that," Gilgamesh said. "But not you. Why is that?"

Josh grinned. "In the last couple of days, I've been Awakened by a buried legend, ridden on the back of a dragon and fought the Horned God. I've been to a Shadowrealm and seen a tree as big as the world. I've watched men change into wolves and dogs, seen a woman with the head of a cat… or maybe it was a cat with the body of a woman. So, to be honest, a ten-thousand-year-old man isn't really that strange. And actually, you're probably the most normal-looking of all the people we've met. No offense," he added quickly.

"None taken." Gilgamesh nodded. "I may be ten thousand and more years old." Then his voice altered, suddenly sounding tired. "Or I may be just a confused old fool. Lots of people have called me that. Though they're all dead." He grinned, then twisted in the seat and tapped on the glass partition. "Where are we going, Pally?"

The Saracen Knight was a vague shape in the gloom. "Well, first we wanted to see you…"

Gilgamesh smiled happily.

"… and then I want to get these people off the island. I'm taking them to the Henge."

"The Henge?" the tramp asked, frowning. "Do I know it?"

"Stonehenge," Flamel said from the shadows. "You should; you helped build it."

Gilgamesh's bright blue eyes turned cloudy. He squinted toward the Alchemyst, peering into the gloom. "Did I? I don't remember."

"It was a long time ago," Flamel murmured. "I think you started raising the stones more than four thousand years ago."

"Oh no, it's older," Gilgamesh said suddenly, brightening. "I started working on that at least a thousand years earlier. And the site was ancient even then…" His voice trailed away and he looked at Sophie and then Josh. Then he turned back to Palamedes. "And why are we going there?"

"We're going to try and activate one of the ancient ley lines and get these people out of the country."

Gilgamesh nodded. "Ley lines. Yes, lots of ley lines in Salisbury. One of the reasons I raised the gates there. And why do we want to get them out of the country?"

"Because these children are the sun and the moon," Flamel said, "with auras of pure gold and silver. And they are being hunted by the Dark Elders, who this very night brought an Archon back onto the earth. Two days ago Nidhogg rampaged through Paris. You know what that means."

Something altered in the king's voice. It became cold and businesslike. "They've stopped being cautious. It means the end is coming. And soon."

"Coming again," Nicholas Flamel said. He leaned forward, and amber light washed across his face, turning it the color of old parchment; the shadows highlighted the wrinkles across his forehead and emphasized the bags under his eyes. "You could help stop it."

"Alchemyst!" Gilgamesh's eyes widened and he hissed in alarm. "Palamedes! What have you done?" he shouted, voice high and wild. "You have betrayed me!"

And suddenly, a long black-bladed knife appeared in the tramp's hand. It flashed in the light as Gilgamesh stabbed it toward Flamel's chest. ilthy and disheveled, his clothing ripped and stained, hair wild about his head, Dr. John Dee skulked down the empty streets, keeping to the shadows as police, fire trucks and ambulances raced past, sirens howling. A series of rattling explosions lit up the night sky behind him as gas canisters ignited. The cool June night air stank of burning rubber and hot oil, seared metal and melted glass.

When Flamel and the others had escaped in the car, Dee had raced over to the moat, dropped to his belly in the mud and pushed his left arm down into the oily sludge where Excalibur had sunk. It was deeper than he'd expected and it swallowed his arm almost up to his shoulder. The liquid was thick and still warm where it had burned, and noxious bubbles burst under his nose, making him nauseous and lightheaded. His eyes stung furiously. He felt around, searching frantically, but touched nothing. He could hear sirens in the distance; the flaming moat must have been seen all across North London, and no doubt there had been scores of calls to the emergency services. Digging the fingers of his right hand into the soft muddy earth, he held on tightly as he leaned farther out over the edge, the side of his face actually touching the liquid. Where was it? He wasn't leaving without the sword. Finally, his fingers closed over a smooth length of cold stone. It took a tremendous effort to lift Excaliber out of the thick liquid. It came free with a pop. Rolling onto his back, he cradled it against his chest. Even though he was exhausted, Dee charged his palm with his aura and rubbed yellow power across the stone, wiping away the filthy muck.

Clambering to his feet, he looked around. But there was no trace of the Horned God or the Wild Hunt. The last of the menagerie Shakespeare had created-the snakes, hedgehogs and newts-were slowly winking out of existence, like bursting bubbles, leaving sooty outlines in the air. The car yard was a ruin, with scores of tiny fires burning everywhere, and black smoke billowed out from beneath the metal hut. Fire burned within. Somewhere off to the right a wall of cars creaked ominously, then swayed and crashed to the ground in a huge detonation of metal. Metal and glass shards whined through the air.

Dee turned and raced onto the street. He was unsurprised to find that Bastet and the car they'd arrived in had disappeared.

He'd been abandoned. More than that, he was truly on his own.

Dee was bitterly aware that he had failed his Dark Elder masters. And they had been very clear about what would happen to him. He had no doubt that Bastet had reported his failure. His lips twisted in an ugly smile. One of these days he was going to have to do something about that cat-headed creature. But not now, not yet. He had failed, but all was not lost, not unless his master withdrew the gift of immortality, and before his master could make him human again, he would have to touch him, lay both hands on him. That meant either his master would come out of the Shadowrealms or someone-or something-would be sent to capture Dee and drag him back to stand trial.

But that wasn't going to happen immediately. The Elders understood time differently than the humani; it would take a day, maybe two, to organize for his capture. And a lot could happen in that time.

Even in his darkest hour, Dr. John Dee had never admitted defeat, and he had always ultimately triumphed. If he could capture the twins and find the missing pages, then he was confident he would be able to redeem himself.

London was still his city. His company, Enoch Enterprises, had offices on Canary Wharf. He had a home here-more than one, in fact-and he had resources he could call upon: servants, slaves, allies and mercenaries.

Stupidity always angered Dee; especially his own stupidity. He had been overawed by the presence of Bastet and the appearance of the Archon and the Wild Hunt; he had not taken the proper precautions. On previous occasions the Flamels had escaped by a combination of luck, circumstances or their own skills and powers. But Dee had never considered himself to blame. This time it was different. This was entirely his own fault. He had underestimated the twins.

Blue and white lights washed over boarded-up houses, and the Magician ducked down behind a wall as a trio of police cars screamed past.

He knew the girl had been trained in at least two of the magics-Air and Fire-and she'd demonstrated extraordinary skill and courage when she'd faced down the Archon. But if the girl was dangerous, then the boy… well, the boy was doubly so. He was an enigma. Newly Awakened, untrained in any of the elemental magics, he handled Clarent as if he'd been born to it, and fought with a skill that was far beyond him. And that should have been impossible.

The Magician shook his head. He knew the ultimate secret of the four Swords of Power; he knew what they did to normal humani. The swords were insidious and deadly, almost vampiric in nature. They whispered of victories to come, hinted at secrets beyond imagining and made promises of ultimate power. All the humani had to do was to keep using the weapon… and all the while, the sword was drinking the humani's memories, consuming their every emotion before it finally gorged upon their aura. At that stage the humani forgot to eat and drink. The strongest survived for a month; most didn't last ten days. Magicians like him spent decades of preparation before they even touched the cold stone weapons; it took months of fasting and practice before they learned the art of forging their auras into protective gloves. Even then, the swords were so powerful that many a magician and sorcerer had succumbed to them.

So how was the boy able to handle Clarent?

And how had he known that Dee intended to kill the Archon?

The Magician cut through a narrow trash-filled alley and slunk down a deserted street. He pressed his hand to his side, where he could feel Excalibur's warmth beneath his filthy coat. All four swords were very similar, though each was unique in ways he could not even begin to understand. Excalibur was the best known of all the swords, and while it was not the most powerful, it had attributes the other swords lacked. Ducking into another deserted alley, John Dee pulled the sword from beneath his coat and set it on the ground at his feet. His little fingernail glowed yellow, and the smell of brimstone was lost amid the stinking refuse as he touched the blade with his finger and whispered, "Clarent."

The stone sword trembled and vibrated and then slowly turned, the blade pointing south. Excalibur always pointed toward its twin. Dee snatched up the weapon and hurried on.

The Magician had spent centuries collecting the Swords of Power. He had three of the four, and he'd just come frustratingly close to adding Clarent to his collection. Neither Elders nor Next Generation were immune to the lure of the Swords. It was said that Mars Ultor had worn both Excalibur and Clarent in matched scabbards across his back. He had been the champion of the humani before he'd carried the twin blades; afterward he became a monster. And if the two swords had corrupted the Elder, then what chance had an untrained humani boy? Every time the boy held it, every time he touched the hilt, it drew him deeper under its control. And so long as he carried it, Dee would always be able to find him. iccolo Machiavelli sat back in his chair and focused on the largest of the high-definition LCD screens on the wall before him. He was watching the English satellite news service Sky News. The two a.m. headlines showed an aerial shot of a fire raging through an industrial area. The line of text crawling across the bottom of the screen announced that the fire was in a car yard in North London. Machiavelli had seen enough castle fortifications in his time to recognize the design, even though this one was made of cars rather than slabs of stone. The black outline of a moat was still clearly visible, gray smoke curling from it.

Machiavelli grinned as he reached for the remote control and brought up the volume. That particular location sounded familiar. On a separate screen he activated his encrypted database of Elders, Next Generation and immortals and typed in the location in North London. Two names immediately popped up: Palamedes, the Saracen Knight, and the Bard, William Shakespeare.

Machiavelli scanned both files: Shakespeare had been Dee's apprentice for years, until he'd suddenly turned against the Magician. He was immortal, though how he'd become so was a mystery, since he was associated with no known Elder. Palamedes was an enigma. A warrior-prince of Babylon, he'd fought with Arthur and had been there at the end, when the king had been killed. Again, there was no record of who had made him immortal, and traditionally the Saracen Knight had remained neutral in the wars between the Elders and the Dark Elders.

Machiavelli had never met either immortal, though he had known about them for generations and had longed to meet the Bard. Machiavelli had always wondered how and when and where Shakespeare and Palamedes had originally met. According to his files, their first recorded meeting was in London in the nineteenth century, but Machiavelli suspected they'd known one another a long time before that; there was some evidence to suggest that the Bard had originally written the part of Othello for Palamedes early in the seventeenth century. Shakespeare had turned up in London sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century as a ragpicker, a dealer in secondhand clothing. At least sixty barefoot urchins worked for him, sleeping in the attic of his warehouse on the docks, then going out during the day to scour the city for cast-off clothing and rags. There was a police report on file that the warehouse was suspected of storing stolen goods, and it had been raided at least twice. The Saracen Knight had been in London at the same time, earning his living as an actor in theaters in the West End. He specialized in monologues from Shakespeare's plays.

Machiavelli examined a grainy photograph of the man identified as William Shakespeare. Taken with a telephoto lens, it showed a rather ordinary-looking man dressed in stained blue overalls, bending over the engine of a car, a scattering of tools and car parts by his feet. Two dogs were visible in the background, and the photography had given both dogs red eyes. The second photograph was higher resolution. It showed a huge dark-skinned man leaning against the side of a gleaming London taxi, drinking tea from a white paper cup. The wheel of the London Eye was just visible in the background.

A male reporter's voice filled the room. "… raging for the past two hours in this car yard. At this time, no bodies have been removed from the scene, and officers do not expect to find any. Officials have expressed concern because of the huge amount of combustible material in the area, and firemen are using breathing apparatuses to enter the yard. There is a fear that if the stacked tires start to burn, they will release noxious gases. There is some consolation, however, that in this run-down part of London, most of the houses are abandoned and derelict…"

Machiavelli hit the Mute button. Leaning back in his leather chair, he ran his hands over his close-cropped white hair, hearing it rasp in the silence. So, had Dee killed the Alchemyst and captured the twins?

The reporter appeared on-screen holding a handful of what looked like flint arrowheads, and Machiavelli almost fell off the chair in his haste to turn on the sound.

"… and bizarrely found hundreds of what look like flint arrowheads." The camera panned around and showed broken arrows and spears scattered all over the ground. Machiavelli recognized the stubby lengths of crossbow bolts.

Well, if Dee had captured the twins, it hadn't been without a fight.

Machiavelli's cell phone buzzed, startling him. Pulling it out of his inner pocket, he stared at the screen, immediately recognizing the overlong number and impossible area code. He took a deep breath before answering. "Yes?"

"Dee has failed." Machiavelli's Elder's voice was little more than a thready whisper. He spoke in Late Egyptian, the language used in the New Kingdom over three thousand years ago.

Machiavelli responded in the formal Italian of his youth. "I'm watching the news. I see there's a fire in London; I know that location is associated with two neutral immortals. I assume there is some connection to the two events."

"Flamel and the twins were there. They escaped."

"It looks like the location was defended; the television report is showing evidence of a fight-arrows, spears and crossbow bolts. Perhaps we should have given the English Magician more resources," Machiavelli suggested carefully.

"Bastet was there."

Machiavelli kept his face impassive; he despised the cat-headed goddess but knew she was close to his Elder master.

"And Cernunnos was tasked with helping the Magician."

Machiavelli came slowly to his feet. "The Archon?" he asked, struggling to keep the shock out of his voice.

"And the Archon brought the Wild Hunt. I did not authorize this; none of us did. We do not want the Archons back in this world."

"Who did?"

"The others," the voice said shortly. "Dee's masters and their supporters. This could work to our advantage; now that the Magician has failed, they must order his destruction."

Machiavelli placed the phone on the table and hit the Speaker button. Straightening his suit jacket, he folded his arms across his chest and looked at the wall of television and computer screens. Most of the news channels had started to show video of the fire in North London. "Dee is no fool, he must know that he is in danger."

"He does."

Machiavelli placed himself in Dee's position, wondering what he would do if the roles were reversed. "He knows he has to capture the twins and those pages," he said decisively. "It is the only way to get back into his Elders' good graces. He will be desperate. And desperate men do stupid things."

The reporter was talking to an excitable bearded man, who was holding up one of the spearheads and waving it around.

"What do you want me to do?" Machiavelli asked.

"Is there any way you can help us locate Flamel and the twins in England before Dee does?"

"I do not see how…," Machiavelli began.

"Why is Flamel in London? Why risk bringing the twins into the heart of Dee's empire? We know he is trying to train the twins. So, who-amongst the Elders, Next Generation or immortals-could he be planning on meeting?"

"It could be anyone." Machiavelli blinked in surprise. Not taking his eyes off the TV screens, he continued, "I am head of the French secret service. How would I know who is even in London?" He was pleased that his voice remained neutral and calm.

"Surely the information is in your database?" the voice on the phone asked, and the Italian was sure he could hear the smile in the comment.

"My database?" he asked carefully.

"Yes, your secret database."

Machiavelli sighed. "Obviously not that secret. How many know about it?" he wondered aloud.

"The Magician knows," the voice said, "and he told his masters… and I… well, let us say I discovered it from them."

Machiavelli kept his face carefully neutral, just in case his master could actually see him. He had always known about the different factions within the Dark Elders. He wasn't surprised. The Dark Elders had once been rulers, and where there were rulers, there were always others waiting, plotting, planning to take over. This was the type of politics Machiavelli understood and excelled in.

The Italian sat down and rested his fingers on the keyboard. "What do you want to know?" he asked with a sigh.

"London belongs to the Magician. But Flamel has the two that are one, and both have been Awakened. The girl knows Air and Fire, the boy knows nothing. Who, in London, has mastery of any of the elemental magics and, more importantly, would be sympathetic enough to Flamel and his cause to train the twins?"

"Surely you have other means of discovering this?" Machiavelli asked, fingers moving over the wafer-thin keyboard.

"Of course."

Machiavelli understood. His Elder did not want the others to know he was looking for the information. A screen of names, some with attached photographs, appeared: Elders in London with control over one or more of the elemental magics. "There are twelve Elders in London," he said, "and they are all loyal to us."

"What about Next Generation?"

Sixteen names appeared on the screen. Machiavelli checked their allegiances and again shook his head. "All loyal to us," he repeated. "Few who side against us choose to live in England, though there are some in Scotland and one in Ireland."

"Try immortal humans."

Machiavelli's fingers danced across the keys and half a screen of names appeared. "There are immortal humans scattered all across England, Wales and Scotland…," he said, fingers moving on the keyboard as he narrowed the search, "but only five in London."

"Who are they?"

"Shakespeare and Palamedes…"

"Shakespeare has disappeared, possibly dead in the fire in London," Machiavelli's master said immediately, "and Palamedes was seen with the Alchemyst. Neither has mastery of an elemental magic. Who else?"

"Baybars the Mamluk…"

"Friend of Palamedes and no friend to us. He has no knowledge of the elemental magics."

"Virginia Dare…"

"Dangerous, deadly and loyal to none but herself. Her master is dead; I believe she may have killed him. She is a Mistress of Air, but she has no love for Flamel and has fought alongside Dee in the past. Flamel will not go to her."

Machiavelli looked at the final name blinking on the screen. "And then there is Gilgamesh."

"The king," the voice sighed, "who knows all the magics, but has no power to use them. Of course."

"Where do his loyalties lie?" Machiavelli wondered aloud. "His name is not associated with any Elder."

"Abraham the Mage, the creator of the Codex, is responsible for Gilgamesh's immortality. I believe the process was flawed. It fractured his mind, and the centuries have made him both mad and forgetful. He might teach the twins, though he could just as easily refuse. Do you have an address?"

"No fixed abode," Machiavelli said. "Looks like he's living on the streets. I have a note here that he is usually to be found sleeping in the park close to the Buxton Monument, which is in the shadow of the Houses of Parliament. If Flamel and the twins were at that car yard in North London, it will take them some time to get across the city."

"My spy reported that a black vehicle left that location at high speed."

Machiavelli looked up at the photo of Palamedes standing alongside a black London cab. He scrolled down until he found the license plate. "The English capital has more traffic and security cameras than any other city in Europe," he said absently. "Even more than Paris. However, they use the same traffic monitoring system that we use here." Two of the screens turned black, and then short lines of code started to appear as Machiavelli hacked into London's traffic cameras. "And the same software."

The Italian brought up a high-resolution map of London, found the Buxton Monument in Victoria Tower Gardens alongside the Houses of Parliament and then pinpointed the nearest traffic lights. Sixty seconds later he was looking at the live feed from the traffic camera. Watching the time code, he started running it in reverse: 2:05… 2:04… 2:03… Traffic was sparse, and he sped up the digital video, jumping backward in five-minute intervals. The time code had reversed to 00:01 before he finally found what he was looking for. A black taxicab had stopped at the lights almost directly opposite the monument and a homeless man had shuffled out of the park to wipe the windows. The cab had sat at the light even though it had changed from red to green. Then the same homeless man climbed into the back of the cab and it pulled away.

"I've got him," he said. "They're heading west toward the A302."

"Where are they going?" Machiavelli's master demanded. "I want to know where they're going."

"Give me a minute…" Using illegal access codes, Machiavelli hopped from traffic camera to traffic camera, tracking the cab by its number plate across Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly and onto the A4. "He's heading out of London," he said finally.

"Which direction?"

"West onto the M4."

"Where are they going?" the Elder snarled. "Why are they leaving London? Surely if they are trying to convince Gilgamesh to teach the twins one of the elemental magics, they could do it at a safe house in the city?"

Machiavelli increased the resolution on the map, looking for items of significance on their route. "Stonehenge," he said suddenly. "I'll wager they are going to Stonehenge. He's heading for the ley lines on Salisbury Plain," he announced confidently.

"Those gates have been dead for centuries," the Elder said. "Assuming he chose the correct gate, it would still need a powerful aura to activate them."

"And Gilgamesh has no aura," Machiavelli said very softly. "The Alchemyst would have to do it himself. But that would be madness; in his weakened state, the effort would burn through his aura and consume him in seconds."

"That might be just enough time to open the gate and push the twins through," the Dark Elder said.

Machiavelli looked up at the screen, tracking the black cab as it drove down the A4, washed yellow in the glare of sodium light. "Would Nicholas Flamel sacrifice himself for the twins?" he wondered aloud.

