Michael Scott - The Necromancer

Nicholas rubbed suddenly damp palms on the legs of his trousers, but made no move to take the box from his wife. “Perry,” he said quietly, “are you sure about this?”

The Sorceress’s green eyes turned hard and brittle. “Sure about what?” she snapped. She came gracefully to her feet, the wooden box cradled in her arms. “Sure about what?” she asked again, anger clearly audible in her voice. “What are we waiting for, Nicholas? We have waited so long now that we have run out of time. You have weeks to live…”

“Don’t say that,” he said quickly.

“Why not? It’s true. If I survive a week or ten days after you, then I’ll be lucky. But do you know something: we are both going to live long enough to see the end of the world as we know it. The Dark Elders have most of the Codex, and Litha is fast approaching. There are Dark Elders moving freely through the world, and you told me that there was an Archon in London.” She pointed in the direction of the bay. “And Alcatraz is full of monsters ready to be loosed on the city. There are creatures there I have not seen in centuries.”

Nicholas held up his hands in surrender, but Perenelle was not finished.

“What will happen, do you think, if San Francisco is overrun by nightmares from the dark edges of human mythology? Tell me,” she demanded. “You’ve studied history and human nature, tell me what would happen.” Anger sent static crackles running along her hair. “Tell me!”

“There would be chaos,” he admitted.

“How long before the city fell?” The elastic band holding her ponytail in place snapped and her mane of silver-streaked dark hair rose in a crackling sheet around her head. “Weeks, days or hours? And once this city is a smoking ruin, you know the creatures will spread out across America like a disease. How long do you think the humani-even with all their weapons and sophisticated technology-would be able to survive against the monsters?”

The Alchemyst shook his head and shrugged.

“They have brought down civilizations before,” Perenelle said. “The last time the Dark Elders released monsters onto this world, the Elders were forced to destroy Pompeii.”

Nicholas reached out and silently took the wooden box from his wife’s arms.

“The last thing we do, Nicholas, before old age and death claim us, is to destroy the army on Alcatraz. And for that, we need allies.” She tapped the lid of the box with the palm of her hand. “We need this.”

The Alchemyst turned and placed the box on the bed. Its sides had been etched with a triple spiral, and he allowed his fingers to trace the curls. He’d bought the box in a backstreet in Delhi in India, just over three hundred years ago, and then sketched the spiral design on it with a stick of charcoal. A local craftsman had cut the shape into the four sides of the box, and then on the lid and the base. “In my country, this is an ancient powerful symbol of protection,” the tiny wizened man had muttered in Hindi, not expecting the foreigner to understand him. He had been shocked when the Westerner had lifted the box from his hands and replied in the same language, “In mine too.”

There was neither lock nor clasp on the box, and Nicholas carefully lifted off the carved lid and placed it on the bed. A hint of jasmine and exotic spices touched the air: the unmistakable odor of India. He was reaching into the cloth-packed interior, when Perenelle suddenly grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his flesh. He watched as she carefully lifted her hair and tilted her head to one side. She was listening.

And then Nicholas heard it: someone was moving stealthily through the shop below.

None of the late-evening tourists crowding noisily into Covent Garden in London paid any attention to the tall slender woman with the cascade of jet-black hair. She had taken up a position between two of the pillars in front of the Punch amp; Judy Pub and placed a square of soft leather painted with red curling spirals on the cobbles at her feet. Finally, she unwrapped a carved wooden flute from a leather cover, put the flute to her lips, closed her eyes, and blew gently.

The sound was extraordinary.

Magnified by the stone pillars, the haunting, ethereal music drifted out across Covent Garden, washing over the cobbles stopping everyone in their tracks. Within minutes a crowd had gathered in a half circle around the woman.

Standing perfectly still, she played with her eyes closed. It was a tune none of the listeners recognized, though many found it vaguely familiar and discovered that their fingers or toes were tapping along with the beat. A few were even moved to tears.

Then, finally, the ancient-sounding wordless music ended with a single high-pitched note that sounded like distant birds flying overhead. There was a long moment of silence and the musician opened her eyes and bowed slightly. The crowd applauded and cheered, and most immediately started to drift away toward the Apple Market. A few dropped money-British sterling, American coins and euros-onto the leather cloth and two people asked if the musician had a CD of her music for sale, but she shook her head and explained that every performance was different and unique. She thanked them for their interest in a soft whispering voice that had just the hint of an American East Coast accent.

Finally, only one listener remained: an older man who watched her intently, gray eyes following her every movement as she wiped down the flute and slid it back into what was obviously a handmade leather case. He waited until she had stooped to gather up the red leather cloth with its scattering of coins and then stepped forward and dropped a fifty-pound note onto the ground. The woman picked it up and looked at the man, but he had positioned himself so that the light was behind his head, leaving his face in shadow. “There is another fifty if you’ll spare me a few minutes of your time.”

The woman straightened. “Now, there’s a voice from my past.” She was taller than the man, and while her elegant fine-boned face remained expressionless, her slate-gray eyes danced with amusement. “Dr. John Dee,” she murmured in an accent that had not been heard in England since the time of Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century.

“Miss Virginia Dare,” Dee replied, slipping easily into the same accent. He moved his head and the evening light ran across his face. “It is good to see you again.”

“I cannot say the same.” The woman glanced quickly left and right, nostrils flaring. Her tongue flickered, like a snake’s, almost as if she was tasting the air. “I’m not sure I want to be seen with you. You have been marked for death, Doctor. The same mercenaries who only yesterday hunted the Alchemyst are now looking for you.” There was nothing friendly about the smile that curled her lips. “How do you know I will not kill you and claim the reward?”

“Well, two reasons, really. First, I know my masters want me alive, and second, because there is little our Dark Elder masters could offer you that you do not already have,” Dee said, smiling easily. “You are already immortal, and you have no one to call master.”

“There is a very big reward on your head,” Virginia Dare said, shoving the money into the pockets of her long denim maxi coat. She pushed the leather cloth into another pocket and slung the flute over her shoulder, carrying it like a rifle.

“I can offer you more,” Dee said confidently. “Much more.”

“John,” Virginia said almost affectionately, “you always were a terrible braggart.”

“But I never lied to you.”

Virginia seemed surprised by the statement. She took a moment before answering. “No, you did not,” she finally admitted.