The Magician

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

L ying flat on her back, Perenelle Flamel stared at the stained stone ceiling

directly above her head and wondered how many other prisoners incarcerated on

Alcatraz had done the same. How many others had traced the lines and cracks

in the stonework, seen shapes in the black water marks, imagined pictures in

the brown damp? Almost all of them, she guessed.

And how many had heard voices? she wondered. She was sure that many of the

prisoners had imagined they heard sounds in the dark whispered words, hushed

phrases but unless they possessed Perenelle s special gift, what they were

hearing did not exist outside their imaginations.

Perenelle heard the voices of the ghosts of Alcatraz.

Listening intently, she could distinguish hundreds of voices, maybe even

thousands. Men and women children, too clamoring and shouting, muttering and

crying, calling out for lost loved ones, repeating their own names again and

again, proclaiming their innocence, cursing their jailers. She frowned; they

weren t what she was looking for.

Allowing the voices to wash over her, she sorted through the sounds until she

picked up one voice louder than all the rest: strong and confident, it cut

through the babble, and Perenelle found herself concentrating on it, focusing

on the words, identifying the language.

This is my island.

It was a man, speaking Spanish in an old, very formal accent. Concentrating

on the ceiling, Perenelle tuned out the other voices. Who are you? In the

chill damp of the cell, her words puffed from her mouth like smoke and the

myriad ghosts fell silent.

There was a long pause, as if the ghost was surprised to be spoken to; then

he said proudly, I was the first European to sail into this bay, the first

to see this island.

A shape began to form on the roof directly over her head, the crude outline

of a face appearing in the cracks and spiderwebs, the black damp and the

green moss lending it shape and definition.

I called this place la Isla de los Alcatraces.

The Isle of the Pelicans, Perenelle said, her words the merest whispered

breath.

The face in the ceiling solidified briefly. It was that of a handsome man

with a long, narrow face and dark eyes. Water droplets formed and the eyes

blinked tears.

Who are you? Perenelle asked again.

I am Juan Manuel de Ayala. I discovered Alcatraz.

Claws click-clacked on the stones outside the cell, and the smell of snake

and rancid meat wafted down the corridor. Perenelle remained silent until the

scent and the footsteps retreated, and when she looked at the ceiling again,

the face had taken on more detail, the cracks in the stonework creating the

deep wrinkles on the man s forehead and around his eyes. A sailor s face, she

realized, the wrinkles caused by squinting toward distant horizons.

Why are you here? she wondered aloud. Did you die here?

No. Not here. Narrow lips curled in a smile. I returned because I fell in

love with this place from the very first moment I set eyes on it. It was in

the year of Our Lord 1775, and I was on the good ship San Carlos. I even

remember the month, August, and the date, the fifth.

Perenelle nodded. She had come across ghosts like de Ayala s before. Men and

women who had been so influenced or affected by a place that they returned to

it again and again in their dreams, and eventually, when they died, their

spirit returned to the same location to become a Guardian ghost.

I have watched over this island for generations. I will always watch over

it.

Perenelle stared up at the face. It must have saddened you to see your

beautiful island become a place of pain and suffering, she probed.

Something twisted in the shape s mouth, and a single drop of water fell from

its eye to spatter on Perenelle s cheek.

Dark days, sad days, but gone now thankfully, gone. The ghost s lips moved

and the words whispered in Perenelle s head. There has not been a human

prisoner on Alcatraz since 1963, and the island has been peaceful since

1971.

But now there is a new prisoner on your beloved island, Perenelle said

evenly. A prisoner guarded by a warden more terrible than any this island

has ever seen before.

The face in the ceiling altered, watery eyes narrowing, blinking. Who? You?

I am held here against my will, Perenelle said. I am Alcatraz s last

prisoner, and I am guarded by no human jailor, but by a sphinx.

No!

See for yourself!

The plaster crackled and damp dust rained down on Perenelle s face. When she

opened her eyes again, the face in the ceiling had gone, leaving nothing more

than a stain in its wake.

