The Magician

CHAPTER FOUR

W elcome back to Paris, Alchemyst.

Sophie and Josh jumped. Machiavelli was still far away to be heard so

clearly. Strangely, his voice seemed to be coming from somewhere behind them,

and both turned to look, but there were only two stained green metal statues

over the three arches in front of the church: a woman on a horse to their

right, her raised arm holding a sword, and a man holding a scepter on their

left.

I've been waiting for you. The voice seemed to be coming from the statue of

the man.

It' s a cheap trick, Scatty said dismissively, picking strips of wax off the

front of her steel-toed combat boots. It s nothing more than ventriloquism.

Sophie smiled sheepishly. I thought the statue was talking, she admitted,

embarrassed.

Josh started to laugh at his sister and then immediately reconsidered. I

guess I wouldn't be surprised if it did.

The good Dr. Dee sends his regards. Machiavelli s voice continued to hang

in the air around them.

So he survived Ojai, then, Nicholas said conversationally, not raising his

voice. Standing tall and straight, he casually put both hands behind his back

and glanced sidelong at Scatty. Then the fingers of his right hand started

dancing against the palm and fingers of his left.

Scatty drew the twins away from Nicholas and slowly retreated under the

shadowed arches. Standing between them, she put her arms around their

shoulders both their auras crackling silver and gold with her touch and drew

their heads together.

Machiavelli. The master of lies. Scatty' s whisper was the merest breath

against their ears. He must not hear us.

I cannot say I am pleased to see you, Signor Machiavelli. Or is it Monsieur

Machiavelli in this age? the Alchemyst said quietly, leaning against the

balustrade, looking down the white steps to where Machiavelli was still small

in the distance.

This century, I am French, Machiavelli replied, his voice clearly audible.

I love Paris. It is my favorite city in Europe after Florence, of course.

While Nicholas talked to Machiavelli, he kept his hands behind his back, out

of sight of the other immortal. His fingers were moving in an intricate

series of taps and beats.

Is he working a spell? Sophie breathed, watching his hands.

No, he s talking to me, Scatty said.

How? Josh whispered. Magic? Telepathy?

ASL: American Sign Language.

The twins glanced quickly at one another. American Sign Language? Josh

asked. He knows sign language? How?

You seem to keep forgetting that he s lived a long time, Scathach said with

a grin that showed her vampire teeth. And he did help create French sign

language in the eighteenth century, she added casually.

What' s he saying? Sophie asked impatiently. Nowhere in the witch s memory

could she find the knowledge necessary to translate the older man s gestures.

Scathach frowned, her lips moving as she spelled out a word.

Sophie brouillard fog, she translated. She shook her head. Sophie, he s

asking you for fog. That doesn t make sense.

It does to me, Sophie said as a dozen images of fog, clouds and smoke

flashed through her brain.

Niccol Machiavelli paused on the steps and drew in a deep breath. My people

have the entire area surrounded, he said, moving slowly toward the

Alchemyst. He was slightly out of breath and his heart was hammering; he

really needed to get back to the gym.

Creating the wax tulpa had exhausted him. He had never made one so big

before, and never from the back of a car roaring through Montmartre s narrow

and winding streets. It wasn't an elegant solution, but all he had needed to

do was to keep Flamel and his companions trapped in the church until he got

there, and he had succeeded. Now the church was surrounded, more gendarmes

were en route and he had called in all available agents. As the head of the

DGSE, his powers were almost limitless, and he d issued an order to impose a

press blackout. He prided himself on having complete control of his emotions,

but he had to admit that right now he was feeling quite excited: soon he

would have Nicholas Flamel, Scathach and the children in custody. He would

have triumphed where Dee had failed.

Later he would have someone in his department leak a story to the press that

thieves had been apprehended breaking into the national monument. Close to

dawn just in time for the early-morning news a second report would be leaked,

revealing how the desperate prisoners had overpowered their guards and

escaped on their way to the police station. They would never be seen again.

I have you now, Nicholas Flamel.

Flamel came to stand at the edge of the steps and pushed his hands into the

back pockets of his worn black jeans. I believe the last time you made that

statement, you were just about to break into my tomb.

Machiavelli stopped in shock. How do you know that?

More than three hundred years ago, in the dead of night, Machiavelli had

cracked open Nicholas and Perenelle s tomb, looking for proof that the

Alchemyst and his wife were indeed dead and trying to determine whether they

had been buried with the Book of Abraham the Mage. The Italian hadn't been

entirely surprised to find that both coffins were filled with stones.

Perry and I were right there behind you, standing in the shadows, close

enough to touch you when you lifted the top off our tomb. I knew someone

would come I just never imagined it would be you. I ll admit I was

disappointed, Niccol , he added.

The white-haired man continued up the steps to Sacre -Coeur. You always

thought I was a better person than I was, Nicholas.

I believe there is good in everyone, Flamel whispered, even you.

Not me, Alchemyst, not anymore, and not for a very long time. Machiavelli

stopped and indicated the police and heavily armed black-clad French special

forces gathering at the bottom of the steps. Come now. Surrender. No harm

will come to you.

I cannot tell you how many people have said that to me, Nicholas said

sadly. And they were always lying, he added.

Machiavelli s voice hardened. You can deal with me or with Dr. Dee. And you

know the English Magician never had any patience.

There is one other option, Flamel said with a shrug. His thin lips curled

in a smile. I could deal with neither of you. He half turned, but when he

looked back at Machiavelli, the expression on the Alchemyst s face made the

immortal Italian take a step back in shock. For an instant something ancient

and implacable shone through Flamel s pale eyes, which flickered a brilliant

emerald green. Now it was Flamel s voice that dropped to a whisper, still

clearly audible to Machiavelli. It would be better if you and I were never

to meet again.

