The Sorceress (39 page)

“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.”