Perenelle allowed herself a smile.

What amuses you, humani? The voice was a slithering hiss, and the language

predated the human race.

Swinging herself into a sitting position, Perenelle focused on the creature

standing in the corridor less than six feet from her.

Generations of ancient humans had tried to capture the image of this creature

on cave walls and pots, etching her shape in stone, capturing her likeness on

parchments. And none of them had even come close to the true horror of the

sphinx.

The body was that of a hugely muscled lion, the fur scarred and cut with the

evidence of old wounds. A pair of eagle s wings curled out of its shoulders

and lay flat against its back, the feathers ragged and filthy. And the small,

almost delicate-looking head was that of a beautiful young woman.

The sphinx stepped up to the bars of the cell, and a black forked tongue

wavered in the air in front of Perenelle. You have no reason to smile,

humani. I have learned that your husband and the Warrior are trapped in

Paris. Soon they will be prisoners, and this time Dr. Dee will ensure that

they never escape again. I understand the Elders have given the doctor

permission to finally slay the legendary Alchemyst.

Perenelle felt something twist in the pit of her stomach. For generations the

Dark Elders had been intent on capturing Nicholas and Perenelle alive. If she

was to believe the sphinx and they were prepared to kill Nicholas, then

everything had changed. Nicholas will escape, she said confidently.

Not this time. The lion s tail of the sphinx whipped excitedly back and

forth, raising plumes of dust. Paris belongs to the Italian, Machiavelli,

and soon he will be joined by the English Magician. The Alchemyst cannot

evade them both.

And the children? Perenelle asked, eyes narrowing dangerously. If anything

had happened to Nicholas or the children

The sphinx s feathers ruffled, raising a musty sour smell. Dee believes the

humani children are powerful, that they may indeed be the twins of prophecy

and legend. He also believes they can be convinced that they should serve us,

rather than following the ramblings of a mad old bookseller. The sphinx took

a deep shuddering breath. But if they do not do as they are told, then they

too will perish.

And what about me?

The sphinx s pretty mouth opened to reveal a maw of savage, needle-pointed

teeth. Her long black tongue thrashed wildly in the air. You are mine,

Sorceress, she hissed. The Elders have given you to me as a gift for my

millennia of service to them. When your husband has been captured and slain,

then I will be given permission to eat your memories. What a feast it will

be. I intend to savor every last morsel. When I am finished with you, you

will remember nothing, not even your own name. The sphinx started to laugh,

the sound hissing and mocking, bouncing off the bare stone walls.

And then a cell door slammed.

The sudden sound shocked the sphinx into silence. Her small head turned, her

tongue flickering, tasting the air.

Another door boomed shut.

And then another.

And another.

The sphinx spun away, claws striking sparks off the floor. Who s there? Her

voice screeched off the damp stones.

Abruptly, all the cell doors in the upper gallery rattled open and closed in

quick succession, the sound a rumbling detonation that vibrated deep into the

heart of the prison, causing dust to rain from the ceiling.

Snarling and hissing, the sphinx bounded away, looking for the source of the

noise.

With an icy smile, Perenelle swung her feet back up on the bench, lay back

and rested her head on her laced fingers. The island of Alcatraz belonged to

Juan Manuel de Ayala, and it looked as though he was announcing his presence.

Perenelle heard cell doors clang, wood thump and walls rattle and knew what

de Ayala had become: a poltergeist.

A noisy ghost.

She also knew what de Ayala was doing. The sphinx fed off Perenelle s magical

energies; all the poltergeist had to do was to keep the creature away from

the cell for a little time and Perenelle s powers could begin to regenerate.

Raising her left hand, the woman concentrated hard. The tiniest ice white

spark danced between her fingers, then fizzled away.

Soon.

Soon.

The Sorceress closed her hand into a fist. When her powers had recovered, she

would bring Alcatraz tumbling down around the sphinx s ears.