Michael Scott - The Necromancer

Josh managed to gather enough saliva to croak out, “But when do I learn the magic?”

Prometheus chuckled. “You already have. Open your hands.”

Josh looked down. He was still holding the Aztec sunstone in his right hand, but he’d covered it with his left. When he lifted his left hand, the stone came with it. It was stuck to his skin. Puzzled, he looked at the Elder.

“Wait,” Prometheus whispered.

Suddenly Josh’s left hand glowed gold and an agonizing pain shot up the length of his arm. He gasped; then he smelled oranges and the pain vanished.

The sunstone dropped to the ground.

And when he turned his hand over, he discovered that the Aztec face had seared into the flesh of his palm. It resembled a black tattoo. “A trigger?” he whispered.

“A trigger,” Prometheus said. “When you wish to call upon the Magic of Fire, visualize the type of flame you would like to create and press the thumb of your right hand to the face.”

Josh looked at the barbaric image burned into his palm and grinned. This was way cooler than Sophie’s boring circle tattoo.

“Leave me now,” Prometheus said. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.” The Elder sat back into his chair and reached for his remote control. He watched the boy climb unsteadily to his feet.

“Thank… thank you,” Josh mumbled.

“You’re welcome… Oh, and Josh-try not to burn yourself too often.”

In the heart of the Catacombs beneath Paris, the Elder Mars Ultor awoke. For a single instant his eyes were a brilliant blue, but they quickly turned an ugly burning red.

The boy, the twin, the one he had Awakened, the one he was connected to, had mastered his second magic, the Magic of Fire.

Closing his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the pain that ate away at his entire body, he looked through the boy’s eyes and found he was staring into the face of his wife’s brother: Prometheus. He broke the connection instantly, afraid that the Elder would sense his presence. Mars Ultor, the Avenger, who feared nothing and no one, was terrified of the Firelord.

Then, almost reluctantly, he concentrated on visualizing the English Magician’s face, and when Dee turned his head to look up with wide gray eyes, the Elder said: “It is done.”

“It is done.” John Dee jerked awake with such force that he fell out of the chair and sprawled on his burnt hands. The pain was excruciating, but he ignored it: his dreamless sleep had been interrupted by the image of the Sleeping God, Mars Ultor, trapped in his bone prison deep beneath Paris. In his dream the Elder’s eyes had opened and looked at him, and Dee heard him speak behind the mask.

“It is done. The boy has mastered fire.”

Climbing to his feet, Dee cradled his arms across his chest and pressed his forehead against the cool glass wall. Focusing, he visualized Mars Ultor’s prison in precise detail, until he could actually see the imprisoned Elder. “I want the boy,” he said aloud.

And on the other side of the world, bloodred smoke curled from the Sleeping God’s eyes. “Josh,” Mars whispered. “Josh.”

Exhausted and sore, Josh Newman lay back on the hard uncomfortable bed and closed his eyes. A single heartbeat later, he was asleep.

And then his eyes snapped open.

No longer blue, they were the same color as Mars Ultor’s.

Scathach caught the hint of movement above them and jerked Joan to one side… in the instant before Saint-Germain tumbled out of the air to land in a heap at their feet.

The immortal sat up and fastidiously dusted himself off as the two women looked at him in astonishment. He was just standing up when there was a crash in the undergrowth behind them. The two women turned, weapons ready… as Palamedes and William Shakespeare strolled out of the long grass.

“When shall we three meet again!” Shakespeare said with a smile that exposed his bad teeth.

Joan squealed with delight and launched herself at Saint-Germain, wrapping her arms and legs around him, sending him staggering backward. Catching her in his arms, he swung her around and around. “I knew you would come for me,” Joan whispered in French.

“I said I would follow you to the ends of the earth,” he murmured in the same language, “and now you know I really mean it.” Returning Joan to the ground, he bowed to the Shadow. “You are unharmed and in good health, I see.”

“We are.” Scatty returned his bow. “I thought I’d lost the capacity for surprise a long time ago,” she said, “but I guess I was mistaken. And I really do hate surprises,” she added.

Saint-Germain turned to Palamedes and the Bard and raised his eyebrows in silent shock. The knight grinned, teeth white against his dark skin. “What, did you think we would let you have all the fun?”

“But how…?” Saint-Germain wondered.

Palamedes turned to Shakespeare. “Tell him.”

The Bard shrugged modestly. “I suggested to the Green Man that he send us after you.” Will smiled. He stopped and bowed to Scatty and Joan. “Ladies.”

“And Tammuz did it?” Saint-Germain sounded surprised.

“He raised a few minor objections,” Palamedes rumbled, “until Will threatened him with some horrible fungus disease.” The Saracen Knight bowed. “Ladies: it is good to see you both.”

“And you, Sir Knight,” Joan said.

“Been a long time, Pally,” Scathach added with a smile.

The knight made a pained face. “Please, don’t call me Pally. I hate that.”

“I know.”

The hooded man had remained seated on the rock, bright blue eyes watching each immortal in turn, absently running his index finger along the length of the hook that took the place of his left hand.

William Shakespeare stepped forward, took off his black-framed glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. “I believe, sir, that we are due an explanation.”

Although his mouth and nose were hidden by a scarf, the hooded man’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “And I believe I will tell you only what I think you need to know, and no more.”

Palamedes’ hand moved and the broadsword strapped to his back appeared in his grip. “An explanation, and then you send us back to our own time.”

The hooded man laughed. “Why, Sir Knight, you-none of you-can return home just yet.”

Palamedes raised his sword and took a step forward.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” the man said almost impatiently. Palamedes’ sword suddenly turned into a length of wood, which quickly sprouted leaves. Vines immediately started to coil around the knight’s wrist and arm. He dropped the sword to the ground, where it was swallowed into the earth, leaving nothing more than a darkened patch in the dirt by his feet.

“That was my favorite sword,” the Saracen Knight muttered.

“This is my world,” the hooded man said. “I created it. I control it and everything in it.” He stretched his hook out over the water and moved it clockwise, and the pool instantly froze into a crackling sheet of ice. When he moved it counterclockwise, the ice transformed into foul-smelling bubbling lava. “And right now,” the man said, “you are here… which means that I control you.” His hand moved again and the lava turned back into crystal-clear water.

Will Shakespeare stepped closer to the water’s edge, then stooped to scoop up a handful of the liquid. He paused before he brought it to his lips. “I take it that it is safe to drink.”

“I can make it any flavor you like.”

The Bard sipped the water. “You’re not going to kill us, are you?”

“I am not.”

Shakespeare straightened slowly and looked closely at the hooded man. He frowned: there was something almost familiar about him. “Have we met before?”