Machiavelli attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. That sounds

like a threat and believe me, you are in no position to issue threats.

Not a threat, Flamel said, and stepped back from the top steps. A

promise.

The cool damp Parisian night air was abruptly touched with the rich odor of

vanilla, and Niccol Machiavelli knew then that something was very wrong.

Standing straight, eyes closed, arms at her sides, palms facing outward,

Sophie Newman took a deep breath, attempting to calm her thundering heart and

allow her mind to wander. When the Witch of Endor had wrapped her like a

mummy with bandages of solidified air, she had imparted thousands of years of

knowledge into the girl in a matter of heartbeats. Sophie had imagined she d

felt her head swelling as her brain filled with the Witch s memories. Since

then, her skull had throbbed with a headache, the base of her neck felt stiff

and tight and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. Two days ago she had

been an ordinary American teenager, her head filled with normal everyday

things: homework and school projects, the latest songs and videos, boys she

liked, cell phone numbers and Web addresses, blogs and urls.

Now she knew things that no person should ever know.

Sophie Newman possessed the Witch of Endor s memories; she knew all that the

Witch had seen, everything she had done over millennia. It was all a jumble:

a mixture of thoughts and wishes, observations, fears and desires, a

confusing mess of bizarre sights, terrifying images and incomprehensible

sounds. It was as if a thousand movies had been mixed up and edited together.

And scattered throughout the tangle of memories were countless incidences

when the Witch had actually used her special power, the Magic of Air. All

Sophie had to do was find a time when the Witch had used fog.

But when and where and how to find it?

Ignoring Flamel s voice calling down to Machiavelli, blanking out the sour

smell of her brother s fear and the jingle of Scathach s swords, Sophie

concentrated her thoughts on mist and fog.

San Francisco was often wrapped in fog, and she d seen the Golden Gate Bridge

rising out of a thick layer of cloud. And only last fall, when the family had

been in St. Paul s Cathedral in Boston, they d stepped out onto Tremont

Street to find that a damp fog had completely obscured the Common. Other

memories began to intrude: mist in Glasgow; swirling damp fog in Vienna;

thick foul-smelling yellow smog in London.

Sophie frowned; she had never been to Glasgow, Vienna or London. But the

Witch had and these were the Witch of Endor s memories.

Images, thoughts and memories like the strands of fog she was seeing in her

head shifted and twisted. And then they suddenly cleared. Sophie clearly

remembered standing alongside a figure dressed in the formal clothing of the

nineteenth century. She could see him in her mind s eye, a man with a long

nose and a high forehead topped with graying curly hair. He was sitting at a

high desk, a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper before him, dipping a simple

pen into a brimming inkwell. It took her a moment to realize that this was

not one of her own memories, nor was it something she had seen on TV or in a

movie. She was remembering something the Witch of Endor had done and seen. As

she turned to look closely at the figure, the Witch s memories flooded her:

the man was a famous English writer and was just about to begin work on a new

book. The writer glanced up and smiled at her; then his lips moved, but there

was no sound. Leaning over his shoulder, she saw him write the words Fog

everywhere. Fog up the river. Fog down the river in an elegant curling

script. Outside the writer s study window, fog, thick and opaque, rolled like

smoke against the dirty glass, blotting out the background in an impenetrable

blanket.

And beneath the portico of Sacre -Coeur in Paris, the air turned chill and

moist, rich with the odor of vanilla ice cream. A trickle of white dribbled

from each of Sophie s outstretched fingers. The wispy streams curled down to

puddle at her feet. Behind her closed eyes, she watched the writer dip his

pen into the inkwell and continue. Fog creeping fog lying fog drooping fog in

the eyes and throats

Thick white fog spilled from Sophie s fingers and spread across the stones,

shifting like heavy smoke, flowing in twisting ropes and gossamer threads.

Coiling and shifting, it flowed through Flamel s legs and tumbled down the

steps, growing, thickening, darkening.

Niccol watched the fog flow down the steps of Sacre -Coeur like dirty milk,

watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that

Flamel was going to elude him. By the time the fog reached him it was chest

high, wet and vanilla scented. He breathed deeply, recognizing the odor of

magic.

Remarkable, he said, but the fog flattened his voice, dulling his carefully

cultivated French accent, revealing the harsher Italian beneath.

Leave us alone, Flamel s voice boomed out of the fog.

That sounds like another threat, Nicholas. Believe me when I tell you that

you have no idea of the forces gathered against you now. Your parlor tricks

will not save you. Machiavelli pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed

dial number. Attack. Attack now! He raced up the steps as he spoke, moving

silently on expensive leather-soled shoes, while far below, booted feet

thumped on stone as the gathered police charged up the steps.

I ve survived for a very long time. Flamel s voice didn't come from where

Machiavelli expected it to, and he stopped, turning left and right, trying to

make out a shape in the fog.

The world moved on, Nicholas, Machiavelli said. You did not. You might

have escaped us in America, but here, in Europe, there are too many Elders,

too many immortal humans who know you. You will not be able to remain hidden

for long. We will find you.

Machiavelli dashed up the final few steps that brought him directly to the

entrance of the church. There was no mist here. The unnatural fog started on

the top step and flowed downward, leaving the church floating like an island

on a cloudy sea. Even before he ran into the church, Machiavelli knew he

would not find them in there: Flamel, Scathach and the twins had escaped.

For the moment.

But Paris was no longer Nicholas Flamel s city. The city that had once

honored Flamel and his wife as patrons of the sick and poor, the city that

named streets after them, was long gone. Paris now belonged to Machiavelli

and the Dark Elders he served. Looking out over the ancient city, Niccol

Machiavelli swore that he was going to turn Paris into a trap and maybe even

a tomb for the legendary Alchemyst.