The Magician

CHAPTER NINE

W ith hands pushed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, still wearing

his none-too-clean black jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, Nicholas Flamel

didn't look out of place with either the early-morning workers or the

homeless beginning to appear on the streets of Paris. The gendarmes gathered

in small groups on the corners were talking urgently together or listening to

their radios and didn't even give him a second glance.

This wasn't the first time he had been hunted in these streets, but it was

the first time without allies and friends to help him. He and Perenelle had

returned to their home city at the end of the Seven Years War in 1763. An

old friend needed their help, and the Flamels never refused a friend.

Unfortunately, however, Dee had discovered their whereabouts and had chased

them through the streets with an army of black-clad assassins, none of whom

was entirely human.

They had escaped then. Escaping now might not be so easy. Paris had changed

utterly. When Baron Haussmann had redesigned Paris in the nineteenth century,

he had destroyed a huge portion of the medieval section of the city, the city

Flamel was so familiar with. All the Alchemyst s hiding places and safe

houses, the secret vaults and hidden attics, were gone. He had once known

every street and alley, each twisting lane and hidden courtyard of Paris; now

he knew as much as the average tourist.

And at that moment, not only did he have Machiavelli chasing them, the entire

French police force was also on the lookout for them. And Dee was on his way.

Dee, as Flamel well knew, was capable of just about anything.

Nicholas breathed in the cool predawn Parisian air and glanced at the cheap

digital watch he wore on his left wrist. It was still set to Pacific time,

where it was now twenty minutes past eight in the evening, which meant he did

a quick calculation in his head that it was five-twenty a.m. in Paris. He

thought briefly about resetting the watch to Greenwich Mean Time, but quickly

decided against it. A couple of months ago, when he d tried resetting the

watch for daylight savings, it had started madly blipping and flashing. He d

worked on it for over an hour without any success; it had taken Perenelle

thirty seconds to fix it. He only wore it because it came with a countdown

timer. Every month, when he and Perenelle created a new batch of the

immortality potion, he reset the counter to 720 hours and allowed it to count

down to zero. With the passing of years, they had discovered that the potion

was timed to a lunar cycle and lasted roughly thirty days. Over the course of

the month, they would age slowly, almost imperceptibly, but once they drank

the potion, the effects of the aging process would quickly reverse hair would

darken, wrinkles soften and disappear, aching joints and stiff muscles become

supple again, eyesight and hearing sharpen.

Unfortunately, it was not a recipe that could be copied down; each month the

formula was unique, and each recipe only worked once. The Book of Abraham the

Mage was written in a language that predated humanity, and in an

ever-changing, always-moving script, so that entire libraries of knowledge

were held within the slender volume. But every month, on page seven of the

copper-bound manuscript, the secret of Life Eternal appeared. The crawling

script remained static for less then an hour before it shifted, twisted and

trickled away.

The one and only time the Flamels had tried using the same recipe twice, it

had actually sped up the aging process. Luckily, Nicholas had taken only a

sip of the colorless, rather ordinary-looking potion when Perenelle noticed

that lines were appearing around his eyes and on his forehead and that the

hair from his full beard was falling away from his face. She d knocked the

cup from his hand before he d taken another mouthful. However, the lines

remained etched on his face, and the thick beard he had been so proud of had

never grown again.

Nicholas and Perenelle had brewed the most recent batch of the potion at

midnight the past Sunday, just under a week ago. He pressed the left-hand

button on the watch and called up the stopwatch function: 116 hours and 21

minutes had passed. Another press of the button brought up the time

remaining: 603 hours, 39 minutes, or about 25 days. As he watched, another

minute ticked away: 38 minutes. He and Perenelle would age and weaken, and of

course, every time either of them used their powers, that would only quicken

the onset of old age. If he did not retrieve the Book before the end of the

month and create a new batch of the potion, then they would both rapidly age

and die.

And the world would die with them.

Unless

A police car roared past, siren howling. It was followed by a second and a

third. Like everyone else on the street, Flamel turned to follow their

progress. The last thing he needed to do was to attract attention to himself

by standing out from the crowd.

He had to retrieve the Codex. The rest of the Codex, he reminded himself, his

hand absently touching his chest. Hidden beneath his T-shirt, dangling on a

leather cord, he wore a simple square cotton bag that Perenelle had stitched

for him half a millennium ago, when he had first found the Book. She had

created it to hold the ancient volume; now all it contained were two pages

Josh had managed to tear out. The book was still incredibly dangerous in the

hands of Dee, but it was the last two pages, which contained the spell known

as the Final Summoning, that Dee needed to bring his Dark Elder masters back

to this world.

And Flamel would not could not allow that.