"Does he believe-truly believe-these to be the real twins?"

"Yes. Dee also believes that, and so do I."

"Then I have no doubt that he would sacrifice himself to save them."

"There is one other option," Machiavelli said. "Could he not have the twins open the gates? We know their auras are powerful."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. The Italian heard ghostly snatches of song, like the sounds of a distant radio. But the song was a Spartan marching ballad. "The gate on Salisbury comes out on the West Coast of America, north of San Francisco."

"I could have told you that," Machiavelli said.

"We will lay our plans accordingly," the Elder said.

"Well, what exactly does that mean…," Machiavelli began, but the phone was dead. osh's right hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Gilgamesh's wrist. He squeezed and twisted all in one movement and the knife fell from the king's hand, embedding itself point-first in the rubber matting on the floor. Sophie bent down and quickly scooped it up.

"Hey," Palamedes shouted at the sudden commotion. "What's going on back there?"

"Nothing," Flamel answered quickly, before Josh or Sophie could say anything. "Everything is under control."

Gilgamesh sat back in the seat, nursing his bruised wrist, glaring at the Alchemyst. He looked at the knife in Sophie's hands. "I want that back."

Ignoring him, she passed it to her brother, who handed it to Nicholas. She was shaking with the shock of what had just happened… and something else, too: fear. She had never seen Josh move like that before. Even with her enhanced senses, she had barely registered that Gilgamesh had a knife in his hand and then Josh had struck, neatly disarming him without saying a word or even rising from his seat. Drawing her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her chin on her knees. "Do you want to tell us what that was all about?" she asked quietly.

"It took me a while," Gilgamesh said grimly, staring at Flamel. "But I knew there was something about you, something familiar." He wrinkled his nose. "I should have recognized your foul stench." He sniffed. "Is it still mint or have you changed it to something more appropriate?"

Both twins automatically sniffed the air but could smell nothing.

"It is still mint," the Alchemyst said softly.

"I see you know one another," Josh said.

"We've met over the years," Nicholas agreed. He looked at the king. "Perenelle told me to say hello."

Streetlights ran liquid down Gilgamesh's face as he turned to look at the twins. "And I knew I'd met you before," he snapped.

"We've never seen you before in our lives," Josh said sincerely.

"Honestly, we haven't," Sophie agreed.

A look of confusion passed across the immortal's face; then he shook his head. "No, you're lying. You're Americans. We've met before. All of you." He pointed at each of them in turn. "You two were with the Flamels. That's when you tried to kill me."

"It wasn't these twins," Nicholas said quietly. "And we weren't trying to kill you. We were trying to save you."

"Maybe I didn't want to be saved," Gilgamesh said petulantly. He dipped his head so that his hair fell over his forehead, covering his eyes. Then he peered out at the twins. "Gold and silver, eh?"

They both nodded.

"The twins of legend?"

"So we're told." Josh smiled. He glanced sidelong at his sister and saw her nod; she knew the question he was about to ask. She focused on the Alchemyst as Josh spoke, watching his reaction, but his face was a mask, and the passing streetlights turned it dark and ugly. Her brother leaned toward Gilgamesh. "Do you remember when you met the other American twins?"

"Of course." The king frowned. "Why, it was only last month…" His voice trailed away into silence. When he spoke again, there was a note of terrible loss in his voice. "No. It was not last month, or last year, or even in the last decade. It was…" His gaze drifted and he turned to look at the Alchemyst. "When was it?"

The twins both turned to Flamel.

"In 1945," he said shortly.

"And it was in America?" Gilgamesh asked. "Tell me it was America."

"It was in New Mexico."

The king clapped his hands. "At least I was right about that. What happened to the last pair?" he suddenly asked Flamel.

The Alchemyst remained silent.

"I think we'd like to hear the answer too," Sophie said coldly, eyes blinking silver. "We know there've been other twins."

"Lots of other twins," Josh added.

"What happened to them?" Sophie demanded. Somewhere at the back of her mind she thought she already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear Flamel say it out loud.

"There have been other twins in the past," Nicholas admitted finally. "But they were not the right twins."

"And they all died!" Josh said, a crack of anger in his voice. The scent of oranges filled the cab, but the odor was sour and bitter.

"No, not all," Flamel snapped. "Some did, and some went on to live to old age. Including the last pair."

"And what happened to the ones who didn't survive?" Sophie asked quickly.

"A few were damaged by the Awakening process."

"Damaged?" She picked up on the word, determined not to let him get away with anything.

The Alchemyst sighed. "Anyone can be Awakened. But no two people react to the process in the same way. Some were not strong enough to handle the wash of emotions. Some fell into comas, others ended up lost in dreams or unable to cope with the real world, or their personalities split and they spent their days in institutions."

Sophie began to tremble. She felt physically sickened by what Flamel was saying. Even the way he reported it-coldly, without emotion-frightened her. She knew now that Josh's suspicions were justified: the Alchemyst was not to be trusted. When Nicholas Flamel had brought them to the Witch of Endor to be Awakened, he had been fully aware of the terrible consequences of a failed Awakening. But he'd still been willing to go through with it.

Josh slid across the seat, moving closer to his sister, wrapping his arms around her, holding her. He couldn't speak. He knew that he was close, dangerously close, to hitting the Alchemyst.

"How many other sets of twins have there been, Flamel?" Gilgamesh asked. "You have lived on this earth for more than six hundred and seventy years. Was there one set a century? Two? Three? How many lives have you destroyed trying to find the twins of legend?"

"Too many," the Alchemyst whispered. He sat back into the shadows, and the passing streetlights painted his wet eyes sulfurous yellow. "I have forgotten my father's face and the sound of my mother's voice, but I remember the name and face of every twin, and not a day goes by that I do not think of them and regret their loss." And then the hand holding the black bladed knife jabbed out of the gloom at Sophie and Josh. "But every mistake I made, each failed Awakening, gradually and inexorably led me to these, the real twins of legend. And this time, I have no doubts." His voice rose, becoming harsh and raw. "And if they are trained in the elemental magics, then they will be able to stand against the Dark Elders. They will give this world a chance of survival in the battle to come. And then all the deaths and lost lives will not have been in vain." He leaned forward out of the shadows and glared at Gilgamesh. "Will you train them? Will you help them fight the Dark Elders? Will you teach them the Magic of Water?"

"Why should I?" Gilgamesh asked simply.

"You could help save the world."

"I saved it before. No one was grateful. And it is in worse shape today than it has ever been."

The Alchemyst's smile turned feral. "Train them. Empower them. We will take back the Codex from Dee and his Dark Elders and reunite it with the last two pages. I will surrender the Book to the twins: you know there are spells within the Book of Abraham that could return this world to a paradise."

The king leaned closer to the twins. "And there are spells within the Codex that could turn this world to a cinder," he said absently. His finger began moving, pointing to each of them in turn as he repeated the ancient verse. "'And the immortal must train the mortal and the two that are one, must become the one that is all.'" He sat back. "One to save the world, one to destroy it. But which one?"

The Witch's memories battered at Sophie's thoughts, random images leaking into her consciousness.

A tidal wave racing across a lush landscape, crashing into a forest, sweeping away everything before it…

A line of volcanoes erupting in sequence, tearing out huge chunks of landscape, the sea foaming white-hot against the red-black lava…

The skies boiling with storm clouds, raindrops dark with grit, snowflakes black with soot…

"I have no gift of foresight," Flamel snapped. "But this I know to be certain truth: if the twins are not trained and cannot protect themselves, then the Dark Elders will take them, enslave them and use their incredible auras to open the gates to the Shadowrealms. The Dark Elders are missing the Final Summoning from the Codex, but once they have these pages, then they will be able to reclaim this earth again."

"Even without the Codex, the Dark Elders could begin the process if they had the twins," Gilgamesh said, voice calm and even. "The Final Summoning is designed to open all the doors to the Shadowrealms simultaneously."

"What would happen to us afterward?" Josh asked, breaking the long silence that followed. He pressed his hands against his chest, feeling beneath his T-shirt, where he carried the two pages he'd torn from the Book of Abraham.

"There is no afterward, not for you or for any other human."

Palamedes drove for nearly ten minutes in silence, and then Gilgamesh cleared his throat and said, "I will train you in the Magic of Water on one condition."

"What condi-" Josh began.

"Agreed," Sophie interrupted. She turned to look at her brother. "There are no conditions."

"When all of this is over, and if we have survived, then I want you to promise that you will return here to me with the Book of Abraham," the king told them.

Josh was about to ask another question, but Sophie squeezed his fingers as hard as she could. "We'll come back, if we can."

"There is a spell in the Codex right on page one." The king closed his eyes and tilted his head back. His words were precise, his voice little more than a whisper. "I stood by Abraham's shoulder and watched him transcribe it. It is the formula of words that confers immortality. Bring that to me."

"Why?" Josh asked, puzzled. "You're already immortal."

Gilgamesh opened his eyes and looked at Sophie and she suddenly realized why he wanted the Book. "The king wants us to create the formula in reverse," she said softly. "He wants to become mortal again."

Gilgamesh bowed. "I want to live out my life and die. I want to be human again. I want to be normal."

Sitting facing him, Sophie Newman nodded in silent agreement. ven though the late-afternoon sun was warm on her face, Perenelle suddenly felt chilled. "What do you mean, you're not with Nicholas and the children?" she asked in alarm, staring intently into the flat metal plate filled with faintly discolored water. Wisps of her white aura crawled across the surface of the liquid.

Grass green eyes, huge, magnified and unblinking, stared out of the water. "We got separated." Even though it was barely audible, Scathach's voice sounded miserable. "I had a spot of bother," she admitted, embarrassment thickening her Celtic accent.

The Sorceress was sitting with her back to the warm stones of the Alcatraz lighthouse, staring into the liquid in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she raised her head to look at the city across the bay. The realization that Nicholas and the children were unprotected had set her heart thumping. When she'd been talking to him earlier, she'd just assumed Scathach was there, somewhere in the background, but she'd been distracted talking to William Shakespeare and then the vetala had attacked. She looked down again. Scathach had stepped back from whatever reflective surface was carrying the image and Perenelle was able to see more of her face. There was a quartet of long scratches like claw marks on Scatty's forehead, and one cheekbone looked bruised. "A spot of bother. Are you all right?" she asked. She had trouble trying to decide what the Shadow might call bother.

The Shadow's vampire teeth appeared in a savage inhuman smile. "Nothing I could not handle."

Perenelle knew she needed to remain calm and focus her aura. She was concentrating so hard on scrying and keeping the connection with Scathach that her other defenses were failing, and already she could see the flickering movement of the ghosts of Alcatraz in the air around her. As more and more of the protective layers of colors fell away from her aura, the ghosts would start to flock around her, disturbing her, and she'd lose the link with the Warrior Maid. "Scathach, tell me," she said calmly, staring hard at the water, "where are Nicholas and the twins?"

The Shadow's bright red hair swam into view. "London."

"I know that. I spoke to him earlier." Perenelle had picked up on the slightest hesitation in the Warrior's voice. "But…?"

"Well, we think they are still in London."

"Think!" The Sorceress drew in a deep breath and bit back a wave of anger. A tremor of white light curled across the surface of the water and the image rippled and fragmented. She was forced to wait until the image re-formed. "What's happened? Tell me everything you know."

"There have been some reports on the news channels of odd disturbances in the city last night…"

"Last night?" Perenelle asked, confused. "What time is it? What day?"

"It's Tuesday here in Paris. A little after two in the morning."

Perenelle did the calculation, working out the time difference: it was still Monday on the West Coast, and now around five p.m. "What sort of odd disturbances?" she continued.

"Sky News reported a thunderstorm and torrential downpour over one tiny section of North London. Then euronews and France24 carried a story about a huge fire in a derelict car yard, also in North London."

"That could be nothing," Perenelle said, though she instinctively knew it was somehow connected to Nicholas and the twins.

On the other side of the Atlantic, Scatty shook her head. "Flint arrowheads, bronze spears and crossbow bolts were found all around the burning yard. One of the news reporters showed a handful of the arrowheads to the camera. They looked brand-new. Some local historian dated them back to the Neolithic Period, but said the bronze spears were Roman and the crossbow bolts were Medieval. He claimed they were all genuine."

"There was a fight," Perenelle said curtly. "Who was involved?"

"Impossible to say, but you know what lives in and around that city."

Perenelle knew only too well. Scores of creatures had settled on the British Isles, drawn there by the abundance of ley lines and the Shadowrealms. And most were loyal to the Dark Elders.

"Were there any bodies found at this car yard?" she asked grimly. If anything had happened to Nicholas or the twins, she would tear the city apart looking for Dee. The hunter would discover what it was like to be hunted. And she had more than six hundred years of sorcerous knowledge to draw upon.

"The car yard was deserted. What looked like a moat of oil had been set alight, and everything was covered in a thick layer of gray ash."

"Ash?" Perenelle frowned. "Have you any idea what left it?"

"There are several creatures who turn to ash when they are killed," Scatty said slowly.

"Including immortal humans," Perenelle added.

"I do not believe Nicholas was killed," Scatty said quickly.

"Nor do I," the Sorceress whispered. She would know if anything had happened to him, she would feel it.

"Could you try to contact him?" Scatty asked.

"I could try, but if he's on the run…"

"You found me." The Warrior smiled. "Though you did give me quite a start." The Warrior had been standing before a bathroom mirror, rubbing antiseptic cream on her cuts, when the glass had fogged over, then cleared to reveal Perenelle Flamel. Scatty had almost stuck her finger in her eye.

Perenelle had got the idea to try scrying from the immortal human with the Anasazi bowl she'd caught spying on her earlier. She'd chosen the warmest spot on the island, where the white stones of the lighthouse were baked by the sun. Filling a shallow plate with water, she'd sat down and allowed the afternoon sun to charge her aura. Then she'd asked de Ayala to keep the rest of the ghosts of Alcatraz away from her as she lowered her defenses. She'd also asked him to warn her if the Crow Goddess approached. Perenelle didn't entirely trust the creature.

Creating the link with the Shadow had proven to be surprisingly easy. Perenelle had known Scathach for generations. She could clearly visualize everything about her: her bright red hair and brilliant green eyes, her round face and the dusting of freckles across her straight nose. Her fingernails were always ragged and chewed. She looked to be a girl around seventeen years old; in truth she was more than two thousand five hundred years old and was the finest martial artist in the world. She had trained most of the great warriors and heroes of legend and had saved the Flamels' lives on more than one occasion. They had returned the favor. Even though the Shadow was more than eighteen hundred years her senior, Perenelle had come to think of her if not as a daughter, then certainly as a niece. "Tell me what happened, Scatty," Perenelle demanded.

"Nicholas and the children escaped to London. He was taking the twins to see Gilgamesh."

Perenelle nodded. "I know that. Nicholas told me. He also said that both twins have been Awakened," she added.

"Both," Scatty agreed. "The girl has been trained in two of the elemental magics, but the boy has no training. However, he has Clarent."

"Clarent," Perenelle murmured. She'd watched her husband sink the ancient blade into the lintel over the window of their home on the Rue du Montmorency. She'd wanted to destroy it; he'd refused. He'd argued that it was older than a score of civilizations and they had no right to break it; he'd also argued that it was probably impossible to harm the blade anyway.

"So where are you?" Perenelle asked.

"Paris." Scathach's face swam in and out of focus. "It's a very long story. Parts of it are quite boring. Especially the bit where I was dragged into the Seine by Dagon…"

"You were dragged into the Seine!" Nicholas hadn't told her that.

Scatty nodded. "That happened just after I'd been rescued from the Nidhogg, which had rampaged through the streets of Paris."

Perenelle stared at her openmouthed. Finally, she said, "And where were Nicholas and the twins while all this was happening?"

"They were the ones who chased the Nidhogg through the streets and rescued me."

The Sorceress blinked in surprise. "That does not sound like my Nicholas."

"I think it was more the twins' doing," Scathach said. "Especially the boy, Josh. He saved my life. I think he slew the dragon."

"And then you fell into the river," Perenelle said.

"I was pulled," Scathach corrected her immediately. "Dagon came up like a crocodile and grabbed me."

"Did you not once fight him and a school of Potamoi fishmen on the Isle of Capri?"

Scatty's savage vampire teeth flashed again. "Now, that was a good day." Then her smile vanished. "Anyway, he turned up working with Machiavelli in Paris."

"I'd heard the Italian was in Paris." Perenelle nodded.

"Head of the secret service or something. I was only semiconscious when Dagon pulled me into the water. But the Seine was so cold that the shock brought me wide awake. We fought for hours while the currents dragged us downriver. It wasn't the toughest battle I've ever fought, but Dagon was in his element and the water took a lot of the force out of my blows."

"I see he managed to scratch you."

"Lucky hits," Scatty snorted, dismissing them. "I lost him somewhere around Les Damps, and it took me two days to get back to the city."

"Are you safe now?"

"I'm with Joan." The Shadow smiled. "And Saint-Germain, too." Her smile broadened. "They got married!"

She pulled her head back and a second face swam into view in the water, huge gray eyes dominating a small boyish face. "Madame Flamel."

"Joan!" Perenelle smiled. If she considered Scatty to be a niece, then Joan was the daughter she never had. "You finally married Francis?"

"Well, we have been seeing one another for centuries. It was time."

"It was. Joan, it is good to see you," Perenelle continued. "I just wish it were in better circumstances."

"I agree," Joan of Arc said. "These are indeed desperate times. Especially for Nicholas and the children."

"Are they the twins of legend?" Perenelle asked, curious to hear what her friend thought.

"I am convinced of it," Joan of Arc said immediately. "The girl's aura is stronger and purer than mine."

"Can you get to London?" the Sorceress asked.

The tiny face in the water blurred as the woman on the other side of the world shook her head. "Impossible. Machiavelli controls Paris, and he has locked this city down tightly, claiming a matter of national security. The borders are closed. All flights, ferry sailings and trains are being carefully monitored, and I'm sure they have our descriptions-Scatty's certainly. There are police everywhere; they're stopping people on the streets, demanding to see identification, and there is a nine o'clock curfew in effect. The police have released grainy security-camera video of Nicholas, the twins, Scatty and me taken from in front of Notre Dame."

Perenelle shook her head. "Do I want to know what you were doing in front of the cathedral?"

"Battling the gargoyles," Joan said lightly.

"I knew I shouldn't have asked. I'm concerned about Nicholas and the children. Knowing Nicholas's sense of direction, they're probably lost. And Dee's spies are everywhere," Perenelle added miserably. "No doubt he knew the moment they arrived."

"Oh, don't worry, Francis arranged for Palamedes to pick them up. He's protecting them. He's good," Joan assured her.

Perenelle nodded in agreement. "Not as good as the Shadow."

"Well, no one is," Joan declared. "Where are you now, madame?"

"Trapped on Alcatraz. And I'm in trouble," she admitted.

Scatty's face pushed in alongside her friend's. "What sort of trouble?"

"The cells are full of monsters, the seas are full of Nereids. Nereus guards the water and a sphinx roams the corridors. That sort of trouble."

Joan of Arc's smile turned brilliant. "Why, if you are in trouble, then we must help you!"

"That, I fear, is impossible," Perenelle said.

"Ah, but madame, you were the one who taught me a long time ago that the word impossible is meaningless."

Perenelle smiled. "I did say that. Scatty, is there anyone you know in San Francisco who could help me? I need to get off this island. I need to get to Nicholas."

"No one I trust. Maybe some of my students-"

"No," Perenelle interrupted. "I'll not endanger any humans. I mean any Elders loyal to us, any of the Next Generation?"

Scatty considered for a minute, then slowly shook her head. "No one I trust," she repeated. She turned her head to listen to a conversation behind her, and when she looked back, her savage smile was brilliant. "We've a plan. Or rather, Francis has a plan. Can you hang on for a little while longer? We're on our way."

"We? Who's we?" Perenelle asked.

"Joan and I. We're coming to Alcatraz."

