Michael Scott - The Necromancer

“I met him twice face to face,” Machiavelli said, “and then only briefly. The second time he made me immortal. Although we’ve spoken often over the centuries, we’ve not met again.” He smiled. “And while I think I could call him many things, I would never describe him as gentle and kind. He single-handedly destroyed an entire way of life in Egypt. He was so hated that almost every instance of his name was removed from the historical records.”

Kukulkan waved his hand dismissively. “I was there. He did- we did-what was necessary. We made Egypt great.” The Elder returned to his stone seat and silently faced Machiavelli. He was completely still, only the feathers on his tail shifting slightly in the warm breeze that wafted through the open door.

Machiavelli sat back in his chair and waited. He had infinite patience-he considered it one of his greatest strengths-so he knew he could outwait Kukulkan. Hasty words and hasty actions had destroyed many a plan. He wasn’t sure he entirely believed the Elder. Machiavelli had done his own research: when his master, Aten-who was also known as Akhenaten-had ruled Egypt, he had been such a tyrant that later generations would refer to him simply as the Enemy. Machiavelli also knew that Akhenaten’s son, Tutankhamen, had possessed a rare gold aura.

“What do I do with you, Italian?” the Elder said suddenly.

“Do with me?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Do I?”

Kukulkan’s feathered tail twitched and tapped impatiently on the floor.

“Mac,” Billy whispered in alarm.

“Don’t call me Mac. I hate that.”

“Then don’t irritate the all-powerful Elder,” Billy muttered.

Kukulkan’s face and coal black eyes betrayed no expression, nor was there any emotion in his voice when he spoke. “I am unsure whether you are arrogant, stupid or very clever.”

“I am arrogant,” Machiavelli said with a smile. “I have always known that. But I am very clever, too. I am also valuable”-he waved his hand to include all the rare treasures in the room-“and I can see that you appreciate valuable things.”

Kukulkan’s head dipped in acknowledgment. “I do. And a valuable tool should not be hastily put aside.”

“I’ve been called a valuable tool before,” Machiavelli said.

“By your master?”

“Aten has called me that on several occasions,” Machiavelli agreed.

The Elder nodded in agreement. “Aten gave me many tools and many gifts,” Kukulkan continued. “He taught me how to live, how to respect and how to love. There is much that I owe my brother; I have always been in his debt. And although he has not asked that your life be spared, I believe I will spare it, as a gift to him. A debt must always be honored.”

Machiavelli bowed slightly. He swallowed a quick rush of anger. He knew he should be grateful that he was still alive, but something about the creature’s reasoning bothered him. It was something he’d put aside and think about later; he had a rule never to allow anger to cloud his judgment. “I am grateful,” he said simply.

“Me too,” said Billy.

“Who said anything about sparing you!” Kukulkan snapped.

“O ld friend,” Palamedes said carefully, “are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Saint-Germain nodded, his face the only lightness in the gloomy cab. “Of course I do.” They had been driving north for more than two hours. They’d left the M1 and the M25 far behind and were now driving down a series of twisting country lanes.

The Saracen Knight shifted uncomfortably in the front seat. The occasional streetlight washed across his face, turning his eyes to liquid orange. “My master is unpredictable,” he said eventually. “Dangerously so. His contempt for humani is absolute. He despises what they have done to the world he helped create.”

“He liked you well enough to make you immortal,” Saint-Germain said.

The big man grunted a bitter laugh. “My master does not like me. He made me immortal and condemned me to wander the Shadowrealms as punishment for an old, old crime.” He waved a hand in the air. “We will talk of it someday, but not today.” Palamedes turned off the road onto a narrow track. There were no streetlights, but the headlights picked out the gnarled trunks of ancient trees lining the road.

The faintest smell of burnt leaves filled the air, and Saint-Germain’s bright blue eyes briefly turned red. “You know we have met before, your master and I?”

“I know,” Palamedes said miserably. “He remembers. He is old now-old, old, old-but there are certain things he never forgets. And unfortunately, you are one of those.”

“Will I be able to bargain with him, do you think?” the Frenchman asked.

“You can try. Will Shakespeare and I will stand with you.”

“You do not have to do that,” Saint-Germain said quickly. “That could be dangerous. Possibly even deadly,” he added grimly.

“We will stand by your side,” the knight said. “You have stood with Will and me often enough, you have saved our lives on more than one occasion. What would we be if we abandoned you when you needed us?”

Saint-Germain leaned forward to squeeze Palamedes’ shoulder. “I am lucky to count you as a friend,” he said simply.

“You are more than a friend to me,” Palamedes answered. “My blood family is long dead. And when I lost my sweetheart to another man, I never thought I would have a family again. Then, one day, I realized that almost by accident, I was drawing a family around me, a new family: first Will, then you and my fellow knights. You are my family now. Once, I fought for my faith and my country; later, I fought for Arthur out of a sense of duty to him and loyalty to his cause. In all my years of battle, I never fought for one of my family. But tonight, I will stand by your side because you are my brother.”

The words took Saint-Germain’s breath away, and he suddenly felt his throat burning and tears prickling his eyes. It took him several moments before he knew his voice would be steady enough to reply. “I was an only child,” he said. “I always wanted a brother.”

“Well, now you have two.”

The cab swung into an empty car park, the sweeping headlights picking up a disheveled figure perched like a bird on a wooden picnic table. “Will,” Saint-Germain said delightedly. He pushed the door open even before the car had fully stopped and hopped out. Shakespeare stepped off the table and the two men looked at one another for a moment; then each bowed deeply-though the Bard’s bow was more restrained than Saint-Germain’s dramatic flourish.

Shakespeare’s pale eyes were troubled as he looked at his friend. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest.” He shivered and added, “I hate this place.”

“W elcome to Point Reyes,” Niten said.

Sophie and Josh looked out of the car windows. They could see nothing. Although there had been brilliant sunshine in Sausalito and for most of the journey up the 101 and the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, tendrils of mist had started to appear shortly after they drove through Inverness. Then, with shocking suddenness, a thick opaque fog had rolled in off the sea, blanketing the landscape in salt-tinged clouds.

Josh hit the button that rolled down his window. The air that swept into the car was cold, but he put his head out and attempted to peer into the gloom.

“Close the window,” Aoife snapped. “I’m freezing.”

“You’re a ten-thousand-year-old vampire,” Sophie said with a grin, amused by the creature’s reaction. “You’re not supposed to feel the cold.”

“I hate this damp,” Aoife grumbled. “That’s why I’ve always preferred warm climates.”