The Magician

CHAPTER ONE

T he charity auction hadn't started until well after midnight, when the gala

dinner had ended. It was almost four in the morning and the auction was only

now drawing to a close. A digital display behind the celebrity auctioneer an

actor who had played James Bond on-screen for many years showed the running

total at more than one million euro.

Lot number two hundred and ten: a pair of early-nineteenth-century Japanese

Kabuki masks.

A ripple of excitement ran through the crowded room. Inlaid with chips of

solid jade, the Kabuki masks were the highlight of the auction and were

expected to fetch in excess of half a million euro.

At the back of the room the tall, thin man with the fuzz of close-cropped

snow white hair was prepared to pay twice that.

Niccol Machiavelli stood apart from the rest of the crowd, arms lightly

folded across his chest, careful not to wrinkle his Savile Row tailored black

silk tuxedo. Stone gray eyes swept over the other bidders, analyzing and

assessing them. There were really only five others he needed to look out for:

two private collectors like himself, a minor European royal, a once-famous

American movie actor and a Canadian antiques dealer. The remainder of the

audience were tired, had spent their budget or were unwilling to bid on the

vaguely disturbing-looking masks.

Machiavelli loved all types of masks. He had been collecting them for a very

long time, and he wanted this particular pair to complete his collection of

Japanese theater costumes. These masks had last come up for sale in 1898 in

Vienna, and he had then been outbid by a Romanov prince. Machiavelli had

patiently bided his time; the masks would come back on the market again when

the Prince and his descendents died. Machiavelli knew he would still be

around to buy them; it was one of the many advantages of being immortal.

Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand euro?

Machiavelli looked up, caught the auctioneer s attention and nodded.

The auctioneer had been expecting his bid and nodded in return. I am bid one

hundred thousand euro by Monsieur Machiavelli. Always one of this charity s

most generous supporters and sponsors.

A smattering of applause ran around the room, and several people turned to

look at him and raise their glasses. Niccol acknowledged them with a polite

smile.

Do I have one hundred and ten? the auctioneer asked.

One of the private collectors raised his hand slightly.

One-twenty? The auctioneer looked back to Machiavelli, who immediately

nodded.

Within the next three minutes, a flurry of bids brought the price up to two

hundred and fifty thousand euro. There were only three serious bidders left:

Machiavelli, the American actor and the Canadian.

Machiavelli s thin lips twisted into a rare smile; his patience was about to

be rewarded, and finally the masks would be his. Then the smile faded as he

felt the cell phone in his back pocket buzz silently. For an instant he was

tempted to ignore it; he d given his staff strict instructions that he was

not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely critical. He also knew they were

so terrified of him that they would not phone unless it was an emergency.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ultraslim phone and glanced down.

A picture of a sword pulsed gently on the large LCD screen.

Machiavelli s smile vanished. In that second he knew he was not going to be

able to buy the Kabuki masks this century. Turning on his heel, he strode out

of the room and pressed the phone to his ear. Behind him, he could hear the

auctioneer s hammer hit the lectern Sold. For two hundred and sixty thousand

euro

I m here, Machiavelli said, reverting to the Italian of his youth.

The line crackled and an English-accented voice responded in the same

language, using a dialect that had not been heard in Europe for more than

four hundred years. I need your help.

The man on the other end of the line didn't identify himself, nor did he need

to; Machiavelli knew it was the immortal magician and necromancer Dr. John

Dee, one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the world.

Niccolo Machiavelli strode out of the small hotel into the broad cobbled

square of the Place du Tertre and stopped to breathe in the chill night air.

What can I do for you? he asked cautiously. He detested Dee and knew the

feeling was mutual, but they both served the Dark Elders, and that meant they

had been forced to work together down through the centuries. Machiavelli was

also slightly envious that Dee was younger than he and looked it. Machiavelli

had been born in Florence in 1469, which made him fifty-eight years older

than the English Magician. History recorded that he had died in the same year

that Dee had been born, 1527.

Flamel is back in Paris.

Machiavelli straightened. When?

Just now. He got there through a leygate. I ve no idea where it comes out.

He s got Scathach with him .

Machiavelli s lips curled into an ugly grimace. The last time he'd

encountered the Warrior, she d pushed him through a door. It had been closed

at the time, and he d spent weeks picking splinters from his chest and

shoulders.

There are two humani children with him. Americans, Dee said, his voice

echoing and fading on the transatlantic line. Twins, he added.

Say again? Machiavelli asked.

Twins, Dee added, with pure gold and silver auras. You know what that

means, he snapped.

Yes, Machiavelli muttered. It meant trouble. Then the tiniest of smiles

curled his thin lips. It could also mean opportunity.

Static crackled and then Dee s voice continued. The girl s powers were

Awakened by Hekate before the Goddess and her Shadowrealm were destroyed.

Untrained, the girl is no threat, Machiavelli murmured, quickly assessing

the situation. He took a breath and added, Except perhaps to herself and

those around her.

Flamel took the girl to Ojai. There, the Witch of Endor instructed her in

the Magic of Air.

No doubt you tried to stop them? There was a hint of amusement in

Machiavelli s voice.

Tried. And failed, Dee admitted bitterly. The girl has some knowledge but

is without skill.

What do you want me to do? Machiavelli asked carefully, although he already

had a very good idea.

Find Flamel and the twins, Dee demanded. Capture them. Kill Scathach if

you can. I m just leaving Ojai. But it s going to take me fourteen or fifteen

hours to get to Paris.

What happened to the leygate? Machiavelli wondered aloud. If a leygate

connected Ojai and Paris, then why didn't Dee ?

Destroyed by the Witch of Endor, Dee raged, and she nearly killed me, too.

I was lucky to escape with a few cuts and scratches, he added, and then

ended the call without saying good-bye.

Niccol Machiavelli closed his phone carefully and tapped it against his

bottom lip. Somehow he doubted that Dee had been lucky if the Witch of Endor

had wanted him dead, then even the legendary Dr. Dee would not have escaped.

Machiavelli turned and walked across the square to where his driver was

patiently waiting with the car. If Flamel, Scathach and the American twins

had come to Paris via a leygate, then there were only a few places in the

city where they could have emerged. It should be relatively easy to find and

capture them.

And if he could capture them tonight, then he would have plenty of time to

work on them before Dee arrived.

Machiavelli smiled; he d only need a few hours, and in that time they would

tell him everything they knew. Half a millennium on this earth had taught him

how to be very persuasive indeed.