Two police officers turned a corner and strolled down the center of the

street. They stared hard at some of the pedestrians and peered into the shop

windows, but they walked past Nicholas without even looking at him.

Nicholas knew that his priority now was to find a safe haven for the twins.

And that meant he had to find an immortal living in Paris. Every city in the

world had its share of humans with life spans that extended into centuries or

even millennia, and Paris was no exception. He knew that immortals liked the

big anonymous cities, where it was easier to disappear amongst an

ever-changing population.

Long ago, Nicholas and Perenelle had come to realize that at the heart of

every myth and legend was a grain of truth. And every race told stories of

people who lived exceptionally long lives: the immortals.

Over the centuries, the Flamels had come into contact with three entirely

different types of immortal humans. There were the Ancients of whom there

were now perhaps no more than a handful still alive who hailed from earth's

very distant past. Some had witnessed the entire span of human history, and

it had made them more, and less, than human.

Then there were a few others who, like Nicholas and Perenelle, had discovered

for themselves how to become immortal. Down through the millennia, the

secrets of alchemy had been discovered, lost and rediscovered countless

times. One of the greatest secrets of alchemy was the formula for

immortality. And all alchemy and possibly even modern science had one single

source: the Book of Abraham the Mage.

Then there were those who had been given the gift of immortality. These were

humans who had, either accidentally or deliberately, come to the attention of

one or other of the Elders who had remained in this world after the Fall of

Danu Talis. The Elders were always on the lookout for people of exceptional

or unusual ability to recruit to their cause. And in return for their

service, the Elders granted their followers extended life. It was a gift very

few humans could refuse. It was also a gift that ensured absolute, unswerving

loyalty because it could be withdrawn as quickly as it had been given.

Nicholas knew that if he encountered immortals in Paris even if he had known

them in the past there would now be a very real danger that they were in the

service of the Dark Elders.

He was passing an all-night video store that advertised high-speed Internet

when he noticed the sign in the window, written in ten languages: NATIONAL &

INTERNATIONAL CALLS. CHEAPEST RATES. Pushing open the door, he suddenly

breathed in the sour odor of unwashed bodies, stale perfume, greasy food and

the ozone of too many computers packed tightly together. The store was

surprisingly busy: a group of students who looked like they d been up all

night clustered around three computers displaying the World of Warcraft logo,

while most of the other machines were taken up by serious-faced young men and

women staring intently at the screens. As he made his way to the counter at

the back of the shop, Nicholas could see that most of the young people were

e-mailing and instant-messaging. He smiled briefly; only a few days ago, on

Monday afternoon, when the bookshop was quiet, Josh had spent an hour

explaining to him the difference between the two methods of communication.

Josh had even set him up with his own e-mail account which Nicholas doubted

he would ever use though he could see a use for the instant-messaging

programs.

The Chinese girl behind the counter was dressed in ragged and torn clothes

that Nicholas thought looked fit only for the trash but that he guessed had

probably cost a fortune. She was in full goth makeup and was busy painting

her nails when Nicholas stepped up to the desk.

Three euro for fifteen minutes, five for thirty, seven for forty-five, ten

for an hour, she rattled off in atrocious French without looking up.

I want to make an international call.

Cash or credit card? She still hadn't raised her head, and Nicholas noticed

that she was blackening her nails not with polish but with a felt-tip marker.

Credit card. He wanted to conserve the little cash he had to buy some food.

Although he rarely ate, and Scathach never ate, he would need to feed the

children.

Use booth number one. Instructions are on the wall.

Nicholas slipped into the glass-fronted booth and pulled the door closed

behind him. The shouts of the students faded, but the booth smelled strongly

of stale food. He quickly read the instructions as he fished the credit card

he d used to buy hot chocolate for the twins from the back of his wallet. It

was in the name of Nick Fleming, the name he d been using for the past ten

years, and he briefly wondered whether Dee or Machiavelli had the resources

to track him through it. He knew that of course they did, but a quick smile

curled Flamel s thin lips; what did it matter? All it would tell them was

that he was in Paris, and they already knew that. Following the instructions

on the wall, he dialed the international access code and then the number

Sophie had recalled from the Witch of Endor s memories.

The line crackled and clicked with transatlantic static, and then, more than

five and a half thousand miles away, the phone started ringing. It was

answered on the second ring. Ojai Valley News; how can I help? The young

woman s voice was surprisingly clear.

Nicholas deliberately affected a thick French accent. Good morning or

rather, good evening to you. I m delighted to find you still at the office.

This is Monsieur Montmorency, phoning you from Paris, France. I m a reporter

with Le Monde newspaper. I ve just seen online that you've had quite an

exciting evening there.