"How can you get here if you cannot even get to London?" Perenelle began, but then the water shivered and trembled and suddenly the myriad ghosts of Alcatraz rose around her, clamoring and crying out for attention. The connection was lost. r. John Dee stood before the huge plate-glass window on one of the topmost floors of the Canary Wharf Tower, the London headquarters of Enoch Enterprises. Sipping a steaming mug of herbal tea, he watched the first glimmers of dawn appear on the eastern horizon.

Freshly showered, hair pulled back off his face, dressed in a tailored gray three-piece suit, he looked nothing like the filthy vagabond who had arrived at the parking-lot security booth less than an hour earlier. The Magician had taken great care to avoid the cameras, and a simple mesmerizing spell had focused the guard's attention on the black-and-white squares of his newspaper's crossword puzzle. Even if he'd wanted to, the man wouldn't have been able to look away from it. Sticking to the shadows in the empty parking lot, Dee had made his way into the private elevator and used his personal security code-13071527-to go straight up to the penthouse suites.

Dee's Enoch Enterprises occupied an entire floor of the Canary Wharf Tower, the tallest building in Britain, right in the heart of London's financial district. He had similar offices scattered around the world, and although he only rarely visited them, the Magician kept a luxurious private suite in every one. Built into each office was a tall safe that opened only to Dee's handprint and retina scan. It contained clothes, cash in assorted currencies, credit cards and a variety of passports in a dozen different names. He'd been trapped without money and clothes in the past and had sworn it would never happen again.

It was only when he was standing under the scalding shower, water running filthy and black from his body, that he'd had a moment to consider his options. He had to admit that they were extremely limited.

He could find the Alchemyst, kill him, retrieve the missing pages and secure the twins.

Or he could run.

He could flee Britain on a false passport and hide in a quiet out-of-the-way place, and spend the rest of his life in fear, unable to use his aura in case it revealed his location, constantly looking over his shoulder, always waiting for one of his masters to appear to lay their hands on him. The moment they touched his bare flesh, the immortality spell would be broken and he would age and die. Or maybe they would keep their promise: render him mortal and allow his nearly five hundred years to consume his physical body… and then make him immortal again in the last moments of extreme old age. Dee shuddered. It would be a living death.

Stepping out of the shower, he ran his hand across the steamed-up mirror and stared at his reflection in the glass. Was it his imagination or were there new wrinkles on his forehead and alongside his eyes? He had spent centuries running-running from danger or chasing the Alchemyst and the others like him. He had skulked and hidden, cowered in fear of his Elder masters, done their bidding unquestioningly. Condensation ran down the mirror, making it look as if he were crying. But the Magician did not cry anymore; the last time he had shed tears was when his baby son, Nicholas, had died in 1597.

He would run no more.

The study of magic and sorcery had taught the Magician that the world was full of limitless possibilities, and the years spent researching alchemy with Flamel had shown him that nothing-not even matter-was fixed and unalterable. Everything could be manipulated. He'd lived his long life dedicating himself to changing the world, bettering it by returning it to the Dark Elders. On the surface it was an impossible task, the odds stacked against him, but over the centuries he had nearly succeeded, until now the Elders were poised to return to the earth.

His situation was desperate and dangerous, but he could fix it. The key to his own survival was simple: he had to find Flamel.

He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of clean clothes, and made himself some tea, then went to look out over the city he controlled. Standing before the window, staring across the sprawling streets, he realized the enormity of the task before him; he had no idea where the Alchemyst had taken the children.

He did have agents-both human and inhuman-in London. Next Generation and immortal mercenaries were on the streets. They all had the latest descriptions of the Alchemyst and the children, and he would add Palamedes and the Bard to that list. He would double-no, triple-the reward. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted the little group.

But he had no time.

Dee's cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, then played the opening bars of the theme to The X-Files. He made a face; suddenly that didn't seem so funny anymore. He put the cup of tea down, fished the phone out of his inside pocket and held it clenched in his fist before looking at the screen. It was the impossibly long and ever-changing number he'd been expecting. He was surprised it had taken them until now to get to him; maybe they'd been waiting for him to make a report. His finger hovered over the green Answer button, but he knew that the moment he hit it, the Elders would know his location. He doubted he'd live long enough to finish his tea.

Dr. John Dee returned the phone to his pocket unanswered and picked up his cup.

Then, a moment later, he plucked the phone back out and dialed a number from memory. His call was answered on the first ring. "I need a favor."

Niccolo Machiavelli shot out of his chair. "Favore?" he said, unconsciously slipping into Italian.

"A favor," Dee said in the same language. "No doubt you have heard about my little difficulty."

"I'm looking at news of a fire in London," Machiavelli told Dee cautiously, aware that everything he said could be recorded. "I guessed you were involved."

"Flamel and the others fled in a car," Dee continued. "I need to contain them."

"So you are still pursuing them?" Machiavelli said.

"To my death," the Magician said. "Which could be sooner than I wish," he added. "But I am sworn to do my duty to my masters. You understand duty, Machiavelli, do you not?"

The Italian nodded. "I do." He sat back in the chair. "What do you want me to do?" He glanced at the clock. It was 5:45 a.m. in Paris. "Be aware that I'm flying to San Francisco in a few hours."

"I need you to make a phone call, that's all."

Machiavelli remained silent, unwilling to commit. He knew that this conversation could be very dangerous. His master and Dee's were somehow opposed, but they both wanted the same thing: the return of the Dark Elders to the earth. And Machiavelli knew he must be seen to support that in every way possible. Once the Dark Elders returned, then the real power struggle for control of the planet would take place. Naturally, he was hoping that his master and his master's followers would be triumphant, but if Dee's masters took control, then it might be useful to have Dee as an ally. Machiavelli grinned and rubbed his hands together; his scheming reminded him of the good old days of the Borgias.

"As head of the French secret service," Dee continued, "you must have contacts with your British counterparts."

"Of course." He started nodding. He suddenly knew what the Magician was about to ask. "Let me contact them," he said quickly. "I'll inform them that the terrorists who attacked Paris are now in London. I am sure the British authorities will move swiftly to close the airports and train stations."

"We need roadblocks and checkpoints, too."

"That should be possible." Machiavelli chuckled. "I will make that call now."

Dee coughed slightly. "I am in your debt."

"I know that." Machiavelli grinned.

"Let me ask a final favor, then," Dee said. "Could you delay informing our Elders of my location? Give me this one last day to find the Alchemyst."

Machiavelli hesitated; then he said, "I'll not tell your Elder," he said, "and you know me to be a man of my word."

"I do."

"You have one final day," the Italian began, but Dee had already hung up. Machiavelli sat back and tapped the phone against his lips. Then he started to dial a number. He had promised the Magician that he would not inform his Elder; but Machiavelli's own Elder master would certainly want to know.

In London, bands of orange and pink shot through with purples and blacks appeared on the horizon. The Magician stared hard at the sky, his gray eyes picking up the colors, watching them intently while his tea grew cold in his hands. He knew that if he did not find the Alchemyst and the twins, then this could be the last sunrise he would ever see. nce the sun had set, temperatures had fallen quickly, and the breeze whipping in off San Francisco Bay was cold and salty. From her position in the watchtower over the wharf, Perenelle peered down on the island. Although she was wearing bundles of clothing and had gathered all the blankets from the cells to wrap around her, she was still freezing. Her fingers and toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and she'd actually bitten down hard on a moldy blanket to keep her teeth from chattering.

She dared not use her aura to warm up-the sphinx had freed itself from its icy tomb and was prowling the island.

Perenelle had been standing before Areop-Enap's cocoon looking for any sign of movement when she had smelled the distinctive scent of the creature on the salt air, a rancid mixture of snake and lion and musty feathers. A heartbeat later, de Ayala had blinked into existence before her.

"I know," she said before he could speak. "Is all in readiness?"

"Yes," the ghost said shortly. "But we tried this before…"

Perenelle's smile was brilliant. "The sphinx are powerful and terrifying… but not terribly bright." She wrapped a blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered with the chill. "Where is it now?"

"Moving through the shell of the Warden's House. A hint of your odor must remain there. No offense intended, madame," he added quickly.

"None taken. That's one of the reasons I've chosen to stay outdoors tonight. I'm hoping that the gusting wind will blow away any scent."

"It is a good plan," de Ayala agreed.

"And how does the creature look?" the Sorceress wondered out loud. She patted Areop-Enap's thick cocoon, then turned and hurried away.

The ghost smiled delightedly. "Unhappy."

The sphinx lifted a huge paw and put it down carefully, wincing as the most extraordinary sensation-pain-shot up her leg. She had not been injured in three centuries. Any wound would heal, cuts and bruises would quickly fade, but the memory of her injured pride would never go away.

She had been bested. By a humani.

Throwing back her slender neck, she breathed deeply and a long black forked tongue protruded from humanlike lips. The tongue flickered, tasting the air. And there it was: a hint, the merest suggestion of a humani. But this building was roofless and open to the elements, constantly scoured by the sea breezes, and the trace was very faint. The female humani had been here. The creature padded over to a window. Right here, but not recently. A forked tongue tasted the bricks. She had rested her hand here. The head turned toward the huge opening in the wall. And then the humani had gone out into the night.

The sphinx's beautiful human face creased in a frown. Folding tattered eagle's wings tightly against her body, she pushed through the ruined house and out into the cool night.

She could not sense the humani's aura. Nor could she smell her flesh.

And yet the Sorceress had to be on the island; she could not have escaped. The sphinx had seen the Nereids in the water and had smelled the fishy odor of the Old Man of the Sea lingering on the air. She had spotted the Crow Goddess perched like a hideous weathervane on top of the lighthouse, and though the sphinx had called out to her in a variety of languages, including the lost language of Danu Talis, the creature had not responded. The sphinx was unconcerned; some of the Next Generation, like herself, preferred the night; others walked in the sunlight. The Crow Goddess had probably been sleeping.

Despite her bulk, the sphinx moved swiftly down to the wharf, claws clicking on the stones. And here she caught the faintest wisp of the odor of a humani, the smell of salt and meat.

And then she saw her.

A movement, a shadow, a hint of long hair and a flowing dress.

With a terrifying screech of triumph, the sphinx set off after the woman. This time she would not escape.

From her high vantage point in the watchtower, Perenelle watched the sphinx race off after the ghost of a long-dead warden's wife.

The merest suggestion of de Ayala's face appeared out of the night, little more than a shimmering disturbance in the air. "The ghosts of Alcatraz are in place. They will lead the sphinx away to the far end of the island and keep it busy down there for the rest of the night. Rest now, madame; sleep if you can. Who knows what the morrow will bring?" here are you taking us?" Nicholas asked softly. "Why have we left the main road?"

"Trouble," Palamedes said quietly. He tilted the rearview mirror to peer into the back of the cab.

Only the Alchemyst was awake. The twins were slumped forward, held in place by seat belts, while Gilgamesh was curled up on the floor, twitching and mumbling in Sumerian. Nicholas looked at the Saracen Knight's deep brown eyes in the mirror.

"I knew something was wrong when traffic was so heavy," the knight continued. "Then I thought there might have been an accident." They were taking seemingly random turns, heading down narrow country lanes, lush green hedgerows battering against the side of the car. "All the main roads are blocked; police are searching every car."

"Dee," Flamel whispered. Unclipping his seat belt, he slipped into the jump seat just behind the driver, twisting around to look through the glass partition at the knight. "We have to get to Stonehenge," he said. "That is our only way out of this country."

"There are other leygates. I could take you to Holyhead in Wales, and you could get the ferry to Ireland. Newgrange is still active," Palamedes suggested.

"No one knows where Newgrange comes out," Nicholas said firmly. "And the ley line on Salisbury will take me just north of San Francisco."

The knight turned down a road marked PRIVATE and stopped before a five-barred wooden gate. Leaving the engine running, he climbed out of the car and unlatched it. Flamel joined him, and together the two men pushed it open. A rutted track led down to a ramshackle wooden barn. "I know the owner," Palamedes said shortly. "We'll hide up here until everything calms down."

Flamel reached out and caught Palamedes' arm. There was a sudden odor of cloves and the Alchemyst jerked his fingers away as the knight's flesh turned hard and metallic. "We need to get to Stonehenge." The Alchemyst gestured toward the road they'd left. "We can't be more than a couple of miles away."

"We're close enough," Palamedes agreed. "Why the rush, Alchemyst?"

"I've got to get back to Perenelle." He stepped in front of the knight, forcing him to stop. "Look at me, Saracen. What do you see?" He held up his hands; blue veins were now clearly visible, and there were brown age spots scattered across his flesh. Tilting his head back, he exposed his wrinkled neck. "I'm dying, Palamedes," the Alchemyst said simply. "I don't have very long left, and when I die, I want to go with my own dear Perenelle. You were in love once, Palamedes. You understand that."

The knight sighed and then nodded. "Let's get into the barn and wake the twins and Gilgamesh. He agreed to train them in the Magic of Water. If he remembers and if he does it, then we'll press on to Stonehenge. I'm sure I can work out a route with the GPS." He reached out and caught Flamel's arm. "Remember, Nicholas. Once he starts the process, the twins' auras will blaze up, and then everyone-and everything-will know where they are." t 10:20 a.m., five minutes later than its scheduled departure time, the Air France Boeing 747 lifted off from Charles de Gaulle airport, bound for San Francisco.

Niccolo Machiavelli settled into his seat and adjusted his watch nine hours back to 1:20 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. Then he reclined his seat, laced his fingers together on his stomach, closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare luxury of being uncontactable. For the next eleven hours and fifteen minutes, no one would be able to phone, e-mail or fax him. Whatever crisis arose, someone else would have to handle it. A smile formed on his mouth: this was like a mini-vacation, and it had been a long time-more than two centuries, in fact-since he'd had a proper rest. His last holiday, in Egypt in 1798, had been ruined when Napoleon had invaded. Machiavelli's smile faded as he shook his head slightly. He had masterminded Napoleon's plan for a "federation of free peoples" and the Code Napoleon, and if the Corsican had only continued to listen to him, France would have ruled all Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. Machiavelli had even drawn up plans for an invasion of America via sea and down through Canada.

"Something to drink, monsieur?"

Machiavelli opened his eyes to find a bored-looking flight attendant smiling down at him. He shook his head. "Thank you. No. And please do not disturb me again for the duration of the flight."

The woman nodded. "Would you like to be awakened for lunch or dinner?"

"No, thank you. I am on a special diet," he said.

"If you had let us know in advance, we could have organized an appropriate meal…"

Machiavelli held up a long-fingered hand. "I am perfectly fine. Thank you," he said firmly, eyes moving off the woman's face, dismissing her.

"I will let the others know." The attendant moved away to check on the three other passengers in the l'Espace Affaires cabin. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked bread filled the air, and the Italian closed his eyes and tried to remember what real food-fresh food-tasted like. One of the side effects of the gift of immortality was the diminishing of appetite. Immortal humans still needed to eat, but only for fuel and energy. Most food, unless it was highly spiced or sickly sweet, was tasteless. He wondered if Flamel, who had become immortal by his own hand rather than by an Elder's, suffered the same side effect.

And thinking of Nicholas made him focus on Perenelle.

Dee's Elder had been quite clear: "Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst."

Machiavelli had trained himself to become a master of both verbal and body language. He knew when people were lying; he could read it in their eyes, the tiny movements of their clenching hands, twitching fingers and tapping feet. Even if he could not see them, several lifetimes of listening to emperors, kings, princes, politicians and thieves had taught him that it was often not what people said, but what they did not say that revealed the truth.

Dee's Elders had warned that the Sorceress was infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst. They had not indicated exactly how… but they had revealed that they were frightened of her. And why was that? he wondered. She was an immortal human: powerful, yes; dangerous, certainly; but why should she frighten the Elders?

Tilting his head, Machiavelli looked through the oval window. The 747 had risen above the clouds into a spectacularly blue sky, and he allowed his thoughts to wander, remembering the leaders he had served and manipulated down through the ages. Unlike Dee, who had come to fame as Queen Elizabeth's personal and very public advisor, he had always operated behind the scenes, dropping hints, making suggestions, allowing others to take the credit for his ideas. It was always better-safer-to be overlooked. There was an old Celtic saying he was particularly fond of: It is better to exist unknown to the law. He'd always imagined that Perenelle was a little like him, happy to stay in the background and allow her husband to take all the credit. Everyone in Europe knew the name Nicholas Flamel. Few were even aware of Perenelle's existence. The Italian nodded unconsciously; she was the power behind the man.

Machiavelli had kept a file on the Flamels for centuries. The earliest notes were on parchment with beautifully illuminated drawings; then had come thick handmade paper with pen-and-ink sketches and later still, paper with tinted photographs. The most recent files were digital, with high-resolution photographs and video. He had retained all his earlier notes on the Alchemyst and his wife, but they had also been scanned and imported into his encrypted database. There was frustratingly little information on Nicholas, and very, very little devoted to the Sorceress. So much about her was unknown. There was even a suggestion in a fourteenth-century French report that she had been a widow when she had married Nicholas. And when the Alchemyst had died, he had left everything in his will to Perenelle's nephew, a man called Perrier. Machiavelli suspected-though he had no evidence to back up his supposition-that Perrier might be a child from her first marriage. Perrier took possession of all the Alchemyst's papers and belongings… and simply vanished from history. Centuries later, a couple claiming to be the descendents of Perrier's family appeared in Paris, where they were promptly arrested by Cardinal Richelieu. The Cardinal had been forced to release them when he realized that they knew nothing about their famous ancestor and possessed none of his books and writings.

Perenelle was a mystery.

Machiavelli had spent a fortune paying spies, librarians, historians and researchers to look into the mysterious woman, but even they had found astonishingly little on her. And when he had fought her face to face in Sicily in 1669, he had discovered then that she had access to extraordinary-almost elemental-power. Drawing upon more than a century of learning, he had battled her using a combination of magical and alchemical spells from around the globe. She had countered them all with a bewildering display of sorcery. By evening, he had been exhausted, his aura dangerously depleted, but Perenelle had still looked fresh and composed. If Mount Etna had not erupted and ended the battle, he was convinced she would have destroyed him, or caused his aura to spontaneously combust and consume his body. It was only later that he'd realized that the energies they had both released had probably caused the volcano to erupt.

Niccolo Machiavelli settled a soft wool blanket up around his shoulders and hit the switch that gently converted his comfortable seat into a six-foot-long bed. Lying back, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He would think about the problem of the Sorceress for the next few hours, but one thing was already crystal clear: Perenelle frightened the Dark Elders. And people were usually afraid only of those who could destroy them. One final thought hovered at the edge of his consciousness: who-or what-was Perenelle Flamel? he cab hit a pothole and the jolt woke the twins. "Sorry," Palamedes called back cheerfully.

Moving stiffly, arms and necks aching, Josh and Sophie both stretched out. Josh automatically ran his hand through the bird's nest of his hair, yawning widely as he squinted out the window, blinking in the sunlight. "This is Stonehenge?" he asked, peering out at the field of tall grass speckled with wildflowers. Then reality hit him and he answered his own question, his voice rising in alarm. "This isn't Stonehenge." Twisting in the seat, he looked at the Alchemyst and demanded, "Where are you taking us?"

"Everything is under control," Palamedes said from the front. "There are police checkpoints on the main road. We've just taken a little detour."

Sophie hit a button and the power window whined down, flooding the car with the scent of grass. She sneezed, and as her sinuses cleared, she realized that she could pick out the scents of individual wildflowers. Leaning her head out the window, she turned her face to the sun and the cloudless blue sky. When she opened her eyes, a red admiral butterfly danced past her face. "Where are we?" she asked Nicholas.

"I've no idea," he admitted quietly. "Palamedes knows this place. Somewhere close to Stonehenge."

The car rocked again and Gilgamesh came slowly, noisily awake. Lying on the floor, he yawned hugely and stretched, then sat bolt upright and looked out the window, squinting in the bright light. "I haven't been out to the country for a while," he said happily. He looked at the twins and frowned. "Hello."

"Hi," Josh and Sophie said simultaneously.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look alike enough to be twins?" he continued, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He blinked and frowned. "You are twins," he said slowly. "You are the twins of legend. Why aren't you called the legendary twins?" he asked suddenly.

