The Magician

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E scaped! Dr. John Dee snarled into the cell phone. You had them

surrounded. How could you let them escape?

On the other side of the Atlantic, Niccol Machiavelli remained calm and

controlled, only the tightening of his jaw muscles revealing his anger. You

are remarkably well informed.

I have my sources, Dee snapped, his thin lips twisting into an ugly smile.

He knew it would drive Machiavelli crazy knowing there was a spy in his camp.

You had them trapped in Ojai, I understand, Machiavelli continued softly,

surrounded by an army of the risen dead. And yet they escaped. How could you

let them do that?

Dee sat back in the soft leather seat of the speeding limousine. His face was

lit only by the screen of his cell phone, its glow touching his cheekbones

and outlining his sharp goatee in cold light, leaving his eyes in shadow. He

hadn't told Machiavelli that he d used necromancy to raise an army of dead

humans and beasts. Was this the Italian s subtle way of letting him know that

he had a spy in Dee s camp?

Where are you now? Machiavelli asked.

Dee glanced out the window of the limousine, trying to read the road signs

flashing past. Somewhere on the 101, heading down to L.A. My jet is fueled

and ready to go, and we re cleared for takeoff as soon as I arrive.

I would anticipate having them in custody before you land in Paris,

Machiavelli said. The line crackled furiously, and he paused before adding,

I believe they will attempt to contact Saint-Germain.

Dee sat bolt upright. The Comte de Saint-Germain? He s back in Paris? I

heard he had died in India looking for the lost city of Ophir.

Obviously not. He has an apartment off the Champs-Elys es and two homes in

the suburbs that we are aware of. They are all under observation. If Flamel

contacts him, we ll know.

don't let them escape this time, Dee barked. Our masters would not be

pleased. He snapped the phone shut before Machiavelli could respond. Then

his teeth flashed in a quick smile. The net was closing tighter and tighter.

He can be so childish, Machiavelli muttered in Italian. Always has to have

the last word. Standing in the ruins of the coffee shop, he carefully closed

his phone and looked around at the devastation. It was as if a tornado had

ripped through the caf . Every item of furniture was broken, the windows were

shattered, and there were even cracks in the ceiling. The powdery remains of

cups and saucers mixed with spilled coffee beans, scattered tea leaves and

broken pastries on the floor. Machiavelli bent to lift up a fork. It was

curled in a perfect S shape. Tossing it aside, he picked his way through the

debris. Scathach had single-handedly defeated twelve highly trained and

heavily armed RAID officers. He had been vaguely hoping that perhaps she had

lost some of her martial arts skills in the years since he had last

encountered her, but it seemed that his hope had been in vain. The Shadow was

as deadly as ever. Getting close to Flamel and the children would be

difficult with the Warrior in the picture. In his long life, Niccol had

encountered her on at least half a dozen occasions, and he d barely survived

each time. They d last met in the frozen ruins of Stalingrad in the winter of

1942. If it hadn't been for her, his forces would have taken the city. He d

sworn then that he would kill her: maybe now was the time to keep that

promise.

But how to kill the unkillable? What could stand against the warrior who had

trained all of history s greatest heroes, who had fought in every great

conflict and whose fighting style was at the heart of just about every

martial art?

Stepping out of the demolished shop, Machiavelli breathed deeply, clearing

his lungs of the bitter, acrid odor of spilled coffee and sour milk that hung

in the air. Dagon pulled open the car door as he approached, and the Italian

saw himself reflected in his driver s dark glasses. He paused before stepping

into the car and glanced up at the police closing off the streets, the

heavily armed riot squad gathering in small groups and the plain clothes

officers in their unmarked cars. The French secret service were his to

command, he could order in the police, and he had access to a private army of

hundreds of men and women who would do his bidding without question. And yet

he knew that none of them could stand against the Warrior. He came to a

decision and looked at Dagon before climbing into the car.

Find the Disir.

Dagon stiffened, showing a rare sign of emotion. Is that wise? he asked.

It is necessary.