Michael Scott - The Necromancer

Aoife held up her hand. “What has Joan of Arc got to do with this?”

“She’s married to Saint-Germain.” Sophie grinned at the look of surprise on Aoife’s face. “You didn’t know? I think they got married recently.”

“Joan of Arc and Saint-Germain,” Aoife murmured, shaking her head. “Did you hear that?” she said, without raising her voice.

“I thought you knew,” Niten said, and although his voice was barely above a whisper, it carried clearly. He continued to peel long strips of flaking paint off the side of the houseboat.

“How would I know?” Aoife snapped. “No one tells me anything.” She twisted in her seat to look at Niten. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never liked the Frenchman, and I knew you would dislike the Frenchwoman even more because your sister made her immortal with her blood.”

“She did?” Aoife looked horrified. “Joan carries my sister’s blood within her?”

“You didn’t know about this?” Sophie asked, surprised.

The red-haired woman shook her head. “I did not. What happened?”

“Joan was condemned to be burned at the stake. Scathach single-handedly rode into the city and rescued her, but Joan was injured in the escape. The only way to save her life was to give her a blood transfusion,” Sophie explained.

Aoife leaned forward, elbows on her knees, long pale fingers locked together. “Tell me about my sister. What happened to her?”

“I don’t know much more,” Sophie said. “Apparently, they were going to use the leygate at Notre Dame, but it was sabotaged. Saint-Germain found traces of mammoth dust around the spot. Nicholas thinks Machiavelli was responsible. Instead of landing on Mount Tamalpais today, it looks as if they’ve been dropped sometime in the past.”

“How far in the past?”

“Nicholas and Saint-Germain think the mammoth bones mean the Pleistocene era. So that could be anywhere from one point eight million years ago to just over eleven thousand years ago.”

Sophie watched in astonishment as Aoife visibly relaxed. “Oh, that’s not too bad, then. If that’s all that’s happened, we can go back and rescue them.”

“How?” Sophie demanded.

“There are ways.” Aoife looked over at Niten. “Perhaps it’s time we talked to the Alchemyst and his wife, to see if they have any further information. Do you know where they are?”

“Yes,” Niten said simply as he scraped away the paint.

“Would you like to tell me?” Sophie could clearly hear the annoyance in her voice.

The slender man raised his chin toward the shore, and Sophie and Aoife turned to see a bright red Thunderbird pull up to the dock in a cloud of dust. “Right here.”

With his long hair tied back in a tight ponytail, head covered in a stained Dodgers baseball cap, eyes huge behind thick glasses, and wearing clothes at least two sizes too large for him, the Comte de Saint-Germain shuffled unnoticed through the Arrivals Hall at London’s Heathrow airport. Stepping out into the cool damp evening air, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

There was one message. Number withheld. It said simply: Level 3, space 243.

He turned and headed into the parking structure, taking the stairs up to level three. He was moving quickly, checking the numbers, when a dark shape detached itself from the shadows and fell into step alongside him. “Looking for a taxi, sir?”

“Palamedes,” Saint-Germain whispered, “don’t do that. You could have given me a heart attack.”

“Hardly. You knew I was there, didn’t you?”

Saint-Germain nodded. “I smelled you.”

“So you’re saying I smell?”

“You smell of cloves. Ah, but it is good to see you, old friend,” the Frenchman said, using a Persian dialect that had gone extinct a century earlier.

“I wish it were in happier circumstances,” the huge shaven-headed man said. He eased Saint-Germain’s carry-on bag from his hands. The Frenchman tried to protest, but the Saracen Knight ignored him. “I sent a message to my master,” the knight continued in the same ancient language. Both immortals were too experienced to allow anyone to come close enough to eavesdrop on them, but they were equally conscious that there were more security cameras in London than any other city on earth. Anyone looking at them now would just see a London taxi driver picking up a fare.

“And how is your master?” Saint-Germain asked cautiously.

“Still angry at you. You seem to have a gift for upsetting people,” Palamedes added with a broad grin.

“Will he help me?” Saint-Germain asked nervously.

“I don’t know. I will speak for you. Shakespeare will, too, and you know what a great talker he is.” They stopped at a black cab and Palamedes pulled open the door to allow the Frenchman inside. “There will be a cost,” the knight said seriously.

Saint-Germain gripped his friend’s arm. “Anything. I will pay anything to get my wife back.”

“Even your immortality?”

“Even that. What is the point in living forever, if it is not with the woman I love?”

A flicker of immeasurable sadness crossed the knight’s face. “I understand that,” he said softly.

“T his is my friend Ma-ka-tai-me-she-kia-kiak,” Billy the Kid said as the small powerboat bounced across San Francisco Bay.

The sharp-featured man nodded to Machiavelli. “You’ll find it more convenient to call me Black Hawk,” he drawled. He was dressed, like Billy, in faded jeans, old cowboy boots and a T-shirt. Unlike Billy, though, who was thin to the point of scrawniness, Black Hawk was a solid mass of muscle. He handled the bucking powerboat with ease.

Billy tapped him on the shoulder. “Over there; my car is at Pier-”

“I checked. Your car is gone,” Black Hawk said, and then laughed aloud at the stricken look on Billy’s face.

“Stolen! Someone stole my car!” He turned to the Italian. “That’s

… that’s criminal!”

Machiavelli kept his face expressionless. “I’ll wager the Sorceress took it.”

Billy nodded eagerly. “I bet you’re right. She’ll look after it, though, won’t she? I mean, she’ll know it’s a classic car and treat it with respect?”

Machiavelli caught Black Hawk’s eye and then had to look away quickly before he laughed. “I do believe I read in my files somewhere that Perenelle Flamel only learned how to drive recently,” he said innocently.

Billy sank down to the side of the boat as if he’d been struck. “She’ll ruin it. She’ll wreck the transmission and she’ll probably scrape the tires against the curb. Do you know how hard it is to find those whitewall tires?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Black Hawk said with a grin, “in about an hour, you’ll never need a car again. The last time I saw our master this angry was in April 1906… and you know what happened then.”

Billy’s face set in a petulant snarl. “Well, I don’t know what you’re so happy about. I was going to leave you that car in my will.”

“Thanks.” Black Hawk shrugged. “But I’m not a Thunderbird person; I prefer Mustangs.”

Sophie leapt out of her chair as Josh pushed open the driver’s door and climbed out of the red Thunderbird. Aoife’s hand fell on her shoulder, squeezing gently, but the warning was clear: she was not to move. Perenelle climbed out of the back of the car and Nicholas slowly pushed open the passenger door. It took some seconds before he straightened.

Niten appeared by Aoife’s side, two Japanese swords, one longer than the other, held lightly in his hands. “Be calm,” he said quietly, and Sophie wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to Aoife.