They looked at one another and shook their heads, confused.

Gilgamesh tilted his head to look up at the Alchemyst and his expression soured. "You I know. You I will never forget." He turned back to the twins. "He tried to kill me, you know that?" He frowned. "But you do know that, you were there."

They shook their heads. "We weren't there," Sophie said gently.

"Not there?" The ragged king sat back on the floor and pressed both hands against his head, squeezing hard. "Ah, but you must forgive an old man. I have lived for… for a long time, too long, too, too long, and there is so much that I remember, and even more that I forget. I have memories and dreams and they get confused and wrapped up together. There are so many thoughts whirling around inside my head." He winced, almost as if he were in pain, and when he spoke, there was nothing but the sadness of loss in his voice. "Sometimes it is hard to tell them apart, to know what really was and what I have only imagined." He reached into his voluminous coats and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper held together with string. "I write things down," he said quickly. "That's how I remember." He thumbed through the pages. There were scraps from notebooks, covers torn from paperbacks, bits of newspapers, restaurant menus and napkins, thick parchment, even scraps of hide and wafer-thin sheets of copper and bark. They had all been cut or torn to roughly the same size and they were covered in miniscule scratchy writing. He looked closely at each of the twins in turn. "Someday I'll write about you, so that I'll remember you." He glared at Flamel. "And I'll write about you, too, Alchemyst, so that I never forget you."

Sophie suddenly blinked and the image before her fragmented as tears came to her eyes. Two perfect silver drops slid down her cheeks.

The king came slowly to his knees before her and then, gently, carefully, reached out to touch the silver liquid with his index finger. The tears twisted and curled like mercury across his fingernail. Concentrating fiercely, he rubbed the tears between forefinger and thumb. When he looked up, there were no signs of confusion in his eyes, no doubts on his face. "Do you know how long it has been since anyone has shed a tear for Gilgamesh the King?" His voice was strong and commanding, and there was the tiniest accent when he said his name and title. "Oh, but it was a lifetime ago, in that time before time, the time before history." The silver droplet pooled in his palm and he closed his hand into a fist, holding the tear. "There was a girl then who shed silver tears, who wept for a prince of the land, who wept for me, and for the world she was about to destroy." He looked up at Sophie, blue eyes huge and unblinking. "Girl, why do you weep for me?"

Unable to speak, Sophie shook her head. Josh put his arm around his sister.

"Tell me," Gilgamesh insisted.

She swallowed hard and shook her head again.

"Please? I would like to know."

Sophie drew in a deep shuddering breath, and when she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper. "I have the Witch of Endor's memories inside me. I spend all my time trying to keep thoughts away and ignore them… but here you are, trying to remember your own life, writing your thoughts down so that you don't forget. I suddenly realized what it would be like not to know, not to remember."

"Just so," Gilgamesh agreed. "We humans are nothing more than the sum of our memories." The king sat back against the door, legs stretched straight out in front of him. He looked at the bundled pages in his lap, then pulled out a tiny stub of a pencil and started writing.

The Alchemyst leaned forward, and for a moment, it looked as if he was about to put his hand on the king's shoulder. Then he drew it back and asked gently, "What are you remembering now, Gilgamesh?"

The king pressed his index finger into the page, rubbing silver tears into the paper. "The day someone cared enough to shed a tear for me." nd of the road." Palamedes hit the brakes and the cab skidded to a stop in front of the barn. A cloud of dust from the baked-hard earth plumed upward, billowing out around the windows. Gilgamesh immediately pushed open the door and stepped out into the still morning, turning his face to the sun and stretching his arms wide. The twins followed him, pulling the cheap sunglasses the Alchemyst had bought them from their pockets.

Flamel was the last to exit, and he turned to look at the knight, who'd made no move to turn off the engine or get out of the cab. "You're not staying?"

"I'm going into the nearest village," Palamedes said. "I'll pick up some food and water and see if I can find out what's going on." The Saracen Knight allowed his eyes to drift toward the king and lowered his voice. "Be careful. You know how quickly he can turn."

The Alchemyst moved the side mirror slightly, angling it to be able to see Gilgamesh and the twins exploring the barn. The building sat in the middle of the grassy field. Ancient and overgrown, the walls were constructed of thick black timbers and mud. The doors were of a more recent vintage, and he guessed that they'd probably been put up sometime in the nineteenth century. Now they both hung askew, the right door attached by only a single leather hinge. The bottoms of both doors were rotted to ragged splinters by weather and the gnawings of animals.

"The boy will be first inside," Palamedes said, looking over the Alchemyst's shoulder.

Flamel nodded silently in agreement.

"You need to be careful of him also," Palamedes advised. "You need to separate him from the sword."

Nicholas adjusted the mirror slightly. He saw Josh tug Clarent from its map tube and slip into the barn, followed a moment later by his twin and then the king. "He needed a weapon," the Alchemyst said, "he needed something to protect himself with."

"A shame it was that weapon. There are other swords. They are not quite so dangerous, not quite so… hungry as that one."

"I'll take it back when he learns one of the elemental magics," Flamel said.

Palamedes grunted. "You'll try. I doubt you'll succeed." He put the car in gear. "I'd best go. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Are we safe here?" Flamel asked the knight, looking around. The field was surrounded by ancient twisted oaks; he could see no signs of nearby buildings or power lines. "Any chance of the owner turning up?"

"None at all," Palamedes said with a grin. "Shakespeare owns it, and everything for miles around. He has properties all across England." The knight tapped the satellite navigator stuck to his cracked windshield. "We have them all entered in here; that's how I was able to get you to safety."

Nicholas shook his head. "I never imagined Will as a property investor, but then I never imagined him as a car mechanic either."

The knight nodded. "He was-and still is-an actor. He plays many roles. I know he started buying properties back in the sixteenth century, when he was writing. He always said he made more money from property than he did from his plays. But you don't want to believe half of what he says; he can be a terrible liar." Palamedes eased on the gas and turned the wheel, rolling the big black taxi around in a half circle, Flamel walking alongside the open window. "The barn is invisible from the road, and I'll lock the gate after me." The knight glanced sidelong at Flamel, then jerked his chin in the direction of the dilapidated structure. "Did you really try to kill the king the last time you met?"

Nicholas shook his head. "In spite of what you think of me, Sir Knight, I am not a killer. In 1945, Perenelle and I were working in Alamogordo, in New Mexico. It was, without doubt, the perfect job for an alchemyst. Even though our work was classified as above top-secret, Gilgamesh somehow discovered what we were planning."

"And what were you planning?" Palamedes asked, confused.

"To detonate the first atomic bomb. Gilgamesh wanted to be standing underneath when it went off. He decided it was the only way he could truly die."

The Saracen Knight's broad face creased in sympathy. "What happened to him?" he asked softly.

"Perenelle had him locked up in an institution for his own protection. He spent ten years there before we thought it was safe enough to allow him to escape."

Palamedes grunted. "No wonder he hates you," he said. And before the Alchemyst could answer, the knight revved the engine and drove off in a plume of dust.

"No wonder indeed," Nicholas murmured. He waited until the dust had settled and then he turned and headed for the barn. He was hoping Gilgamesh wouldn't remember everything-especially the part about being locked up-until after he had taught the twins the third of the elemental magics. A thought hit him as he slid through the doorway of the barn: given the fractured state of his mind, would the king even remember the ancient Magic of Water? osh walked cautiously through the barn, Clarent still and quiet in his hands, the tiny quartz crystals in the stone blade dull and lifeless. He inched along on the balls of his feet, suddenly struck by how acutely conscious he was of his surroundings. Though he knew he'd never been here before, and had thus far only had a quick glimpse of the interior, he also knew with absolute certainty that he could navigate the space with his eyes closed.

The barn was warm and close, heavy with the scent of old hay and dry grass. Unseen creatures rustled in corners, doves cooed in the rafters and Josh could clearly hear a drone from a large wasps' nest built high in a corner. A stream of insects moved in and out of the nest. Farm machinery had been stored here and abandoned; Josh thought he recognized an old-fashioned plow, and the squat remains of a tractor, its knobbly tires rotted to black strips. Every scrap of metal was covered in thick brown-red rust. Wooden crates and empty barrels lay scattered around, and a crude workbench-nothing more than two strips of wood resting on concrete blocks-had been constructed up against one wall. The planks had warped and curled up at both ends. The frame of a black bicycle was tucked under the bench, almost invisible behind a heavy covering of grass and nettles.

"This place hasn't been used in years," Josh said. He was standing in the center of the barn, turning in a complete circle as he spoke. He drove Clarent into the dirt floor between his feet and folded his arms across his chest. "It's safe."

Gilgamesh wandered around the space, slowly peeling off layers of clothing, letting them fall on the ground behind him. Beneath all the coats and fleeces he was wearing the remains of what had once been a smart suit. The pinstripe jacket was greasy with wear, and the matching trousers had thin knees and a shiny seat. The king wore a grubby collarless shirt underneath the coat. The ragged remains of a knitted scarf wound around his neck. "I like places like this," he announced.

"I like old places too," Josh said, "but what's to like about a place like this?"

The king spread his arms wide. "What do you see?"

Josh made a face. "Junk. Rusted tractor, broken plow, old bike."

"Ah… but I see a tractor that was once used to till these fields. I see the plow it once pulled. I see a bicycle carefully placed out of harm's way under a table."

Josh slowly turned again, looking at the items once more.

"And I see these things and I wonder at the life of the person who so carefully stored the precious tractor and plow in the barn out of the weather, and placed their bike under a homemade table."

"Why do you wonder?" Josh asked. "Why is it even important?"

"Because someone has to remember," Gilgamesh snapped, suddenly irritated. "Someone has to remember the human who rode the bike and drove the tractor, the person who tilled the fields, who was born and lived and died, who loved and laughed and cried, the person who shivered in the cold and sweated in the sun." He walked around the barn again, touching each item, until his palms were red with rust. "It is only when no one remembers that you are truly lost. That is the true death."

"Then you will always be remembered, Gilgamesh," Sophie said quietly. She was sitting on an overturned barrel, watching the king carefully. "The Epic of Gilgamesh is still in print today."

The king stopped, his head tilted to one side, considering. "I suppose that is true." He grinned and wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving red streaks on the stained cloth. "I read it once. Didn't like it. Only some of it is true, and they missed the good parts."

Flamel pushed the barn door closed, shutting out the sunlight. "You could write your own version," he offered. "Tell your story, the true story."

The king laughed, the booming sound setting the doves flapping from the rafters. "And who would believe me, eh, Alchemyst? If I were to put down half of what I know, I would be locked up…" His voice trailed away and his eyes clouded.

Nicholas quickly stepped forward and bowed deeply, an old-fashioned courtly movement. He knew he had to take control of the situation before Gilgamesh began to remember too much. "Majesty, will you keep your promise and teach the twins the Magic of Water?"

Still staring at Flamel, the king slowly nodded. "I will do that."

Flamel straightened, but not before the twins had seen the look of triumph on his narrow face. "Sophie has been trained in Air and Fire. Josh has no training, so he has no idea what to expect," he warned.

Josh stepped forward. "Just tell me what to do," he said eagerly, eyes bright with excitement. He grinned at his twin. "We'll start becoming real twins again," he announced.

Sophie smiled. "This isn't a competition."

"Maybe not for you!"

Gilgamesh picked up a barrel and set it on the ground next to Sophie. "Come sit by your sister."

"What do you want me to do?" Flamel asked, leaning back against the door, his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans.

"Say nothing and do nothing except stay out of my way," Gilgamesh snapped. He looked over at the Alchemyst, his blue eyes blazing. "And when this is over, you and I will have a little talk… about the decade I was incarcerated. We're due a reckoning."

Nicholas Flamel nodded, his face expressionless. "This process," he said. "Will it activate the twins' auras?"

The king tilted his head to one side, thinking. "Possibly. Why?"

"Their auras would act as a beacon. Who knows what they will attract."

Gilgamesh nodded. "Let me see what I can do. There are different ways to teach." The king sank cross-legged onto the floor in front of the twins and briskly rubbed his hands together. "Now, where do we begin?" he said.

Josh suddenly realized that they were surrendering themselves to a mad vagrant who sometimes forgot his own name. How was this man going to remember age-old magic? What would happen if he forgot the process halfway through? "Have you done this before?" he asked, growing increasingly worried.

The king reached out and took Sophie's right hand and Josh's left hand and looked at them seriously. "Just once. And that didn't end well."

"What happened?" Josh attempted to pull his hand away from the immortal's, but Gilgamesh gripped it tightly, his flesh as rough as tree bark.

"He flooded the world. Now, close your eyes," the king commanded.

Sophie immediately shut her eyes, but Josh kept his open. He stared at the king. The man turned to look at him, and suddenly his bright unblinking blue eyes seemed huge in his head and Josh felt a nauseating twist of vertigo. He felt as if he were falling forward… and down… and rising up all at once. He squeezed his eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the sickening sensations, but he could still see the king's huge blue eyes burning into his retina, growing larger and larger, white threads starting to twist and curl across them. They reminded him of… of… of… clouds.

Gilgamesh's voice boomed. "Now, think of…"

Water."

Josh opened his eyes.

A huge blue planet floated in space. White clouds swirled across its surface; ice glittered at its poles.

And then he was falling, plunging toward the planet, hurtling toward the bright blue seas. Strong and commanding, Gilgamesh's voice boomed and roared around him, rising and falling like the waves of the ocean.

"It is said that the Magic of Air or Fire or even Earth is the most powerful magic of all. But that is wrong. The Magic of Water surpasses all others, for water is both the lifegiver and the deathbringer."

Mute, unable to move, to even turn his head, Josh fell through the clouds and watched as the world grew larger, vast landmasses appearing, though there was none that he recognized. He raced toward a red speck on the horizon, the clouds dark and thick above it, flying high over churning grass green seas.

Volcanoes. A dozen stretched along a ragged coastline, huge monsters belching fire and molten rock into the atmosphere. The seas roared and foamed around the red-hot rock.

"Water can extinguish fire. Even lava from the molten heart of the planet cannot stand against it."

When the lava hit the pounding seas, it cooled in a detonation of smoke. A steaming black landscape of congealed magma appeared out of the waves.

Josh was soaring again, the only sound the heartbeat-like throb of the king's voice, powerful yet soothing, like the crash of waves on a distant shore. The boy rose high over the ring of fire, heading east, toward a dawn. Clouds gathered beneath him; wisps giving way to fluffy balls that thickened into clumps and then blossomed into an expanse of roiling storm clouds.

"Without water, there is no life…"

Josh fell through the clouds. Lightning flashed silently around him, and torrential rain washed down onto lush green primordial forests, where impossibly tall trees and enormous ferns covered the earth.

The landscape changed again, images flickering faster and faster. He soared across a desert wasteland where vast dunes undulated in every direction. A single spot of color drew him down, down, down toward an oasis, vibrant green trees clustered around a sparkling pool.

"Mankind can survive with little food but cannot survive without water."

Josh rose and dropped down onto a mighty river cutting through high ragged hills. Dotted along its curved banks were tiny habitations, lit by fires sparking in the gloom. Racing low along the length of the river, he was aware that time was speeding up. Decades, then centuries, passed with each heartbeat. Storms lashed across the mountains, weathering them, softening them, wearing them down. Straw huts changed to mud, to wood, to stone; then clusters of stone houses appeared, a wall wrapped around them; a castle appeared and crumbled, to be replaced by a larger village, then a low town of wood and stone; then a city grew, polished marble and glass windows winking in the light before it transformed into a modern-day metropolis of glass and metal.

"Mankind has always built his cities on riverbanks and sea-coasts."

The river opened out to a vast ocean. The sun streaked across the sky, moving almost too fast to see as time raced by.

"Water has been his highway…"

Boats moved on the water, canoes first, then rowboats, then ships with banks of sails, and finally vast oceanliners and supertankers.

"… his larder…"

A flotilla of fishing boats pulled huge nets from the ocean.

"… and his doom."

The ocean, huge and churning, the color of a bruise, battered an isolated coastal village. It swamped boats, swept away bridges, leaving devastation in its wake.

"Nothing stands against the power of water…"

A vast wall of water rolled down a modern city street, flooding homes, washing away cars.

Suddenly, Josh was soaring upward, the earth falling away beneath him, and the king's voice faded to a whisper, like the hiss of surf on sand.

"It was water which brought life to the earth. Water which very nearly destroyed it."

Josh looked down at the blue planet. This was the world he recognized. He saw the shapes of continents and countries, the sweep of North and South America, the curl of Africa. But then he suddenly realized that there was something wrong with the outlines of the land. They weren't the way he remembered them from his geography class. They seemed larger, less clearly defined. The Gulf of Mexico looked smaller, the Gulf of California was missing entirely and the Caribbean was definitely smaller. He couldn't see the distinctive shape of Italy in the Mediterranean, and the islands of Ireland and Britain were one misshapen lump.

And as he watched, the blue of the sea began to seep over the land, drowning it, flooding it…

He fell toward the water, into the blue.

And Gilgamesh blinked and looked away.

And then both twins woke. rancis, the Comte de Saint-Germain, turned in the driver's seat to look over his shoulder at Scathach. "And you cannot see it?"

Scathach leaned forward between Saint-Germain and Joan, who was sitting in the passenger seat, and stared through the windshield. Directly in front of her was the ruined fa?ade of the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The world-famous gargoyles and grotesques that had decorated the front of the ancient building now lay in heaped rubble on the parvis. Groups of academics from across France, surrounded by volunteers and students, milled around in front of the cathedral, attempting to put the shattered pieces of stone back together again. All of the larger lumps of stone had little numbered stickers on them.

"What am I looking for?" she asked.

Saint-Germain rested both hands on the steering wheel of the black Renault and raised his sharp chin, pointing it toward the center of the rock-strewn square. "Can you not see a faint golden pillar of light?"

Scathach squinted her grass green eyes, turned her head from side to side, searching, then finally said, "No."

The count looked at his wife.

"No," Joan of Arc said.

"It's there," Saint-Germain insisted.

"I've no doubts about that," Scathach said quickly. "I just cannot see it."

"But I can," Saint-Germain mused aloud. "Now, that's a mystery," he said delightedly. "I just assumed everyone could see it."

Joan reached out, clamped iron-hard fingers over her husband's arm and squeezed tightly enough to silence him. "You can puzzle it out later, dear. Right now we need to go."

"Oh, absolutely." The count brushed his long black hair off his forehead and then pointed to the center of the square. "Two ley lines connect the West Coast of America to Paris. Both are incredibly ancient, and one-this one, in fact-circumnavigates the globe, linking together all the primeval places of power." He tilted the rearview mirror to look at Scathach. "When you, Nicholas and the twins arrived, you came in on the line that ends at the Sacre-Coeur basilica in Montmartre. Theoretically, it should not have worked, but obviously the Witch of Endor was powerful enough to activate it."

"Francis," Joan warned, "we don't have time for a history lesson."

"Yes, yes, yes. Well, the other line, the much more powerful ley line, is here at Point Zero outside Notre Dame in the center of the city."

"Point Zero?" Scathach asked.

"Point Zero," the count repeated, pointing toward the cathedral. "The very heart of Paris; this place has been special for millennia. This is the place from which all distances to Paris are measured."

"I've often wondered why this particular spot was chosen," Joan said. "It wasn't some accident or random choice, then?"

"Hardly. Humans have worshipped here since before the Romans arrived. They have always been drawn to this place and the others like it. Perhaps, deep down in their DNA, people remembered that there was a leygate here. There are Point Zeros or Kilometer Zeros in just about every capital city in the world. And there are nearly always leygates nearby. There was a time when I used them to travel the globe."

Joan looked at her husband. Although they had known one another for centuries, they had only recently married, and she realized that there was still much she didn't know about him. She pointed toward the cathedral. "What do you see?"

"I see a golden column of light shining up into the heavens."

Joan squinted out into the early-afternoon sunlight, but she saw nothing. Her eye was caught by a flash of bright red over her shoulder as Scathach also shook her head. "These columns: are they always gold?" she asked.

