Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"Sent them south on a wild-scent chase." Perenelle smiled. Her right hand flashed out, her aura flared and Areop-Enap's thin spider web suddenly grew and thickened. The Old Spider settled itself into the corner of the room in its nest and began again to spin a web around itself.

"Where?" Areop-Enap asked suddenly. Its single open eye was almost closed, and Perenelle could see where incalculable numbers of weeping sores had appeared on the creature's body from the poisonous bites.

"The San Francisco Dump."

"Few will make it there…," Areop-Enap mumbled, "and those who do will find plenty to distract them. You saved my life, Madame Perenelle."

"And you saved mine, Old Spider." The huge ball of web was almost complete. The silk had already started to turn rocklike, and only a small hole at the top remained. "Sleep now," Perenelle commanded, "sleep and grow strong. We are going to need your strength and wisdom in the days to come."

With a tremendous effort, Areop-Enap opened all its eyes. "I am sorry to leave you alone and defenseless."

Perenelle sealed the spider Elder into the huge cocoon of web, then turned and strode across the room. The tiniest breeze swept the floor clean before her. "I am Perenelle Flamel, the Sorceress," she said aloud, unsure whether Areop-Enap could hear her. "And I am never defenseless."

But even as she was saying the words, she clearly heard the note of doubt creep into her own voice. n the western shore of Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay, a young-looking man sat on the hood of a bright red 1960 Thunderbird convertible. Short and slight, he was wearing blue jeans with the ends ragged and frayed and both knees worn to threads. The wolf's-head graphic on his T-shirt was faded to little more than a ghostly pattern, and his cowboy boots were scuffed and needed new soles and heels. His unkempt appearance, long hair and stubbly beard were in stark contrast to the gleaming car he was sitting on, which looked as if it had just been driven out of the showroom. The young man had twenty-nine dollars and change in his wallet; the car was worth at least one thousand times that.

Next to him on the hood of the car was an ancient antique Anasazi pottery bowl, decorated in elegant black-and-white angular geometric patterns. A thick liquid filled the bowl, a mixture of honey, flaxseed oil and water, and reflected in the liquid was the figure of Perenelle Flamel striding across Alcatraz, the black blanket of spider and fly corpses opening up before her in a wave.

So this was the legendary Perenelle Flamel. The young man moved his finger clockwise over the liquid and his bright blue eyes sparkled, turning briefly crimson, the hint of cayenne filling the air. The image of Perenelle zoomed in. He watched her stop and frown, the lines in her forehead deepening, and she looked around quickly, almost as if she knew that someone was watching her. He waved his hand and the liquid trembled, the image dissolving. Folding his arms across his thin chest, the man turned his face to the west, where Alcatraz was hidden in the gloom. It seemed as if everything he had heard about the woman was true: Perenelle was that most lethal of combinations, both beautiful and deadly.

He was momentarily at a loss. Should he attack again, or should he wait? Lifting his hand to his face, he breathed deeply and his aura glowed a deep purple-red, a shade darker than the Thunderbird, and the salt sea air was tainted with the odor of red pepper. He still had enough power left to do… what?

Calling the flies had been relatively easy; an Indian shaman had taught him that trick, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion. Poisoning the flies had been his Elder master's suggestion, and his master had even supplied the pool of poisoned water in Solano County, north of the city. The plan was to destroy Areop-Enap's army of spiders and murder the Elder. And it had almost succeeded. The mass of spiders were dead, and the Old Spider was very close to death. But at the last minute something had drawn the flies away from Alcatraz in a great pulsing cloud. In the oily liquid in the scrying bowl, the young man had seen the silver-white flicker of Perenelle's aura, and knew she'd been responsible. His thin face twisted in a grimace and he bit nervously into his bottom lip. He'd been assured that she was weakened, incapable of any display of her powers. Obviously, that information had been incorrect.

The thick liquid began to bubble and cloud, then to hiss and steam away; the scrying spell had a limited life span. Slipping off the hood of the car, the young man tossed the sticky remnants onto the ground, then carefully washed out the bowl with a bottle of water and dried it with a chamois cloth before putting it in the trunk of the car, nestling it in a small foam-filled metal suitcase. The bowl was one of the most precious objects he owned, and even when he'd been desperately poor, he'd never thought about selling it.

Sitting in the red leather interior of the car, he opened a manila envelope and read through the file he'd been sent by encrypted e-mail. A severe-looking white-haired man glared out of a black-and-white photograph. He'd been caught mid-stride as he crossed a street. The Eiffel Tower loomed over the rooftops in the background, and the date stamp on the bottom of the photograph revealed that it had been taken on Christmas Eve, six months ago. Idly, the young man wondered why the Dark Elders were watching one of their most trusted agents. This was the man they were sending to work with him: the European immortal Niccolo Machiavelli. The Elders' instructions had been unambiguous-he was to offer Machiavelli every assistance. He wondered if the Italian was anything like John Dee. He'd met Dee briefly and didn't like him; he was one of those arrogant European immortals who thought they were better than anyone else, just because they were older than the United States. But reading through Machiavelli's file, he found himself liking the man more and more. Ruthless, cunning and scheming, he was described as the most dangerous man in Europe.

He'd help Machiavelli, of course. He didn't really have any choice; going against the Dark Elders was tantamount to a death wish. Personally, he didn't believe he needed the Italian. Tossing the file on the floor, he turned the key in the ignition, pushed hard on the accelerator and spun the wheel, and the car fishtailed into a semicircle, billowing dust and grit in its wake.

Billy the Kid had never needed anyone. he scrap yard was a maze.

Towering alleyways of rusting metal, with barely enough space for the car to drive through, stretched from the entrance in every direction. A solid barrier of tires, hundreds deep, leaned precariously out over the narrow spaces. There was one wall composed entirely of car doors, another of hoods and trunks. Engine blocks stained with dripping oil and grease were piled in a tower next to a bank of exhaust pipes that had been driven into the ground, making them look like an abstract sculpture.

Palamedes eased the black London cab deeper into the mountainous warren of crushed cars. Sophie was completely awake now. She sat forward on the seat, looking through the window, eyes wide. In its own way, the scrap yard was as extraordinary as Hekate's Shadowrealm. Although it looked chaotic, she instinctively knew that there was probably a pattern to it. Something fluttered to her right and she turned quickly, catching a glimpse of movement in the shadows. She was turning back when she saw a shadow shift and blink away. They were being followed, yet despite her enhanced senses, she couldn't catch sight of the creatures, though she got the impression that they moved upright like humans. "Is this a Shadowrealm?" she asked aloud.

Beside her, Flamel stirred awake. "There are no Shadowrealms in the center of London," he mumbled. "Shadowrealms exist on the edges of cities."