Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"I'm not sure there is." Perenelle was leaning on a wooden rail almost directly over the official sign that welcomed visitors to the island.

Over the sign the words Indians Welcome had been daubed in red paint and beneath it, in larger fading red letters, were the words Indian Land. She knew they had been painted there in 1969 when the American Indian Movement had occupied the island.

The Sorceress had spent the remainder of the afternoon systematically going over the island, looking for some way to escape. There were no boats, though there was plenty of wood and lumber, and she briefly considered making a raft, using towels and blankets from the cell exhibits to lash the wood together. In 1962, three prisoners had supposedly escaped by building their own raft. But Perenelle knew that nothing was going to get past Nereus and his savage daughters. From her second-floor position on the dock over the bookshop, Perenelle could see the heads of the Nereids bobbing in the water directly in front of her, long hair floating behind them like seaweed. From a distance they might have looked like seals, but these creatures were unmoving, and fixed her with cold unblinking eyes. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of jagged teeth as they chewed still-wriggling fish. No doubt they had heard what she'd done to their father.

She had found clothes on her tour of the island and was now dressed in a set of coarse prison trousers and shirt, both of which were at least two sizes too large for her and which scratched everywhere. The clothes had been part of the display that had once greeted the many visitors to the island. But since Dee's company had taken over, there had been no visitors to Alcatraz for months. Perenelle discovered that many of the cells were decorated with artifacts and items that would once have belonged to the prisoners. Going through the cells, she had found a heavy black coat hanging on a peg and taken that. Although it smelled musty and felt slightly damp, it was still a lot warmer than the light silk dress she'd been wearing, and meant that she would not have to expend her energy keeping warm. She had found no food but had discovered a dusty metal cup in the kitchen, and once she'd cleaned it out, there were plenty of rainwater pools scattered around the island. The water tasted slightly of salt, but not enough to make her feel ill.

As the afternoon had worn on, she'd finally ended up on the dock, where all the visitors-prisoners and tourists-to Alcatraz would have started and finished their journeys. She'd discovered a flight of stairs to the left of the bookshop that led up to the second floor, and had climbed up. Now, leaning on the rail, she looked out over the waves. The city was tantalizingly close, just over a mile and a half away. Perenelle had grown up on the cold northwestern coast of France, in Brittany. She was a strong swimmer and loved the water, but swimming the treacherous and chilly waters of the bay was out of the question-even if Nereus and his daughters had not been waiting. She realized she really should have learned how to fly when they were in India in the days of the Mughal Empire.

Water pounded against the dock, sending silver-white spray high into the air… and the ghost of de Ayala materialized out of the glistening water droplets.

"There must be someone in San Francisco you can call upon for assistance," the ghost said. "Another immortal, perhaps?"

Perenelle shook her head. "Nicholas and I have always kept very much to ourselves. Remember, most of the immortals are servants or even slaves of the Dark Elders."

"Surely not all immortals are beholden to an Elder," de Ayala said.

"Not all," she agreed. "We are not; neither is Saint-Germain nor Joan. I have heard rumors of others like us."

"And could some of these others be living in San Francisco?" he insisted.

"It's a big city. Immortals prefer large cities with constantly shifting populations, where it is easier to remain anonymous and invisible. So, yes, there must be."

The ghost moved around to float on her left-hand side. "Would you recognize another immortal if you passed one in the street?"

"I would." Perenelle smiled. "Nicholas might not."

The ghost floated out directly in front of the Sorceress. "So if you had no contact with others of your kind in the city, then how did Dee find you?"

Perenelle shrugged. "That is a good question, is it not? We're always exceptionally careful, but Dee has spies everywhere, and sooner or later, he always finds us. In truth, I'm surprised we've managed to stay hidden here in San Francisco for so long."

"But you have friends in the city?" the ghost pressed.

"We know some people," Perenelle said, "but not many, and not well." Brushing stray wisps of silvered hair away from her face, she squinted up at the dead sailor. In the afternoon sunlight de Ayala was almost completely invisible, just a wavering impression in the air, the hint of liquid eyes betraying his position. "How long have you been a ghost?" she asked.

"Two hundred and more years…"

"And in all that time have you ever wished for immortality?" she asked.

"I have never thought of it," the ghost said slowly. "There were times I wished I were still alive. On days when the fog rolls in across the bay, or the wind whips spray into the air, I have wished for a physical body to experience the sensations. But I am not sure I would like to be immortal."

"Immortality is a curse," Perenelle said firmly. "It is heartbreaking. You cannot afford to get close to people. Our very presence is a danger to them. Dee has leveled entire cities in his attempts to capture us, has caused fire and famine, even earthquakes as he sought to stop us. And so Nicholas and I have spent our lives running, hiding, skulking in the shadows."

"You did not want to run?" the ghost asked.

"We should have stopped and fought," Perenelle said, nodding. Leaning her forearms on the wooden rail, she looked down over the landing dock. The air shimmered, and for an instant, she caught a fleeting glimpse of countless figures in the costumes and uniforms of the past, crowding the docks. The Sorceress focused and the ghosts of Alcatraz disappeared. "We should have fought. We could have stopped Dee. We had an opportunity in New Mexico in 1945, and twenty years earlier, in 1923, in Tokyo, he was at our mercy, weakened almost to the point of death following the earthquake he'd caused."

"Why didn't you?" de Ayala wondered aloud.

Perenelle examined the backs of her hands, looking at the new wrinkles and the tracery of lines that ran across once-smooth flesh. The blue-green veins of age were now clearly visible beneath her skin; they had not been there yesterday. "Because Nicholas said that we would then be no better than Dee and his kind."

"And you did not agree?"

"Did you ever hear of an Italian called Niccolo Machiavelli?" Perenelle asked.

"I have not."

"A brilliant mind, cunning, ruthless, and now, sadly-and surprisingly-working for the Dark Elders," the Sorceress said. "But many years ago, he said something like, if you have to injure someone, then make it so severe that his vengeance need not be feared."

"He does not sound like anice person," de Ayala said.

"He's not. But he's right. Three centuries ago, the immortal human Temujin offered to imprison Dee in some distant Shadowrealm for eternity. We should have accepted that offer."

"And you wanted to?" de Ayala asked.

"Yes, I was in favor of imprisoning him in Temujin's Mongol Empire Shadowrealm."