"Not always: they are either gold or silver. On my travels into the Far East, I saw silver spires. Once, before he lost the ability to see clearly, I believe that ancient man would have been able to identify leygates by simply looking to the skies to find the nearest gold or silver shaft of light." He turned to look at Scathach. "Can the Elders see leygates?"

Scathach shrugged. "I have no idea," she said dismissively. "I cannot, and before you ask, I've never heard of any Next Generation who was able to see them either." The young-looking woman settled a black backpack onto her shoulders, then pulled a wide black bandana down over her forehead, completely concealing all traces of her red hair. Her matching short swords were wrapped up in a rolled blanket tied across the top of the backpack. "So what do we do?"

The count looked at his watch. "This gate will activate at precisely one-forty-nine p.m., which is solar noon over Paris-that's the time the sun is at its zenith."

"I know what solar noon means," Scatty muttered.

"Walk straight up to Point Zero and stand there. Set into the cobblestones you will find a circle surrounding a miniature sunburst. The circle is divided into two parts. Make sure both of you have one foot in each section. I'll do the rest," Saint-Germain said. "Once the gate is active, I can send you on your way."

"And the gendarmes?" Joan asked, pulling on a matching backpack. She carried her sword in a thick tube that had once held a camera tripod.

"I'll take care of them, too." Francis grinned, revealing his crooked teeth. "Stay in the car until you see the police talking to me, then move. And no matter what happens, don't stop until you reach Point Zero. Then wait."

"What then?" Scatty demanded. She hated using leygates. They always made her feel seasick.

The count shrugged. "Well, if everything goes according to plan, you will instantaneously arrive on the West Coast of America."

"And if it doesn't?" Scatty asked in alarm as Saint-Germain climbed out of the car. "What happens if it doesn't go as planned: where do we end up then?"

"Who knows?" Francis threw up his hands. "The gates are solar-or lunar-powered, depending on the direction they run. I suppose there is always the possibility that if something went wrong, you could emerge in the heart of the sun or on the dark side of the moon. This line runs east to west, so it is a sun line," he added, then smiled. "You'll be fine. He drew Joan into his arms, held her tight, then kissed her lightly on both cheeks and whispered in her ear. Then he twisted around in the seat to look at the Warrior Maid. "Stay safe. Get Perenelle off the island and contact me. I'll come and get you." The count climbed out of the car, shoved both hands in the pockets of his long black leather coat and sauntered over to the nearest gendarme.

Joan turned to look at her friend. "You've got that look about you," she said.

"What look?" Scatty asked innocently, green eyes glittering.

"I call it your battle face. I first saw it the day you rescued me from the fire. Something happens to your face, it becomes… sharper." She reached back and ran a finger along Scathach's cheek. It was as if the flesh had tightened on her bones, clearly defining the skull beneath. Her freckles stood out on her pale skin like drops of blood.

"It's my vampire heritage." The Shadow grinned, long teeth savage in her mouth. "It happens to my clan when we are excited. Some of the blood drinkers cannot control the change and it alters them utterly, making them monsters."

"You're excited to be going into battle?" Joan asked quietly.

Scatty nodded, happy. "I'm excited to be rescuing our dearest friend."

"It will not be easy. She is trapped on an island full of monsters."

"What about them? You are the legendary Jeanne d'Arc, and I am the Shadow. What can stand against us?"

"A sphinx?" Joan suggested.

"They're not so tough," Scatty said lightly. "I fought the sphinx and her appalling mother before."

"Who won?" Joan asked, biting back a smile.

"Who do you think?" Scatty began, then corrected herself. "Well, actually, I ran away…" itting with their backs against the wall of the barn, legs stretched out in front of them, the twins watched Nicholas and Gilgamesh arguing outside. The Alchemyst was standing still and silent; the king was gesticulating wildly.

"What language are they speaking?" Josh asked. "Sounds almost familiar."

"Hebrew," Sophie said without thinking.

Josh nodded. He settled himself more comfortably against the wall. "You know, I thought…," he began slowly, struggling to find the words through a blanket of exhaustion. "I thought it would be more…" He shrugged. "I don't know. More spectacular."

"You saw what I saw," Sophie said with a tired smile. "You don't call that spectacular?"

He shrugged again. "It was interesting. But I don't feel any different. I thought… I don't know, I thought that after learning one of the magics, I'd feel… stronger, maybe. And how do we even use this Water magic?" he asked, holding both hands straight out in front of him. "Do we do something with our auras and think about water? Should we practice?"

"Instinct. You'll know what to do when the time is right." Sophie reached out and pushed her brother's hands down. "You can't use your aura," she reminded him, "it will reveal our location. This is the third of the elemental magics I've learned," she said, "and you're right, it's not spectacular, but neither were the others. I didn't feel any stronger or faster or anything like that when I learned Air or Fire. But I do feel…" She paused, looking for the right word. "Different."

"Different?" He looked at his twin. "You don't look different, except when your eyes turn silver. Then you're scary."

Sophie nodded. She knew what he meant; she had seen her brother's eyes turn to flat gold discs and it had been terrifying. Leaning her head back against the smooth wood, she closed her eyes. "Do you remember when you had the cast taken off your arm last year?"

Josh grunted. "Never forget it." He'd broken his arm in a bad tackle the previous summer and had spent three months in a cast.

"What did you say when the cast was cut off?"

Josh unconsciously raised his left hand, turning it in a half circle, closing his fingers into a fist. The cast had been incredibly irritating; there were so many things he just couldn't do with it, including tying his shoelaces. "I said I felt like me again."

"That's how I feel." Sophie opened her eyes and looked at her brother. "With every magic I learn, I feel more and more complete. It's as if parts of me have been missing all my life and now I'm becoming whole again, piece by piece."

Josh tried a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. "I guess by the time you learn the last magic you won't need me anymore."

Sophie reached out and squeezed her brother's arm. "Don't be silly. You're my twin. We are the two that are one."

"The one that is all," he finished.

"I wonder what it means," Sophie whispered.

"I have a feeling we'll find out-whether we want to or not," Josh said. aint-Germain was a rock star, famous throughout Europe, and the young police officer recognized him immediately. He came forward, snapped a quick salute and then pulled off his leather glove as the count stretched out his hand. Behind the smoked glass in the car the two women-Next Generation and human immortal-watched as Francis shook the man's hand and then deftly turned him so that he was facing away from the road.

"Let's go." Joan eased open the car door and slipped out into the warm afternoon air. A heartbeat later, Scathach joined her, gently pressing her door closed behind her. Side by side the two young-looking women walked toward the cathedral. They passed close enough to Francis and the gendarme to hear part of the conversation.

"… a disgrace, a national tragedy. I was thinking I should have a concert to raise money for the repair of the cathedral…"

"I'd go," the gendarme said immediately.

"I would insist on free entrance for our brave police, ambulance and fire officers, of course."

Joan and Scathach slipped under the flapping police tape and started to step through the piles of stone. Much of the rubble was dust, but some of the larger fragments still retained ghostly images of the figures they'd been before the twins had unleashed their elemental magic. Scatty saw traces of claws and beaks, sweeping horns and curling tails. A stone ball lay alongside a weathered hand. She glanced at Joan and both women turned to look at the front of the cathedral. The devastation was incredible: huge chunks of the building were missing, scraped or torn off, and portions looked as if it had been attacked by a wrecking ball.

"In all my years, I've never seen anything like it," Scathach murmured, "and that was only with two powers."

"And only one twin had those powers," Joan reminded her.

"Can you imagine what would happen if they possessed all the elemental magics?"

"They would have the power to destroy the world or remake it," Joan said.

"And that's the prophecy," Scathach said simply.

"Hey, you! You two. Stop there!"

The voice came from directly ahead of them.

"Stop. Stop right there." The second voice came from behind them.

"Keep going," Scatty muttered.

Joan glanced over her shoulder to see the young police officer attempting to extricate himself from Francis's viselike grip. Suddenly, the count released him and the man tumbled to the ground. In attempting to help him to his feet, Francis stepped on the hem of his long black coat, stumbled and fell on top of the man, pinning him down.

"You two. You don't belong here." A shaven-headed, shaggy-bearded middle-aged academic jumped to his feet before them. He'd been lying on the ground, piecing together tiny fragments of an eagle's wing. He came forward, waving a clipboard in their faces. "You are trampling over priceless historical artifacts."

"I'm not sure we could damage them any further if we tried." Without breaking stride, Scatty snatched the plastic clipboard from the man's grasp and tore it in two as easily as if it were a sheet of paper. She tossed the pieces at his feet. The man looked at what had been his clipboard lying on the ground, then turned and ran off, shouting.

"Very subtle, very discreet," Joan said.

"Very effective," Scatty said, and strode onto Point Zero.

Point Zero was in the middle of the square. Set into the cobbles was a circle of flat gray stone, divided into four parts. In the center was a circle of brighter stone with a sunburst design cut into it. The sunburst had eight arms radiating from its middle, though two were worn smooth by the passage of countless feet and rubbing fingers. The words Point Zero Des Routes De France were cut into the outer stones. There was plenty of space for Scathach and Joan to stand within the circle back to back, a foot on each section. "What happens…," Scathach began. ow?" Scathach finished.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut, pressed one hand to her stomach and the other to her mouth and collapsed to her knees. Scathach felt the world tilt and fought the urge to throw up, until she suddenly realized she was kneeling on soft earth. With her eyes still tightly shut, she patted the ground and felt long grass beneath her fingers. Then strong arms pulled her to her feet and cool hands cupped her face. Scathach opened her eyes to find Joan's face inches from her own. There was a smile on the Frenchwoman's elegant mouth.

"How do you feel?" Joan asked in French.

"Seasick."

"You'll live," Joan laughed. "I used to tell my troops that if they could still feel pain, they were alive."

"I bet they loved you," Scatty grumbled.

"Actually, they all did," Joan said.

"So we didn't fall into the sun." Scathach straightened and looked around. "We made it," she sighed. "Oh, it's good to be back home."

"Home?" Joan asked.

"I've lived on the West Coast for a long time; San Francisco is as much of a home to me as any other place. I was once told I would die in a desert, so I've always chosen to live on the coasts."

The two women were standing on the side of a gently sloping mountain. After the humid pollution-tainted air of Paris, the cool breeze was sweet, rich with the smell of vegetation, and although it had been early afternoon when they'd left Paris a heartbeat ago, the sun had not yet risen on the West Coast of America. "What time is it?" Scatty wondered aloud.

Joan checked her watch and then reset it. "It's ten minutes to five in the morning." She nodded toward the east, where the heavens were beginning to lighten to purple, though the sky over their heads was black, speckled with misty distant stars. Thick gray-white fog had settled farther down the mountain. "The sun will rise in about an hour." The Frenchwoman turned to look up the slopes of the mountain, which was barely visible in the gloom. "So this is Mount Tamalpais. I thought it would be… bigger."

"Welcome to Mount Tam," Scatty said with a flash of white teeth, "one of my favorite spots in America." She pointed into the blanket of thick mist. "We're about fifteen miles north of San Francisco and Alcatraz." The Shadow settled her knapsack more comfortably on her back. "We can jog…"

"Jog!" Joan laughed. "The last thing Francis said to me was that you would probably want to jog into the city. We're hiring a car," she said firmly.

"It's really not that far…," Scatty protested, and then stopped.

Directly below them, a huge shape moved through the fog, sending it swirling and curling. "Joan…," she began.

More figures moved, and abruptly the mist parted like a torn curtain to reveal an enormous herd of woolly mastodons grazing at the foot of the mountain. Then the Warrior spotted two saber-toothed cats lying flat in the tall grass, watching the herd intently, black-tipped tails twitching.

Joan was still looking up the mountains. She pulled her cell from her pocket and hit a speed dial. "I'll just let Francis know we've arrived…" She held the phone to her ear and then checked the screen. "Oh, no signal. Scatty, how long will it take us to get to…?" The shocked expression on her friend's face made her turn to see what she was looking at.

It took a heartbeat for Joan's eyes to adjust to the sheer scale of the mastodon herd that was now moving slowly through the shreds of predawn mist. A suggestion of movement caught her attention and she looked up: floating silent and high on invisible thermals, a trio of giant condors soared directly overhead.

"Scathach?" Joan breathed in a horrified whisper. "Where are we?"

"Not where, but when." The Shadow's face turned sharp and ugly, eyes glittering green and pitiless. "Leygates. I hate them!" One of the huge cats raised its head to look in the direction of the voice and yawned, savage seven-inch-long teeth glinting. The Warrior stared it down. "We may be on Mount Tamalpais, but this is not the twenty-first century." She indicated the mastodons, tigers and condors with a sweep of her hand. "I know what these are: they're megafauna. And they belong to the Pleistocene Epoch."

"How… how do we get back… to our own time?" Joan whispered, clearly upset.

"We don't," Scathach said grimly. "We're trapped."

Joan's first thoughts were for the Sorceress. "And what about Perenelle?" She started to cry. "She's expecting us. She's waiting on us."

Scatty drew Joan into her arms and held her close. "She might have a long wait," she said grimly. "Jeanne, we've gone back in time maybe a million years. The Sorceress is on her own."

"And so are we," Joan sobbed.

"Not really." Scatty grinned. "We've got one another."

"What are we going to do?" the immortal Frenchwoman wondered, angrily brushing her tears away.

"We will do what we have always done: we will survive."

"And what about Perenelle?" Joan asked.

But Scathach had no answer to that. illy the Kid glanced at the black-and-white photograph cupped in the palm of his hand, fixing Machiavelli's severe appearance in his head. The short white hair should be easy to spot, he decided. Tucking the image into the back pocket of his jeans, he folded his arms across his thin chest and watched the first passengers appear in the arrivals hall of San Francisco International Airport.

The tourists were easy to pick out; they were casually dressed in jeans or shorts and T-shirts, most with baggage carts piled high with far too many suitcases full of clothes they would never wear. Then there were the businessmen in light-colored suits, or slacks and sports jackets, carrying briefcases or pulling small overnight bags, striding out purposefully, already checking their cell phones, Bluetooth earpieces blinking in their ears. Billy paid particular attention to the families: elderly parents or grandparents greeting grandchildren, young men and women-maybe students-returning home to their parents, couples reuniting. There were lots of tears, shouts of joy, smiles and handshakes. Billy wondered what it would be like to be met like that, to step out into an airport arrivals hall and scan the faces, knowing that you would find someone genuinely pleased to see you-a parent, a sibling, even a friend, someone with whom you shared a history and a past.

He had no one. There hadn't been anyone for a very long time. Even during his natural life, he'd had few friends, and most of those had tried to kill him. None had ever succeeded.

Finally, tall and elegant in a smart black suit, a black leather computer bag over his shoulder, the white-haired man in the photograph came into the hall. Billy bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling: maybe in some European airport Machiavelli would pass unnoticed, but here, amid all the color and casual clothes, he stood out. Even if Billy hadn't seen the photograph, he would have known that this was the European immortal. He watched Machiavelli put on a pair of plain black sunglasses and scan the crowd, and even though he showed no sign of recognition, the Italian turned and made his way toward Billy. The American wondered if he would shake hands. Many immortals were reluctant to touch other humans, and especially other immortals. Though he'd met the English Magician a few times, Billy had never seen Dee take off his gray gloves.

Machiavelli stretched out his hand.

Billy smiled, quickly rubbed his palm on the leg of his jeans and stretched out his hand in turn. "How did you know it was me?" he asked in passable French. The Italian's grip was firm, his flesh cool and dry.

"I usually just follow my nose," Machiavelli replied in the same language, and then slipped into accentless English. He breathed deeply. "The hint of cayenne pepper, I believe."

"Just so," Billy agreed. He tried breathing in to catch the Italian's scent, but all he could smell were the myriad odors of the airport, plus-bizarrely-the faint odor that every cowboy associated with rattlesnakes.

"And of course I looked you up online," Machiavelli added with a wry smile. "You still resemble the famous photograph. Curious, though; you knew me the moment I stepped through the door. I could feel your eyes on me."

"I knew who I was looking for."

Machiavelli's eyebrows raised in a silent question. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his high forehead, gray eyes flashing as he looked down. He was at least a head taller than the American. "I take great care to ensure that no photographs of me appear online or in print."

"Our employers sent this to me." Billy fished the photo out of his back pocket and handed it over. Machiavelli looked at it, then the tiniest of smiles creased his mouth. They both knew what it meant. The Dark Elders were spying on Machiavelli… which probably meant that they were also watching Billy. Machiavelli went to return the photo, but Billy shook his head. Looking into the Italian's eyes, he said, "It served it's purpose. You might find another use for it."

Machiavelli's head moved in a slight bow that dropped his sunglasses back onto his long nose. "I am sure I will." They both knew that when the Italian returned to Paris, he would do everything in his power to find out who had taken the photograph.

The American looked at the single bag in Machiavelli's hand. "Is that all your luggage?"

"Yes. I had packed a larger case, but then I realized I would not be here long enough to use even a tenth of the clothing I intended to bring. So I left it all behind and just brought a change of socks and underwear. And my laptop, of course."

The two men made an odd couple as they headed for the exit, Machiavelli in his tailor-made black suit, Billy in a faded denim shirt, battered jeans and down-at-heel boots. Although the airport was packed, no one came close enough to brush against them, and the crowd unconsciously parted before them.

"So this is just a quick in-and-out trip?" Billy asked.

"I hope to be on the first available flight home." Machiavelli smiled.

"I admire your confidence," the American said, keeping his voice neutral, "I'm just of the opinion that Mrs. Flamel may not be so easily defeated." He pulled an ancient pair of Ray Bans from his shirt pocket as they stepped out into the brilliant early-afternoon sunshine.

"Is everything in readiness?" Machiavelli asked as they walked into the dimness of the parking garage.

Billy tugged his car keys out of his pocket. "I've hired a boat. It will be waiting for us at Pier Thirty-nine." He stopped, suddenly realizing that the Italian was no longer standing beside him. He turned, the key to the bright red Thunderbird in his hand, and looked back to find the Italian staring admiringly at the convertible, which was a dramatic splash of color and style in the middle of all the other ordinary cars.

"Nineteen fifty-nine Thunderbird convertible-no, nineteen sixty," Machiavelli amended. He ran a hand across the gleaming hood and over the lights. "Magnificent."

Billy grinned. He'd been prepared to dislike Niccolo Machiavelli, but the Italian had just gone up a notch in his estimation. "It's my pride and joy."

The immortal walked around the car, stooping to examine the wheels and the exhaust. "And so it should be: everything looks original."

"Everything is," Billy said proudly. "I've replaced the exhaust twice, but I made sure the replacements were from an identical model." He climbed into the car and waited while Machiavelli strapped himself in. "I'd have pegged you for a Lamborghini driver, or an Alfa Romeo, maybe."

"Ferarri, maybe, but never an Alfa!"

"Do you own many cars?" Billy asked.

"None. I have a company car and a driver. I don't drive," the Italian admitted.

"Don't or can't?"

"I do not like to drive. I'm a really bad driver," he admitted with a wry smile. "But then, I did learn to drive in a three-wheeled car."

"When was that?" Billy asked.

"In 1885."

"I died in 1881." Billy shook his head. "I can't imagine not being able to drive," he murmured as they pulled out of the parking lot. "Like not being able to ride." He hit the accelerator and the car surged forward and slotted into the heavy airport traffic. "Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked. "There's some good French and Italian restaurants…"

Machiavelli shook his head. "I'm not hungry. Unless you want to eat."

"I don't eat much these days," Billy admitted.

Machiavelli's cell phone pinged. "Excuse me." He pulled out the wafer-thin phone and stared at the screen. "Ah," he said in delight.

"Good news?" Billy asked.

Machiavelli sat back in the seat and grinned. "I set a trap yesterday; it was sprung a couple of hours ago."

Billy glanced sidelong but remained silent.

"The moment I discovered the Alchemyst's wife was being detained in San Francisco, I knew that either he or some of his allies would attempt to make their way back here. They had two alternatives: the flight on which I've just come in, or the Notre Dame leygate."

"I'm going to guess you did something to this leygate." Billy grinned. "That sounds like the sort of thing I'd do."