Gosh news does travel fast, Mr. Montmorency.

Montmorency. Yes, we ve had quite an evening. How can we help?

We would like to include a piece in this evening s paper I was wondering if

you had a reporter on the scene?

Actually, all our reporters are downtown at the moment.

Would it be possible to put me through, do you think? I can get a quick

on-the-spot description of the scene and a comment. When there was no

immediate response, he added quickly, There would be a proper credit for

your newspaper, of course.

Let me see if I can patch you through to one of our reporters on the street,

Mr. Montmorency.

Merci. I am very grateful.

The line clicked again, and there was a long pause. Nicholas guessed that the

receptionist was talking to the reporter before transferring the call. There

was another click, and the girl said, Putting you through . He was saying

thank you when the phone was answered.

Michael Carroll, Ojai Valley News. I understand you re calling from Paris,

France? There was a note of incredulity in the man s voice.

Indeed I am, Monsieur Carroll.

News travels fast, the reporter said, echoing the receptionist.

The Internet, Flamel said vaguely, adding, There s a video on YouTube. He

had absolutely no doubt that there were videos of the scene in Ojai online.

He turned to stare out into the Internet caf . From where he was standing he

could see half a dozen screens; each one displayed a Web page in a different

language. I ve been asked to get a quote for our arts and culture page. One

of our editors has visited your beautiful city often and bought several

amazing glass pieces from an antiques shop on Ojai Avenue. I m not sure if

you know it: the shop sells only mirrors and glassware, Flamel added.

Witcherly Antiques, Michael Carroll said immediately. I know it well. I m

afraid it was completely destroyed in an explosion.

Flamel felt suddenly breathless. Hekate had died because he had brought the

twins into her Shadowrealm; had the Witch of Endor shared Hekate s fate? He

cleared his throat and swallowed hard. And the owner, Mrs. Witcherly? Is

she ?

She s fine, the reporter said, and Flamel felt a wave of relief wash over

him. I've just taken a statement from her. She s in remarkably good spirits

for someone whose shop has just blown up. He laughed and added, She said

that when you've lived as long as she has, nothing much surprises you.

Is she still there? Flamel asked, trying to contain the eagerness is his

voice. Would she like to make a statement for the French press? Tell her

it s Nicholas Montmorency. We spoke once before; I m sure she ll remember

me, he added.

I'll ask .

The voice faded away and Flamel heard the reporter calling out for Dora

Witcherly. In the background, he also heard the sound of countless police,

fire and ambulance sirens and the fainter shouts and cries of distressed

people.

And it was all his fault.

He shook his head quickly. No, it was not his fault. This was Dee s doing.

Dee knew no sense of proportion; he had almost burned London'to the ground in

1666, had devastated Ireland with the Great Famine in the 1840s, had

destroyed most of San Francisco in 1906 and now he d emptied the graveyards

around Ojai. No doubt the streets were littered with bones and bodies.

Nicholas heard the reporter s muted voice and then the sound of the cell

phone being handed over.

Monsieur Montmorency? Dora said politely in perfect French.

Madame. You are unharmed?

Dora s voice fell to a whisper and she slipped into an archaic form of the

French language that would be incomprehensible to any modern eavesdropper.

It s not that easy to kill me, she said quickly. Dee has escaped, cut,

bruised, battered and very, very upset. You are all safe? Scathach too?

Scatty is safe. However, we've had an encounter with Niccol Machiavelli.

So he s still around. Dee must have warned him. Be careful, Nicholas.

Machiavelli is more dangerous than you can imagine. He is even more cunning

than Dee. Now I must hurry, she added urgently. This reporter is getting

suspicious. He probably thinks I m giving you a better story than I gave him.

What do you want?

I need your help, Dora. I need to know who I can trust in Paris. I need to

get the children off the streets. They re exhausted.

Hmmm. The line crackled with the sound of rustling paper. I don't know who

is in Paris at the moment. But I ll find out, she said decisively. What

time is it there?

He glanced at his watch and did the math. Five-thirty in the morning.

Get to the Eiffel Tower. Be there by seven a.m. and wait for ten minutes. If

I can find someone trustworthy, I ll have them meet you there. If no one you

recognize arrives, go back at eight and then at nine. If no one is there by

nine, then you ll know there is no one in Paris you can trust, and you will

have to make your own arrangements.

Thank you, Madame Dora, he said quietly. I ll not forget this debt.

There are no debts between friends, she said. Oh, and Nicholas, try and

keep my granddaughter out of trouble.

I ll do my best, Flamel said. But you know what she s like: she seems to

attract trouble. Though right now, she s watching over the twins in a caf

not far from here. At least she can t get into any trouble there.