"The gate is activated at Point Zero in Paris. I simply coated the stones with an alchemical concoction made from ground-up mammoth bones-bones from the Pleistocene Epoch-and added a simple Attraction spell to the mix."

The light changed to red and Billy brought the car to a stop. Tugging on the hand brake, he swiveled in his seat to look at the Italian with something like awe. "So whoever used the leygate…"

"… was pulled back in time to the Pleistocene Epoch."

"Which was when?" Billy asked. "I never did get much schooling."

"Anywhere between one point eight million and maybe eleven thousand five hundred years ago." Machiavelli smiled.

"Oh, you're good." Billy shook his head. "So, do you have any idea who activated the gate?"

"A security camera has been trained on the spot for the past twenty-four hours." Machiavelli held up his phone. It showed an image of two women standing back to back in the middle of a rock-strewn square. "I've no idea who the smaller woman is," Machiavelli said, "but the one to the left is Scathach."

"The Shadow?" Billy whispered, leaning forward to look at the screen. "That's the Warrior Maid?" He looked unimpressed. "I thought she'd be taller."

"Everyone does," Machiavelli said. "That's usually their first mistake."

Car horns blared behind the Thunderbird as the lights changed, and someone shouted.

Machiavelli glanced at the American immortal curiously, wondering how he'd react. But Billy the Kid had tamed his famous temper decades ago. He raised his hand and waved an apology in the air, then took off.

"So with the Shadow out of the picture, I take it that our job is much easier."

"Infinitely," Machiavelli agreed. "I had a vague suspicion that she'd somehow turn up on Alcatraz and spoil the party."

"Well, that ain't going to happen now." Billy grinned, then got serious. "Under your seat you'll find an envelope. It contains a printout of an e-mail I received from Enoch Enterprises sometime yesterday afternoon, giving us permission to land on Alcatraz. Dee's company currently owns the island. You'll also find a photograph that came attached to an anonymous e-mail that arrived this morning. I'm guessing it's for you. Means nothing to me."

Machiavelli shook out the two pages. On Enoch Enterprises letterhead was a long legal-looking document giving the bearer permission to land on the island and carry out "historical research." It was signed John Dee, PhD. The second sheet was a high-resolution color photo of the images on the wall of an Egyptian pyramid.

"Do you know what it means?" Billy asked.

Machiavelli turned the page sideways. "This is taken from the pyramid of Unas, who reigned in Egypt over four thousand years ago," he said slowly. A perfectly manicured nail traced a line of hieroglyphs. "These used to be called Pyramid Texts; nowadays we call them the Book of the Dead." He tapped the photograph and laughed softly. "I do believe this is the formula of words for awakening all the creatures sleeping on the island." He slipped the pages back into the envelope and looked over at the younger man. "Let's get out to Alcatraz. It is time to kill Perenelle Flamel." r. John Dee examined the business card in his hand. It was exceptionally beautiful, silver ink embossed on thick handmade rag paper. He turned it over; there was no name on the card, only the stylized representation of a stag with flaring antlers enclosed in a double circle. Leaning forward, he pressed the intercom button. "Send the gentleman in; I will see him now."

His office door opened almost immediately, and a nervous-looking male secretary appeared and ushered a tall sharp-faced man into the room. "Mr. Hunter, sir."

"Hold my calls," Dee snapped. "I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"That will be all. Tell the staff they can go home now." Dee had insisted that everyone remain long after normal office hours.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will you be here tomorrow?"

Dee's look sent the secretary scurrying. The Magician knew the entire office were on tenterhooks because he had turned up unexpectedly. Rumors were flying around the building that he was going to close the London branch of Enoch Enterprises. Even though it was now ten o'clock in the evening, no one had complained about staying late.

"Take a seat, Mr. Hunter." Dee indicated the low leather and metal chair before him. He remained seated behind his desk of polished black marble, watching the newcomer carefully. There was something wrong about him, the Magician decided. The planes and angles of his face were awry; his eyes were slightly too high, each one was a different color and his mouth a little too low and wide. It was almost as if he had been created by someone who had not seen a human for a long time. He was dressed in a pale blue pinstripe suit, but the trousers were just a little too short and showed a flash of white flesh just above his black socks, while the sleeves of his jacket ended below his knuckles. His shoes were filthy, thickly caked with mud.

Hunter folded himself into the seat, the movement awkward and stiff, as if he wasn't quite sure what to with his arms and legs.

Dee allowed his fingers to brush against Excalibur, which was propped under his desk. He also knew half a dozen auric spells, any one of which was designed to overload an aura and bring it to blazing life. Then the only problem would be cleaning the dust out of the carpet. The chair would probably melt.

"How did you know I was here?" Dee asked suddenly. "I rarely visit this office. And it is a little late in the evening for a meeting."

The tall pale-faced man tried to smile, but instead twisted his lips oddly. "My employer knew you were in the city. He presumed you would make your way to this office inasmuch as it gives you access to your communications network." The man spoke English with clipped precision, but in a slightly high-pitched voice that made everything sound faintly ridiculous.

"Can you not speak plainly?" Dee snapped. He was tired and running out of time. Despite the hours of roadblocks and countless police checkpoints, there was still no sign of Flamel and the children. The British government was coming under pressure to remove the checkpoints. All roads leading in and out of the city were still gridlocked, and London itself was at a standstill.

"You had a meeting with my employer late last night," the pale man said. "It was terminated before it had reached a satisfactory conclusion, due to circumstances entirely beyond your control."

The Magician rose and walked around the desk. He was holding Excalibur in his right hand, tapping the stone blade gently against his left. The seated man showed no reaction. "What are you?" Dee asked, curious. He had come to the conclusion that the creature was not entirely natural and probably not even human. Going down on one knee, he stared into the man's face, looking at the mismatched eyes. Green and gray. "Are you a tulpa, a Golem, simulacrum or homunculus?"

"I am a Thoughtform," the figure said, and smiled. Its mouth was filled with stag's teeth. "Created by Cernunnos."

Dee was scrambling back even as the figure changed. The body remained that of a tall ill-dressed man, but the head altered, became beautiful and alien, even as great antlers sprouted. The Horned God's mouth moved in the tiniest of smiles and its slit-pupiled eyes expanded and contracted. "Lock your door, Doctor; you would not want anyone to walk in now."

Giving the creature a wide berth, keeping Excalibur between them, Dee moved around to snap the lock on the door. What Cernunnos had just done was remarkable. Using its imagination and the power of its will, the Archon had created a being entirely out of its aura. The creation wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. Dee knew that humani never really looked at one another anymore, and even if someone had noticed that something was wrong with the man's appearance, they would have looked away, embarrassed.

"I'm impressed," Dee said. "I take it that you are controlling the Thoughtform from a distance?"

"Farther than you can imagine," Cernunnos said.

"I had come to the conclusion that you did not have any mastery of magic," Dee admitted, returning to his desk. The fancy silver business card was slowly steaming, curls of off-white smoke drifting away to be absorbed by the stag-headed man sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

"Not magic, just Archon technology," Cernunnos said simply. "You would find the two indistinguishable."

"I assume you are here for a reason," Dee said, "and not just to demonstrate this… this technology."

The stag nodded, smiling brilliantly. "I know where Flamel, Gilgamesh, Palamedes and the twins are."

"Right now?"

"Right now," the creature agreed. "They are an hour from here."

"Tell me," Dee demanded, then added, "please."

The Archon held up its right hand. Dee noticed that it had one too many fingers. "My terms remain the same, Magician. I want Flamel, Gilgamesh and Palamedes alive. And I want Clarent."

"Agreed," Dee said without hesitation. "All yours. Just tell me where they are."

"And I want Excalibur."

At that moment the Magician would have promised the creature anything. "Done. I will put it in your hands myself, the moment Flamel is dead. How many others are with him?" he asked eagerly.

"None."

"None? What about the Gabriel Hounds?"

"The Ratchets and their master, the Bard, have vanished. The Alchemyst, the knight and the king are with the twins."

"How did you find them?" Dee asked. He had to admit he was impressed. "I've looked everywhere."

The creature was changing again as it stood, horns retracting back into its skull. A head and face that was subtly, disturbingly different from its previous head appeared. "I went back to their metal fortress, and then I simply followed their scent."

"You tracked them across this city by smell?" Dee found that an even more astonishing feat than controlling the Thoughtform. He bit back a smile at the sudden image of the Horned God on all fours running through traffic, sniffing after a car.

"Archon technology. It was simplicity itself," the Thoughtform said. "Now, if you will just accompany me, I will endeavor to arrange for you to be transported…"

"The Thoughtform is impressive," the Magician said sincerely, "but if you intend to pass among the humani, you really need to work on the voice. And the clothes."

"It is of little consequence," the creature said. "Soon the humani will be no more." erenelle Flamel was disappointed.

Huddled in the watchtower where she had spent the night, the Sorceress had been hoping against hope that any one of the small sailing boats scattered across the bay would suddenly veer toward the island, and Scatty and Joan would come ashore.

But as the day wore on, she'd realized that they were not coming.

She had no doubts that they had tried, and she knew that only something terrible could have kept them away. But she was also a little annoyed with herself for getting her hopes up.

"Boat coming!" de Ayala's voice whispered behind her left ear, startling her.

"Juan!" she snapped. "You're going to be the death of me!" She pushed to the edge of the watchtower, feeling a wave of relief wash over her, along with the tiniest twinge of guilt that she had ever doubted her friends. The Sorceress's face broke into a cruel smile; with Joan of Arc and Scathach the Shadow by her side, nothing-not even the sphinx and the Old Man of the Sea-would be able to stand against her.

Huge black wings flapped and snapped, and she watched the Crow Goddess come spiraling down off the top of the lighthouse and float gently to the wharf almost directly below her. Perenelle frowned; what was the creature thinking? Scathach would probably feed her to the Nereids, who were none too fussy about what they ate.

She was just about to stand up and climb out of the tower when de Ayala's face partially materialized in front of her. The ghost's eyes were wide with alarm. "Down. Stay down."

Perenelle flattened herself against the floor. She heard the bubbling of an outboard motor and the scrape of wood against wood as the boat bumped up against the dock. And then a voice spoke. A male voice.

"Madam, it is an honor to find you are here."

There was something about the voice, something dreadfully familiar… Perenelle crept over to the edge of the watchtower and peered down. Almost directly below her, the Italian immortal Niccolo Machiavelli was bowing deeply to the Crow Goddess. The Sorceress recognized the young man who climbed out of the boat as the immortal she'd caught spying on her the previous day.

Machiavelli straightened and held up an envelope. "I have instructions from our Elder master. We are to awaken the sleeping army and kill the Sorceress. Where is she?" he demanded.

The Crow Goddess's smile was savage. "Let me show you." he twins slept, and their dreams were identical.

They dreamt of rain and pounding water, towering waterfalls, vast curling waves and a flood that had once almost destroyed the earth.

The dreams left them twitching and mumbling in their sleep, muttering in a variety of languages, and once, Sophie and Josh simultaneously called out for their mother in a tongue Gilgamesh recognized as Old Egyptian, a language first spoken more than five thousand years ago.

A dozen times during the course of the long day, Nicholas Flamel had been tempted to wake the twins, but Gilgamesh and Palamedes stood guard over them. The king had pulled a barrel alongside Josh; the knight had squatted down on a broken box beside Sophie. The two men scratched out a square board in the dirt and played endless games of checkers with stones and seeds, rarely speaking except to keep score with scraps of broken twig.

The first time Flamel had approached the twins, the two men had looked up, matching expressions of distrust on their faces. "Leave them be. They must sleep," Gilgamesh said firmly. "The Magic of Water is unique. Unlike the other magics, which are external-spells that can be memorized, an aura that can be charged and shaped-the power of Water magic comes from within. We are all creatures of water. This is the magic we are born with. I have awakened that knowledge deep within their cells, their DNA. Now their bodies need to adapt, adjust and absorb what they have just learned. To awaken them now would be just too dangerous."

Flamel folded his arms and looked down at the sleeping twins. "And how long are we expected to sit here, waiting?"

"All day and all night, if we have to," Gilgamesh snapped.

"Dee is tearing this country apart looking for us, my Perenelle is trapped on an island full of monsters. We can't just-" Flamel began angrily.

"Oh yes we can. And we will." Palamedes slowly rose to his full height, towering over the Alchemyst. There was an expression of disgust on his face, and the scars under his eyes were bright against his dark skin. "You told me earlier that you did not kill people."

"I don't!"

"Well, I do."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Yes," the knight said simply. "Impatience and stupidity claim more victims than any weapon. You will heed the king. Wake the twins now and you will kill them." He paused and then added bitterly, "Just as you killed the others before them." He turned his head to look down on Sophie and Josh. "Have you ever wondered if some of those who died might have been the twins of legend, and it was your eagerness that caused their deaths or was responsible for their madness?"

"Not a day passes that I do not think about them," Flamel said sincerely.

The Saracen Knight sat down and stared at the game board carved into the earth. He moved a piece, then looked up again and spoke very softly. "And if you take a step closer, I will kill you."

The Alchemyst had no doubt that he meant it.

Flamel spent most of the day in the taxicab, listening to the news on the radio, hopping from station to station, looking for any clue to what was happening. Speculation was running wild, and the talk shows and phone-ins were full of the most outrageous theories. But there was little real news. Alerted by their colleagues in France of a major terrorist threat, the British authorities had closed down all of Britain's air-and seaports. There were checkpoints on all major roads, and the police were advising people not to travel unless it was absolutely necessary. Nicholas had always known that the Dark Elders were powerful and had agents at every level of human society, but this was the clearest demonstration he had seen of that power.

As the afternoon wore on into evening, the Alchemyst wandered through the field of tall grass that surrounded the barn, drinking the bottled water Palamedes had bought in the nearby town. Usually, Nicholas was the most patient of men-alchemy by its very nature was a long slow process-but the delay was infuriating. Stonehenge was less than a mile away, and within the broken circle of standing stones was a leygate that connected with Mount Tamalpais. Flamel was aware that he no longer possessed the strength to open the gate, but the twins did. He was sure they would be as eager as he was to return home. Then he could set about rescuing Perenelle. He would either free her or die trying. And even if he succeeded and managed to get Perry off the island, he was beginning to believe that there was little left for them to do but die.

The Alchemyst stopped by one of the ancient oaks that bordered the field and leaned back against it, staring up at the skies through the thick covering of leaves, before sinking down to the hard dry earth. He held both hands up to the light: they were the veined hands of an old man. He brushed his fingers across his scalp and saw tiny strands of short hair drift away in the sunlight. His knuckles were swollen and stiff, and there was a stabbing pain in his hip when he stood or sat. Old age was catching up with him. Since last Thursday, when Dee had walked into his bookshop, he must have aged a decade, though it was beginning to feel like two. He'd used so much of his aura without allowing it to recharge that the aging process had accelerated. His energy levels were dangerously depleted, and he was conscious that if he used much more of his aura anytime soon, there was a very real danger that he would spontaneously combust.

Without the Codex, both he and Perenelle would die. The Alchemyst's lips curled in a wry smile. The Book of Abraham was with Dee and his masters, who were not likely to return it. Nicholas stretched out his legs, closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun, letting it's warmth embrace him. He was going to die. Not someday, not at some vague point in the future-he was going to die very soon. And what would happen to the twins then? Sophie had two magics left to learn, Josh still had four to master; who would continue their training? If they survived their present predicament, he knew he would need to make some decisions before death claimed him. Would Saint-Germain be willing to mentor the twins? he wondered-though he was unsure whether he entirely trusted the count. Maybe there was someone in America he could ask, maybe one of the Native American shamans could…

A bone-deep exhaustion coupled with the heat and stillness of the day made the Alchemyst drowsy. His eyelids blinked, then closed, and he fell asleep sitting up against the tree.

The Alchemyst dreamt of Perenelle.

It was their wedding day-August 18, 1350-and the priest had just pronounced them man and wife. The Alchemyst trembled in his sleep; this was an old dream, a nightmare that had once haunted him every night for centuries, and he knew what was coming.

Nicholas and Perenelle turned away from the altar to face the church and found that the small stone building was packed with people. As they came down the aisle, they discovered that the church was filled with twins-boys and girls, teenagers, young men and women-all with blond hair and blue eyes. They all looked like Sophie and Josh Newman. And they all had the same expression of horror and disgust on their faces.

Nicholas jerked awake. He always awoke at the same point.

The Alchemyst remained unmoving, allowing his thundering heart to slow. He was startled to discover that night had fallen. The air was cool and dry against his sweat-damp skin. Overhead leaves rustled and whispered, the scent of the forest heavy and cloying…

That was wrong. The night should have smelled of trees and grass, but where was the scent of the primal forest coming from?

A branch snapped to his left, dried leaves crunched somewhere off to the right and the Alchemyst realized that something was moving through the field toward the barn. he Sorceress is in a cell in D Block," the Crow Goddess said. "This way." She stood back and allowed Machiavelli and Billy the Kid to precede her. Then she turned her head and looked over her shoulder, up at the watchtower, red and yellow eyes bright against her pale skin. She raised her pencil-thin eyebrows, her black lips curled in a slight smile and then she dropped her sunglasses on her face. The Crow Goddess tugged her black feathered cloak high on her shoulders and strode after the two immortals, boot heels clicking on the damp stones.

"What just happened?" de Ayala asked, confused.

"A debt was paid," Perenelle said softly, her eyes following the creature as she disappeared directly below the watchtower. "Unasked and unexpected," she added with a smile. The Sorceress grabbed her spear, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and climbed down the metal ladder onto the wharf. She breathed deeply; there were traces of Machiavelli's serpent odor and his companion's scent-red pepper-lingering on the air. She would not forget them.

"You should wait until they are in the cells below before attacking," de Ayala said, materializing beside her. He was now wearing the more formal costume of a lieutenant in the Spanish navy. "Take them unawares. Is your aura strong?"

"As strong as it is going to get, I believe. Why?"

"Strong enough to bring the ceiling down on top of them?"

Perenelle leaned on the spear and stared at the sea-rotted buildings. "Yes, yes, I could do that," she said carefully. The onshore breeze whipped strands of hair across her face. She brushed them away, realizing there was more silver than black in them. "I need to conserve my aura, but I'm sure I could find a little spell to eat away at the concrete and metal supports…"

The ghost rubbed his hands gleefully. "All the spirits of Alcatraz will assist you, of course, madame. Just tell us what we need to do."

"Thank you, Juan. They have already helped enough." Perenelle took off after the trio, moving silently in her battered shoes. She stopped at the corner of a building and peered around. The Crow Goddess and the immortals had vanished.

De Ayala floated up. "And what of the ice you used against the sphinx? That was successful; how about sealing the entire corridor in solid ice?"

"That might be a little trickier," the Sorceress admitted, turning and heading purposefully back toward the wharf, past the bookshop. A wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "However, there is something I can do that will most certainly upset them."

"Which is?" de Ayala asked eagerly.

Perenelle pointed with the wooden spear. "I'm going to steal their boat." The ghost looked so disappointed that the Sorceress laughed for the first time in days. int green light blazed through the barn's warped walls, incandescent shafts and bars lighting up the interior in solid beams.

Outlined by the light, its antlers huge and terrifying, was the Archon, Cernunnos. Shadows of wolves' heads danced on the walls.

Sophie woke up with a scream, shining silver armor winking into existence around her body as her aura sparkled over her flesh. Josh's eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet, his left hand automatically reaching for Clarent. The stone sword hummed and hissed as his fingers closed around the hilt, the blade crackling, a sheen of colors running along its length.

Palamedes' smooth black armor grew over his body and he dragged his enormous claymore sword off his shoulder and positioned himself in front of the twins. Gilgamesh silently reached over and pulled the curved shamshir sword from the knight's belt. "Where's the Alchemyst?" Palamedes demanded.

"I can smell mint," Sophie said quickly, breathing deeply. The distinctive odor permeated the night air. She was aware of the solid thumping of her heart, but even though she knew what was outside, she was not frightened. They had defeated the Archon once already, and that was before they had the Magic of Water.

"That light is the same color as Nicholas's aura," Josh added. "He must be outside."

"We need to get out," Palamedes said urgently, "we can't be trapped in here." He turned and launched himself at a wall. Rotten wood gave way in a burst of splinters, sending him crashing out into the field.

"Go!" Gilgamesh shouted, catching Sophie's arm and pushing her through the ragged opening ahead of him. "Josh, come on!"

Josh was turning to follow when the barn doors were ripped off their hinges. Cernunnos ducked its head to peer into the barn, only its huge rack of antlers preventing it from coming through the doorway. The beautiful face smiled and the voice buzzed and trembled in Josh's head. "So, we meet again, boy. I've come for my sword."

"I don't think so," Josh said through gritted teeth.

"I do. And I came prepared this time." Cernunnos drew back its right arm, and Josh saw that the Horned God had a bow and arrow in its hand. Josh heard the twang of a bowstring and he caught the flicker of an arrow arcing through the air directly toward him.

Clarent moved, coming up and across Josh's body, blade flat over his heart.

The bone-tipped arrow shattered harmlessly against the stone blade, but with enough force behind it to send the boy staggering back. Cernunnos bellowed in frustration. He notched another arrow and fired.

Clarent shifted in Josh's hand, blade singing as it cleaved the arrow in two.

Two of the huge human-faced wolves pushed past the Horned God and slunk into the barn. They spread out to come at Josh from either side, and he backed up until his legs hit the ancient tractor. He could go no farther. Planting his feet firmly, holding the sword in both hands in front of him, he stood and watched the wolves of the Wild Hunt creep toward him, and saw the Archon ready another arrow.

"How fast are you, boy?" Cernunnos bellowed. It shouted an unintelligible word as it loosed the arrow and the two wolves launched themselves, jaws wide.

Gilgamesh came out of the shadows, the heavy curved Persian sword whistling as it cut through the air. The first wolf didn't even see the immortal, but the moment the cold steel touched its flesh, it dissolved to dust.

The second wolf darted at Josh. Clarent moved, stabbing outward, and the creature exploded into grit. "Gilgamesh!" Josh shouted. "Look out!"

But the Archon's arrow took the immortal high in the chest, spinning him around, dropping him to the ground. Cernunnos grabbed another arrow, leveled it at the king and fired.

Sophie's scream was terrifying: fear and loss and rage wrapped up in one sound. Jerking away from the Saracen Knight, she pushed back through the broken wall, silver aura hard and shining around her flesh as she raced to the fallen king and threw herself on top of him. Cernunnos's arrow hit her in the center of the back, its flint head shattering to powder against her armor, but the force of the blow broke her concentration and her aura faded and fizzled out, leaving her defenseless.

The Archon flung the bow aside; it had no more arrows. Then it started to rip the front of the barn apart with its huge hands, bellowing, stamping and roaring in delighted rage.

Sophie knelt beside Gilgamesh, lifting his head off the floor, cradling it. Josh placed himself between the Archon and his sister, eyes darting, looking for an attack. He planted his feet and his body automatically moved into a battle stance: weight shifted slightly to one side, sword in both hands, tilted up and across his chest. He felt a sudden sense of peace settle over him, and he knew that this was nothing to do with the sword buzzing and sizzling in his hands. It was the recognition that there were no choices, no decisions to make. There was only one thing he could do: he would stand and fight the Archon, and he was prepared to die defending his sister.

Gilgamesh's lips moved, and Sophie bent her head to hear his words. "Water," he whispered, his breath warm on her face.

"I don't have any," she said tearfully. She knew she should be doing something, but she couldn't think, couldn't focus. All she could see was the old man in her arms, the terrible black arrow protruding from his chest. She wanted to help him; she just didn't know how.

The king's lips moved in a painful smile. "Not to drink," he rasped. "Water: the ultimate weapon."

Before she could respond, the Archon tore away the entire front of the barn. She spun around, and through the gaping hole she could see what was happening outside. Nicholas Flamel, his aura green and glowing, was battling with Dr. John Dee, who was wrapped in smoking sulfurous yellow. Dee fought with a long whip of sallow energy while the Alchemyst tried to keep him at bay with a solid spear of green light. Palamedes was surrounded by the remainder of the Wild Hunt, the huge wolves darting in to snap and claw at him, threatening to overwhelm him as he slashed and cut with the longsword.

"Josh." Sophie was calm. "The king said we should use water."

"Water?" Her twin glanced down. "But I don't know how…"

"Remember what I said about instinct?" She stretched up her right hand and her twin reached down with his left to take it.

Cernunnos finished demolishing the front of the building and pulled a savage-looking stone-headed club out of its belt. "You cannot defend yourself and the girl," it grunted.

"I only have to defend the girl," Josh whispered.

Cernunnos took a step forward… and then the ground opened up beneath it. What had been hard-baked earth turned to a sticky quagmire, swallowing its ankles. Water, thick and muddy, bubbled up from beneath the ground. A tiny geyser squirted from a fissure, and then a whole section of the earth cracked and suddenly dissolved into muck. The Archon lurched forward, the club falling from his hand. Another patch of earth turned to soupy marsh and the creature sank up to its knees, then its hips. Grimly silent now, its oval amber eyes fixed on the twins, blazing with hate, Cernunnos dug its huge hands into the ground and attempted to heave itself up.

"Mistake," Josh whispered.

The ground liquefied around the Archon's hands.

"We just need a little more water," Sophie whispered.

Josh actually felt the water surging through the hard-baked earth, experienced its power as it pushed its way upward, driven by incredible pressure from below, slicing through mud, pulverizing the soil, pushing rocks and tree roots ahead of it.

The Archon howled and bellowed as it sank to its chest in mud, its huge bulk driving it deeper into the ground. The creature's hands battered the sticky earth, sending it spraying everywhere. It grabbed for purchase, but found nothing but mud. A bubble popped behind it, a stone emerging to the surface of the mire, and another and then a third. And suddenly, sticky brown-black mud spewed upward, raining down to coat the creature in filth, battering it with scraps of tree roots and chunks of stone. A circular depression opened up around Cernunnos and the Archon was swallowed, mud flowing over its head, until only the very tips of its antlers showed.

Sophie jerked her hand away from her brother's and splayed her silver metal fingers. An intense blast of white-hot fire blazed over the swampy circle, the searing heat baking the ground iron-hard in an instant.

"We did it," Josh laughed. "We did it! I could feel the power flowing through me. The Magic of Water," he said in wonder.

"Josh, get out there. Help them," Sophie commanded, all the color draining from her face as her aura depleted.

"What about you?"

"Do it," she snapped, eyes winking silver.

"You're not the boss of me." He grinned.

"Oh yes I am." She smiled and reached up to squeeze his fingers. "Remember, I'm older."

Smiling, Josh turned and raced out into the field, Clarent whistling before him, cleaving a path toward Palamedes. Part of him wanted to help the Alchemyst, but an instinct deep down told him it made more sense to rescue the knight first; two warriors were better than one.

Gilgamesh's grip tightened on Sophie's fingers. "You must go now," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Get away from here."

"I'm not leaving you. You're injured."

"You will never leave me," the king said, "you will live forever in my memory." He suddenly grabbed the arrow protruding from his chest, pulled it out and flung it away. "And this, hah, it will slow me down for a bit, but it will take more than this to kill me. You go, go now. Your aura, the Alchemyst's and the Magician's will have called every evil thing in this county. And probably the authorities, too." His eyes flickered toward the green and yellow light blazing from the immortals' weapons. "I'm sure that light can be seen from miles away." The king squeezed Sophie's hand. "Know this: if we meet again, I may not remember you." He pulled the thick sheaf of mismatched pages from under his shirt, extracted the topmost sheet and pressed it into her hand. "And if I do not, then give me this. It will remind me of the girl who shed a tear for the lost king. Go now. Get to the leygate."

"But I don't know where it is," Sophie said.

"The Alchemyst does…" He turned to look at Flamel, and Sophie followed his gaze. At that moment Flamel's aura winked out as he crumpled to the ground. Dee shouted in triumph and drew the crackling yellow whip back over his head. rom the corner of his eye, Josh saw the Alchemyst's aura die and turned to watch him fall.

And he knew he was too far away to get to him in time.

He spun around and Clarent sliced a mangy one-eyed wolf to dust, and then, pivoting on his heel as if he were throwing a discus, he flung the sword at Dee. The blade sounded like a cat as it screamed through the air, the stone glowing red-black. The Magician saw it at the last moment. The whip in his hand became a glowing circular shield and Clarent hit its center in an explosion of black and yellow sparks that hammered the Magician to the ground. His aura crackled, then died. And he didn't get up.

A child-faced wolf leapt at Josh, its jaws gaping, and he hissed in pain as its claws raked his arm. Abruptly, the wolf exploded to dust. Sophie shook black soot off the metal shamshir blade Gilgamesh had given her. "Get the car, we've got to get out of here."

Josh hesitated, torn between retrieving Clarent and getting to the car. Wings flapped overhead and a six-foot-tall rat-like creature dropped out of the night sky, claws extended toward Sophie. Its hiss of triumph became a gurgle as the iron blade drove upward, turning it to gritty sand. "Now, Josh!" Sophie demanded, spitting dirt from her mouth.

Her twin turned and ran for the car. The night had come alive with a cacophony of sounds: howling, yipping and barking. Hooves clattered on the hard earth. The noises were getting louder, closer.

Palamedes had left the key in the car's ignition. Josh slid into the driver's seat, took a deep breath and turned it. The car started on his first try. Gripping the wheel tightly, he floored the accelerator. Two wolves disappeared under the wheels in puffs of dust. Another leapt onto the hood, but he jerked the steering wheel and it slid off, leaving long claw marks across the metal. He ran down a coal black wolf that was creeping up on Sophie and hit the brakes. "You called for a cab?"

But Sophie didn't climb in. "Get Palamedes," she snapped. Running alongside the car, she slashed and cut her way through the wolves of the Wild Hunt with the metal blade until they reached the Saracen Knight, who was standing ankle-deep in black dust.

"Get in, get in!" Josh shouted.

Palamedes wrenched open the door, pushed Sophie in first, then threw himself into the back of the cab. Josh took off with a wheel-spinning lurch. He pulled up to Nicholas, who was lying unmoving on the ground. Sophie leaned out of the back of the cab, caught him by his shoulders and tried to haul him into the car, but he was too heavy. Palamedes reached out and even in his exhausted and weakened state dragged the Alchemyst in with one hand.

Sophie slapped the glass partition with the palm of her hand. "Go, Josh, go!"

"I've got to get Clarent."

"Look behind you!" she screamed.

In the rearview mirror, Josh could see that the field was full of monsters. They looked like they were part of the Wild Hunt, but these wolves were black, with brutish, almost apelike faces, and were twice the size of the gray wolves. Running alongside them were huge coal-colored cats with blazing red eyes.

"What are they?" Josh shouted.

"Aspects of the Wild Hunt from all across the country," Palamedes said tiredly.

Josh glanced at the long grass where he knew Clarent was lying and made a decision. It would take only a moment to get to it… but doing so would endanger everyone. Even as he floored the accelerator, he recognized that the old Josh Newman would have put his own needs above others and gone for the sword. He had changed. Maybe it had to do with the magic he'd learned, but he doubted it. The experiences of the past few days had taught him what was important.

Sophie leaned out the window, gathering strength she didn't know she possessed, and pressed her thumb against the circle on her wrist. An arrow-straight line of raging vanilla-scented fire blazed into six-foot flames, bringing the charging creatures to a halt.

"What do I do?" Josh shouted. "Where do I go?" A wooden gate appeared in the headlights. Josh held on, hunched his shoulders and drove straight through it, shattering it into splinters. A length of timber snapped back and punched a hole through the windshield.

Palamedes grabbed the Alchemyst and none too gently shook his head. Flamel's eyes cracked open and his lips moved, but no sound came out. "Where are we going?" the knight demanded.

"Stonehenge," Flamel mumbled.

"Yes, yes, I know that. Where, specifically?"

"The heart of the Henge," the Alchemyst whispered, head lolling. Sophie saw that there were long tears in his clothing where Dee's whip had sliced at him. The skin beneath was blistered and raw. Focusing the remnants of her aura into the tip of her index finger, Sophie drew it along one of the nastier cuts, sealing and healing it.

"Where's Gilgamesh?" Palamedes asked.

"He was wounded. He told me to go; he made me go." Sophie's voice caught. "I didn't want to."

The Saracen Knight smiled kindly. "He's impossible to kill," he said.

"Where do I go?" Josh called again from the front seat.

"Just follow my directions," Palamedes said, leaning forward. "Go left. Stick to the back roads, there should be no traffic…"

The road behind them suddenly lit up with blue and white light. Headlights flashed and sirens blared. "Police," Josh said, unnecessarily.

"Keep going," Palamedes commanded. "Stop for nothing." He looked out the rear window at the police cars and turned to Sophie. "Is there anything you can do?"

Sophie shook her head. "I have nothing left." She lifted her hand. It was trembling violently, and tiny wisps of smoke curled off her fingertips.

"We have three police cars closing in on us," Josh yelled back from the front seat. "Do something!"

"You do something," Palamedes said. "Sophie has no power left. It's up to you, Josh."

"I'm driving," he protested.

"Think of something," the knight snapped.

"What should I do?" he asked desperately.

"Think of rain," Sophie murmured.

Josh kept his foot pressed to the floor, the cab roaring down the road, speedometer touching ninety. Rain. OK, they'd lived in Chicago, New York, Seattle and San Francisco. He knew all about rain. The boy imagined water falling from the skies: thick fat drops of rain, torrential rain, misty summer rain, frozen winter rain.

"Nothing's happening," he called.

Abruptly, a torrential downpour washed across the road behind them, sluicing from a cloud that hadn't been there a heartbeat earlier. The nearest police car hit a patch of water and skidded sideways, and the second car crashed into its back passenger door. A tire exploded. The third car rear-ended the second and the three cars slid across the road, completely blocking it in a tangle of metal. The sirens died to squawks.

"Nicely done," Palamedes commented.

"Where to now?"

The knight pointed. "Over there."

Josh ducked his head to look to the left. Stonehenge was smaller than he'd imagined, and the road came surprisingly close to the standing stones.

"Stop here. We'll get out and run," Palamedes said.

"Stop where?" Josh asked, looking around.

"Right here!"

Josh hit the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. Palamedes leapt from the car, the Alchemyst unceremoniously draped over his shoulder. "Follow me," the knight shouted. His huge sword slashed a metal fence to ribbons.

Josh grabbed the Persian sword and wrapped his arm around his sister, who was struggling to stay conscious, holding her as they raced across the grass toward the circle of standing stones.

"And whatever you do," the Saracen Knight shouted, "don't look back."

Sophie and Josh both looked back. ou know her?" Billy the Kid asked, dipping his head and speaking out of the corner of his mouth. He was looking at the back of the woman they were following through the maze of stone and metal corridors.

Machiavelli nodded. "We've met on occasion," he said quietly. "She is the Crow Goddess, one of the Next Generation."

The woman's head swiveled around like an owl's to regard the two men. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored wraparound sunglasses. "And my hearing is excellent."

Billy grinned. He took two quick steps forward and fell in alongside the woman in black leather. He stuck out his hand. "William Bonney, ma'am. Most people just call me Billy."

The Crow Goddess looked at the hand and then she smiled, overlong incisors pressing against her black lips. "Don't touch me. I bite."

Billy was unfazed. "I haven't been immortal for long, a mite over a hundred twenty-six years, in fact, and I've not met that many Elders or Next Generation. Certainly no one like you…"

"William," Machiavelli said quietly, "I think you should stop bothering the Crow Goddess."

"I'm not bothering her, I'm just asking…"

"You're immortal, William, not invulnerable." Machiavelli smiled. "The Morrigan is worshipped in the Celtic lands as a goddess of death. That should be a clue to her nature." He suddenly stopped walking. "What was that?"

Billy the Kid's hand dipped under his coat and came out with a fifteen-inch-long bowie knife. His face changed, instantly becoming hard. "What?"

Machiavelli held up his hand, silencing the American. Head tilted to one side, he concentrated. "It sounds like-"

"-an outboard engine!" Billy took off at a run. Machiavelli cast a quick suspicious glance at the Crow Goddess and turned to race back down the corridor.

Moments later the sphinx padded around the corner. She spotted the Crow Goddess and stopped, and the two women bowed politely. They were distantly related through a complex web of Elder relationships. "I thought I heard something," the sphinx said.

"So did they." The Crow Goddess's smile was savage.

Nicholas had never learned to drive, but Perenelle had finally taken lessons ten years ago and, after six weeks of driving school, passed her test on the first attempt. They had never bought a car, but Perenelle had forgotten none of her lessons. It took her a few moments to work out how to control the small bright yellow motorboat. She turned the key in the ignition and pushed the throttle, and the outboard motor foamed white water. Spinning the wheel, she pushed the throttle farther and the boat roared away from Alcatraz Island, leaving a V of white water in its wake.

De Ayala's face coalesced out of the spray spitting in over the bow. "I thought you were going to fight."

"Fighting is a last resort," she shouted above the wind and the roar of the engine. "If Scathach and Joan had joined me, perhaps then I would have gone up against the sphinx and the two immortals. But not on my own."

"What about the Spider God?"

"Areop-Enap can take care of itself," Perenelle said. "They'd best hope they're not on the island when it awakes. It'll be hungry, and the Old Spider has a voracious appetite."

A tiny distant shout made her turn. Machiavelli and his companion were on the docks. The Italian was standing still, and the smaller man was waving his arms, sunlight glinting off a knife in his hand.

"Will they not use their magic?" de Ayala asked.

"Magic is not really effective over running water." Perenelle grinned.

"I fear I must leave you, madame. I need to return to the island." The ghost's face started to dissolve into spray.

"Thank you, Juan, for all that you have done," Perenelle said sincerely in formal Spanish. "I am in your debt."

"Will you be back to Alcatraz?"

Perenelle looked over her shoulder at the prison. Knowing now that the cells held a collection of nightmares, she thought the island itself looked almost like a sleeping beast. "I will." Someone would have to do something about the army before it was awakened. "I will be back. And soon," she promised.

"I will be waiting," de Ayala said, and vanished.

Perenelle angled the boat in toward the pier and eased back on the throttle. A delighted smile crept across her face. She was free.

Niccolo Machiavelli took a deep breath and calmed himself. Anger clouded judgment, and right now he needed to be thinking clearly. He had underestimated the Sorceress, and she'd made him pay for that mistake. It was unforgivable. He'd been sent to Alcatraz to kill Perenelle and he'd failed. Neither his master nor Dee's master was going to be happy, though he had a feeling that Dee himself would not be too upset. The English Magician would probably gloat.

Although he feared the Sorceress, Machiavelli had really wanted to fight the woman. He had never forgiven her for defeating him on Mount Etna and over the centuries had spent a fortune collecting spells, incantations and cantrips that would destroy her. He was determined to have his revenge. And she had cheated him. Not with magic, or with the power of her aura. But with cunning… and that was supposed to be his specialty.

"Stop her," Billy shouted. "Do something!"

"Will you be quiet for a moment?" he snapped at the American. He pulled out his phone. "I need to make a report, and I'm really not looking forward to it. One should never be the bearer of bad news."

And then, across the bay, the Old Man of the Sea exploded out of the water, directly in front of the boat. Octopus tentacles wrapped tightly around the small craft, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Perenelle disappeared, flung back by the sudden stop.

Machiavelli put his phone back in his pocket; maybe he would have some good news to report after all.

Nereus's voice trembled across the water, his words vibrating on the waves. "I knew we would meet again, Sorceress." Machiavelli and Billy watched as the hideous Elder flowed up out of the sea and squatted across the prow of the boat, legs writhing. Wood creaked and cracked, the small windshield shattered and the weight of the creature in the front of the vessel brought the stern right up out of the waves, its outboard engine still whining.

Shading his eyes, Machiavelli watched the Sorceress climb to her feet. She was holding a long wooden spear in both hands. Sunlight winked golden off the weapon, which trailed white smoke into the air. He saw her stab once, twice, three times at the creature's legs before bringing the spear around to jab at Nereus's chest. Water fountained, spraying high, as the Old Man of the Sea desperately scrambled away from the blade. The Elder fell off the prow of the boat and disappeared back under the waves in an explosion of frothing bubbles. The boat settled back in the water, engine foaming and churning, and then shot forward again. Three long still-wriggling legs peeled off the motorboat and drifted away on the tide. The entire encounter had taken less than a minute.

Machiavelli sighed and pulled out his phone again. He had no good news to report after all; could this day get any worse? A shadow appeared overhead and he looked up to see the huge shape of the Crow Goddess flying by. She soared high, black cloak spread like wings, then swooped down to land neatly on the back of the yellow motorboat.

The Italian started to smile. Of course, the Crow Goddess would simply pull the Sorceress out of the boat and then the Nereids could feast. The smile faded as he watched the two women-Next Generation and immortal human-embrace. By the time they turned to wave back at the island, his face was a grim mask.

"I thought the Crow Goddess was on our side," Billy the Kid said plaintively.

"It seems you just cannot trust anyone these days," Niccolo Machiavelli remarked, walking away. he Wild Hunt raced across Salisbury Plain.

The creatures Sophie and Josh had only briefly glimpsed earlier were closer now. Some were recognizable: black dogs and gray wolves, enormous red-eyed cats, massive bears, curled-tusked boars, goats, stags and horses. Others had joined the Hunt: human-shaped figures carved from stone; creatures with bark for skin, leaves for hair and branches for limbs raced after them. Sophie and Josh recognized more of the Genii Cucullati, the Hooded Ones; they saw shaven skinhead cucubuths wielding chains, and knights in stained and rust-eaten armor. Tattooed warriors in furs and Roman centurions in broken armor limped after red-haired Dearg Due. And running among the monsters were perfectly normal-looking humans, carrying swords, knives and spears; Josh found these the most frightening of all.

The twins looked to where Stonehenge loomed dark and indistinct in the night, and knew that they were not going to reach it in time. "We'll stand and fight," Josh panted, analyzing their situation and their limited options. "I've got a little strength left… Maybe I can call up some more rain…"

A savage high-pitched howling echoed across Salisbury Plain. Josh's heart sank as he saw movement to their right-another group was moving in to cut them off. "Trouble," he stated.

"On the contrary." Palamedes grinned. "Look again."

And then Josh recognized the figure leading the group. "Shakespeare!"

The Bard led the Gabriel Hounds in at an angle. The well-disciplined Ratchets crashed into the mismatched army, bringing it to a shuddering halt. Iron spears and metal swords flashed in the night and a pall of dust quickly rose up over the plain.

William Shakespeare, in full modern police body armor and visored helmet, fell into step with Palamedes. "Well met," he said.

"I thought I told you not to wait past sundown," the Saracen Knight said.

"Oh, everything comes to he who waits," Shakespeare said. "And you know I never listen to you anyway," the Bard added with a shy smile. "Besides, with nothing moving on the roads, I guessed you would find a place to hide until dark."

Palamedes dumped the unconscious Alchemyst on the ground and started slapping Flamel's cheeks. "Wake up, Flamel. Wake up. We need to know which stone."

Nicholas's pale eyes blinked open. "Get to the Altar Stone," he whispered hoarsely.

Gabriel appeared out of the night. His bare flesh was streaked with black soot. It caked his long hair. "There are just too many of them, and more coming every minute," he panted. "We can't hold them."

Josh pointed toward the circle of stones. "Pull everyone back to Stonehenge." The same feeling of peace he'd felt earlier had washed over him again. There were no more decisions left to make. Once again all he had to do was to stand and fight. He would protect his sister to the end. Pressing his hand against his chest, he felt the two pages of the Codex crinkle under his shirt. Maybe it was time to destroy them, though he wasn't entirely sure how. Maybe he could eat them. "Everyone back," he shouted. "We'll make our last stand there." hat may not be necessary," Shakespeare snapped. "The Wild Hunt and these other creatures are here for you and your sister, drawn by the smell of your auras and the huge reward Dee has put on your heads. They've no interest in us. So all we have to do is to get rid of you. Palamedes, Gabriel," the Bard commanded. "Buy us some time."

The Saracen Knight nodded. His dented armor formed and re-formed around his body, turning smooth, black and reflective. Gripping his huge longsword in both his hands, he launched himself toward the wolves and black cats. Gabriel led the surviving Ratchets after him.

Shakespeare supported the Alchemyst and Josh held Sophie upright, and the four made their way between two tall sandstone columns into the heart of Stonehenge.

The moment Josh stepped into the circle, he felt the ancient buzz of power. It reminded him of the sensations he'd experienced when he'd held Clarent in his hands, the feeling that there were voices just at the edge of his hearing. He looked around, but it was hard to make out the shapes of the stones in the night.

"How old is this place?" he asked.

"The earliest site is perhaps five thousand years old, but it may be older," Shakespeare answered. He suddenly bumped into a stone lying flat on the ground. "Here's the Altar Stone," he said to the Alchemyst.

Nicholas Flamel sank onto the stone, breathing heavily, one hand pressed against his chest. "Orient me," he wheezed. "Which way is north?"

Both Shakespeare and Josh instinctively looked to the heavens, searching for the polestar.

A huge black cat suddenly leapt through the gates, mouth gaping, paws extended toward the Alchemyst. Flamel threw up his hands and razor-sharp claws scored his palm; then Shakespeare's police baton snapped out, knocking the creature out of the air. The cat crashed onto the huge stone and dissolved to dust. "Like metal, the stones are poisonous to them," the Bard said quickly. "They cannot touch them; that's why they're not rushing us. Alchemyst, if you are going to do anything, then you need to do it now." He pointed. "This way is north."

"Look for the third perfect trilithon to the left," Flamel whispered.

"The third what?" Josh asked, confused.

"Trilithon. Two uprights and a lintel," Shakespeare explained. "Greek for 'three stones.'"

"I knew that… I think," Josh whispered. He counted. "This one," he said decisively, pointing. "Now what?"

"Help me," Nicholas said.

Shakespeare caught the Alchemyst and half carried him to the two huge uprights. Pushing into the narrow gap between the stones, Nicholas put a hand on each, reaching as high as he could, then stretched his legs wide until he had assumed an X shape in the middle of the stone.

The faintest hint of mint touched the cold night air.

A huge bear reared up, claws slashing toward the Alchemyst's head. And then the creature was jerked back by the Saracen Knight and tossed to the Gabriel Hounds. They fell on it with savage howls. Dust billowed.

A trio of wolves raced toward Flamel. Josh caught one with the shamshir sword and Gabriel brought down another. Josh sliced out at the third wolf and it ducked the blow, but in avoiding the blade it brushed against the tall stone-and crumbled to powder.

Josh suddenly realized that there were less than a handful of Gabriel Hounds still alive and they were being driven back into the circle of standing stones. A skeletal horse ridden by a headless horseman reared up, flailing hooves catching one of the hounds, sending it crashing back onto a stone. The hound vanished, leaving only a dusty outline in the air.

"Alchemyst," Shakespeare warned, "do something."

Nicholas slumped to the ground. "I cannot."

"Are you sure it's the right gate?" Josh asked.

"I'm sure. I've nothing left." He looked up at the twins, and for an instant Josh thought he saw something in the immortal's eyes. "Sophie, Josh, you will have to do it."

"The girl is drained," the Bard said quickly. "Use her and she will burst aflame."

Nicholas reached out and took Josh's hand, pulling him forward. "Then it will have to be you."

"Me? But I'm…"

"You're the only one with the aura to do this."

"What's the alternative?" Josh asked. He had the distinct impression that this was what the Alchemyst had planned all along. Flamel had never had the power to activate the gate.

"There is none." The Alchemyst indicated the creatures crowding just outside the stones. Then he pointed to the heavens. A spotlight was picking its way across the landscape toward them. There were two others close behind. "Police helicopters," he said. "They'll be here in minutes."

Josh handed Flamel the battered and slightly bent shamshir sword. "What do I do?"

"Stand between the uprights with your arms and legs outstretched. Visualize your aura flowing out of your body into the stones. That should be enough to activate them."

"And be quick about it," Shakespeare said. Less than half a dozen Gabriel Hounds remained, and Palamedes was now cut off, surrounded by bogmen who flailed at him with flint daggers that screamed and struck sparks from his armor. Wolves and cats prowled just outside the stone circle.

"Let me help my brother," Sophie whispered.

"No," Shakespeare said. "It's too dangerous."

Josh's aura started to steam the moment he squeezed between the stones, lifting off his flesh like golden smoke. Reaching out, he placed his palms flat against the smooth sandstone and the fragrance of oranges grew stronger.

The smell sent the creatures outside the circle into a frenzy. They redoubled their efforts to get to the twins. Shakespeare and Gabriel took up positions on either side of the stone, desperately trying to keep them away from Josh.

Josh stretched his left foot to touch one upright, and as soon as his right foot touched the other upright stone, the voices he'd been hearing in his head from the moment he had stepped into the ancient circle clarified. He suddenly realized why they had sounded so familiar. They were all one voice-the voice of Clarent. He realized then that Clarent and Excalibur had been shaped from the same igneous rock as the great blue stones that had once composed the ancient circle. He saw the faces, both human and inhuman, and some that were a terrible mixture of both, of the original creators of the Henge. Stonehenge was not five thousand years old; it was older than that, much, much older. He glimpsed Cernunnos, shining and beautiful, without its horns, dressed entirely in white, standing in the center of the circle, a simple undistinguished sword held high in both hands.

But while the pillar to Josh's left crackled and blazed with golden light, the right pillar remained dark.

Flamel cut down a boar that had broken through the circle. He turned to Sophie. "You need to help your brother."

The girl was so exhausted she could barely stand. She looked at the Alchemyst, trying to shape words in her head. "But Will said if I use any more of my aura, I could burst into flames."

"And if the gate doesn't open, then we're all dead," Flamel snarled. Catching Sophie by the shoulder, he propelled her toward the stone. She stumbled on the uneven ground, tripped and fell forward, arms outstretched… and her fingertips brushed the stone. There was a burst of vanilla, and then the stone started to glow. Muted silver mist curled off the stone and then it lit up from within, until the pillars of the trilithon throbbed gold and silver, the lintel over them glowing orange.

It was night on Salisbury Plain, but between the stones, a lush sunlit hillside appeared.

Josh stared in wonder at the scene. He could actually smell grass and greenery, feel summer heat on his face and taste the faintest hint of salt in the air. He turned his head; behind him it was night, stars high in the heavens; before him it was day. "Where?" he whispered.

"Mount Tamalpais," Flamel said triumphantly. Pulling Sophie to her feet, he dragged her toward the opening and the light. The moment her fingertips left the pillar, it started to fade.

"Go," Shakespeare said. "Go now…"

"Tell Palamedes-"

"I know. Get out of here. Now."

"What a play you would have got out of this!" the Alchemyst said, wrapping his arm around Josh's waist, pulling the twins between the blazing stones and into the grassy landscape on the other side of the world.

"I never liked writing tragedies," William Shakespeare whispered.

The golden light faded the moment Josh's hand was pulled away, and the smells of orange and vanilla vanished and were replaced by the musky scent of Gabriel and the single surviving Ratchet.

The Wild Hunt and the Next Generation, the immortals and human attackers immediately faded back into the night, leaving behind them nothing but dust, and green fields tramped to muddy ruin. Palamedes staggered up out of the night. His armor was scratched and dented, his huge claymore snapped in two. Exhaustion thickened his accent. "We need to get out of here before the police arrive."

"I know a place," Shakespeare said. "It's close by, a perfectly preserved Edwardian barn."

Palamedes squeezed the Bard's shoulder. "Not quite so perfectly preserved, I'm afraid." ount Tam," Nicholas Flamel said, falling to his knees, breathing in great lungfuls of warm air. "San Francisco."

Dizzy and disoriented, Josh too stumbled to his hands and knees and looked around. While there was still brilliant sunshine on the mountainside, swirling tendrils of mist were creeping in farther down the slopes.

Sophie crouched beside her brother. Her flesh was chalky white, her eyes sunk deep in her head, her blond hair flat and greasy on her skull. "How do you feel?"

"About as bad as you look, I'm guessing," he answered.

Sophie climbed slowly to her feet and then helped her twin up. "Where are we?" she asked, looking around. But there were no landmarks she recognized.

"North of San Francisco, I believe," he said.

A shape moved below them, sending the mist billowing in great sweeping curves. The trio turned to face the figure, knowing that if it was an enemy, they had nothing left to fight it with. They were too tired even to run.

Perenelle Flamel appeared, looking poised and elegant even though she was dressed in a dirty black coat over a coarse shirt and trousers. "I've been waiting here for ages," she called, a huge smile on her face as she strode up the hillside.

The Sorceress wrapped her arms around the twins, squeezing them tightly. "Oh, but it is good to see you safe and well. I've been so worried." She touched the bruises on Sophie's cheek, a scrape on Josh's forehead, the cuts on his arm. They both felt a tingling crawling heat, and Josh actually watched the bruises fade from his sister's flesh.

"It's good to be back," Josh said.

Sophie nodded in agreement. "It's good to see you again, Perry."

Nicholas gathered his wife into his arms, holding her tight for what seemed like a long time. Then he stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her critically. "You're looking good, my love," he said.

"Admit it, I'm looking old," she said. Then her green eyes moved across his face, noting the new lines and deep creases in his skin. Her index finger trailed white aura across his numerous cuts and bruises, healing them. "Though not as old as you. You are a decade younger," she reminded him, "though today"-she smiled-"for the first time in all our years together, you do look older than me."

"It has been an interesting few days," Flamel admitted. "But how did you get here? The last time we spoke you were a prisoner on Alcatraz."

"I can now claim to be one of the very few prisoners to have escaped the Rock." Slipping her arm into his, she walked him down the mountain through the early-afternoon mist, the twins following a few steps behind. "You should be very proud of me, Nicholas," she said. "I drove here all by myself."

"I'm always proud of you." He paused. "But we don't have a car."

"I borrowed a rather nice Thunderbird convertible I found at the pier. I knew the owner wouldn't be using it anytime soon." r. John Dee lay in the soft grass and looked up at the night sky, watching the gold and silver glow fade from the heavens and smelling, even from this distance, the hint of vanilla and orange. Police helicopters vibrated in the air, and sirens sounded everywhere.

So the twins and Flamel had escaped.

And they'd taken with them his life and his future. He had been living on borrowed time since the failed attack the previous night; now he was a dead man walking.

The Magician sat up slowly, cradling his right arm. It felt numb from fingertip to shoulder, where it had taken the full force of the blow from Clarent. He thought it might be broken.

Clarent.

He'd seen the boy throw the sword… but he hadn't seen him pick it up. Dee rolled over in the mud and discovered the blade lying on the ground next to him. Gently, almost reverently, he lifted it out of the dirt and then lay back on the earth, the blade flat on his chest, both hands resting across the hilt.

Five hundred years he had been searching for this weapon. It was a quest that had taken him all over the world and into the Shadowrealms. He laughed, the sound high-pitched, almost hysterical. And he had finally found it back almost where it started. One of the first places he'd looked for the blade was under the Altar Stone at Stonehenge; he'd been fifteen years old at the time, and Henry VIII had been on the throne.

Still lying on the ground, Dee reached under his coat and pulled out Excalibur, holding it in his right hand. Then he raised both weapons aloft. The swords moved in his grasp, twitching toward one another, the round hilts rotating, blades gently smoking. An icy chill started up one side of his body; a searing warmth flowed up the other side. His aura popped alight, steaming off his flesh in long yellow tendrils, and he felt his aches fade, his cuts and bruises heal. The Magician brought the two swords close, blade crossing blade.

And then they suddenly snapped together, as if magnetized. He tried to pull them apart, but they slotted together, fitting one into the other, then clicked and fused, blade to blade, hilt to hilt, to create a single rather ordinary-looking sword, that leaked gray smoke.

A figure shuffled out of the darkness, an old man bundled up in dozens of coats. Yellow light danced off his wild hair and unkempt beard, and his bright blue eyes were lost and distant. He looked at the sword, focusing, concentrating, remembering. He reached out with one trembling finger to stroke the cold stone, and then his eyes filled with tears. "The two that are one," he mumbled, "the one that is all." Then the Ancient of Days turned and shuffled off into the night. End of Book Three

It is nighttime when Sophie and Josh arrive at the prehistoric circle of standing stones on Salisbury Plain, England, and they only catch glimpses of these remnants of a once-great monument, one of the most recognizable archaeological sites in the world.

Stonehenge was built in three reasonably distinct phases. What remains today are the tumbled ruins of all the stages. Although there is evidence to suggest that humans were active around the area of Salisbury Plain (which would have been wooded at the time) about eight thousand years ago, the first building phase dates back over five thousand years. Using deer antlers, stones and wooden tools, the earliest builders scraped out a huge ring 6 feet wide and 320 feet in diameter. Its center was nearly 7 feet deep in places. One arc was left open and two stones were erected as gateposts. One of these stones survives: the Slaughter Stone.

The next phase began around five thousand years ago. Nothing from this phase remains visible, but there is archaeological evidence that a wood structure was erected within the circle. Shards of pottery and burnt bone have been found here, and there is a suggestion that Stonehenge may have been a place of burial or possibly sacrifice.

Over the next thousand years, Stonehenge was enlarged, altered and changed. The great stones that survive today date from this period of building.

It is estimated that up to eighty bluestone pillars were set up in the center of the circle. The pillars formed two half circles, one inside the other. Each of these huge stones weighed at least four tons and had been quarried from a site in the Preseli Mountains in Wales, more than 240 miles away. Just transporting the huge slabs of stone through densely wooded countryside, across mountains and rivers, was an extraordinary feat and shows how important Stonehenge was to the ancient peoples who built it. The enormous Altar Stone, which Nicholas Flamel lies down on, may well have stood as a huge upright. It weighs six tons.

Around this time, the entranceway was widened, and sunrise-especially on the morning of the summer solstice-would have sent long shadows spiking deep into the heart of the circle. At sunset in midwinter, the sun would have sunk between the stones.

Later still, perhaps a little over four thousand years ago, a circle of thirty capped stones was erected. This was another extraordinary feat. Each of the standing stones weighs around twenty-five tons. The stones came from a quarry more than twenty miles north of Stonehenge and were carefully cut, polished and shaped. Within this circle there were five trilithons arranged in a half circle, with the smallest at the outermost edges and the largest in the middle. The "smallest" trilithon was twenty feet tall.

Over the centuries, the site was abandoned and fell into disarray. Nature, the elements and the great weight of the stones pulled some of them to the ground, and gradually the order and arrangement of the circle became confused and was lost.

Stonehenge is striking, spectacular and mysterious, and despite centuries of research, we still do not know what it was used for. Was it a burial site or, as many suggest, a place of worship? It is now associated with druidism, the religion of the ancient Celts, and while the Celts certainly used it, and many of the other stone circles and monuments that littered the countryside, they did not construct it. There are countless myths and legends associated with the site; it is even linked with Merlin and the Arthurian cycle.

One of the most shocking surprises people discover when visiting Stonehenge is just how close the roads are to this ancient monument. The A344-the road where Josh finally abandons the car-runs remarkably close to the original five-thousand-year-old circle.

Stonehenge is now a World Heritage Site.

Point Zero also exists.

The official center of Paris, France, is located on the square in front of Notre Dame Cathedral and is exactly as described in The Sorceress. Set into the cobblestones is a circle composed of four segments. Inscribed on the four segments are the words POINT ZERO DES ROUTES DE FRANCE. In the middle of the circle is a sunburst design with eight spiked arms radiating from its center.

There are Point Zero or Kilometer Zero markers in many cities around the world, and these are the locations from which all distances in these cities are measured. Some are stones set into the ground, while others are plaques or monuments.

Standing on the Paris stone at the solar noon is not recommended-you know what happened to Scathach and Joan!