Michael Scott - The Sorceress

It was only when he was standing under the scalding shower, water running filthy and black from his body, that he'd had a moment to consider his options. He had to admit that they were extremely limited.

He could find the Alchemyst, kill him, retrieve the missing pages and secure the twins.

Or he could run.

He could flee Britain on a false passport and hide in a quiet out-of-the-way place, and spend the rest of his life in fear, unable to use his aura in case it revealed his location, constantly looking over his shoulder, always waiting for one of his masters to appear to lay their hands on him. The moment they touched his bare flesh, the immortality spell would be broken and he would age and die. Or maybe they would keep their promise: render him mortal and allow his nearly five hundred years to consume his physical body… and then make him immortal again in the last moments of extreme old age. Dee shuddered. It would be a living death.

Stepping out of the shower, he ran his hand across the steamed-up mirror and stared at his reflection in the glass. Was it his imagination or were there new wrinkles on his forehead and alongside his eyes? He had spent centuries running-running from danger or chasing the Alchemyst and the others like him. He had skulked and hidden, cowered in fear of his Elder masters, done their bidding unquestioningly. Condensation ran down the mirror, making it look as if he were crying. But the Magician did not cry anymore; the last time he had shed tears was when his baby son, Nicholas, had died in 1597.

He would run no more.

The study of magic and sorcery had taught the Magician that the world was full of limitless possibilities, and the years spent researching alchemy with Flamel had shown him that nothing-not even matter-was fixed and unalterable. Everything could be manipulated. He'd lived his long life dedicating himself to changing the world, bettering it by returning it to the Dark Elders. On the surface it was an impossible task, the odds stacked against him, but over the centuries he had nearly succeeded, until now the Elders were poised to return to the earth.

His situation was desperate and dangerous, but he could fix it. The key to his own survival was simple: he had to find Flamel.

He dressed quickly, relishing the feel of clean clothes, and made himself some tea, then went to look out over the city he controlled. Standing before the window, staring across the sprawling streets, he realized the enormity of the task before him; he had no idea where the Alchemyst had taken the children.

He did have agents-both human and inhuman-in London. Next Generation and immortal mercenaries were on the streets. They all had the latest descriptions of the Alchemyst and the children, and he would add Palamedes and the Bard to that list. He would double-no, triple-the reward. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted the little group.

But he had no time.

Dee's cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket, then played the opening bars of the theme to The X-Files. He made a face; suddenly that didn't seem so funny anymore. He put the cup of tea down, fished the phone out of his inside pocket and held it clenched in his fist before looking at the screen. It was the impossibly long and ever-changing number he'd been expecting. He was surprised it had taken them until now to get to him; maybe they'd been waiting for him to make a report. His finger hovered over the green Answer button, but he knew that the moment he hit it, the Elders would know his location. He doubted he'd live long enough to finish his tea.

Dr. John Dee returned the phone to his pocket unanswered and picked up his cup.

Then, a moment later, he plucked the phone back out and dialed a number from memory. His call was answered on the first ring. "I need a favor."

Niccolo Machiavelli shot out of his chair. "Favore?" he said, unconsciously slipping into Italian.

"A favor," Dee said in the same language. "No doubt you have heard about my little difficulty."

"I'm looking at news of a fire in London," Machiavelli told Dee cautiously, aware that everything he said could be recorded. "I guessed you were involved."

"Flamel and the others fled in a car," Dee continued. "I need to contain them."

"So you are still pursuing them?" Machiavelli said.

"To my death," the Magician said. "Which could be sooner than I wish," he added. "But I am sworn to do my duty to my masters. You understand duty, Machiavelli, do you not?"

The Italian nodded. "I do." He sat back in the chair. "What do you want me to do?" He glanced at the clock. It was 5:45 a.m. in Paris. "Be aware that I'm flying to San Francisco in a few hours."

"I need you to make a phone call, that's all."

Machiavelli remained silent, unwilling to commit. He knew that this conversation could be very dangerous. His master and Dee's were somehow opposed, but they both wanted the same thing: the return of the Dark Elders to the earth. And Machiavelli knew he must be seen to support that in every way possible. Once the Dark Elders returned, then the real power struggle for control of the planet would take place. Naturally, he was hoping that his master and his master's followers would be triumphant, but if Dee's masters took control, then it might be useful to have Dee as an ally. Machiavelli grinned and rubbed his hands together; his scheming reminded him of the good old days of the Borgias.

"As head of the French secret service," Dee continued, "you must have contacts with your British counterparts."

"Of course." He started nodding. He suddenly knew what the Magician was about to ask. "Let me contact them," he said quickly. "I'll inform them that the terrorists who attacked Paris are now in London. I am sure the British authorities will move swiftly to close the airports and train stations."

"We need roadblocks and checkpoints, too."

"That should be possible." Machiavelli chuckled. "I will make that call now."

Dee coughed slightly. "I am in your debt."

"I know that." Machiavelli grinned.

"Let me ask a final favor, then," Dee said. "Could you delay informing our Elders of my location? Give me this one last day to find the Alchemyst."

Machiavelli hesitated; then he said, "I'll not tell your Elder," he said, "and you know me to be a man of my word."

"I do."

"You have one final day," the Italian began, but Dee had already hung up. Machiavelli sat back and tapped the phone against his lips. Then he started to dial a number. He had promised the Magician that he would not inform his Elder; but Machiavelli's own Elder master would certainly want to know.

In London, bands of orange and pink shot through with purples and blacks appeared on the horizon. The Magician stared hard at the sky, his gray eyes picking up the colors, watching them intently while his tea grew cold in his hands. He knew that if he did not find the Alchemyst and the twins, then this could be the last sunrise he would ever see. nce the sun had set, temperatures had fallen quickly, and the breeze whipping in off San Francisco Bay was cold and salty. From her position in the watchtower over the wharf, Perenelle peered down on the island. Although she was wearing bundles of clothing and had gathered all the blankets from the cells to wrap around her, she was still freezing. Her fingers and toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and she'd actually bitten down hard on a moldy blanket to keep her teeth from chattering.

She dared not use her aura to warm up-the sphinx had freed itself from its icy tomb and was prowling the island.

Perenelle had been standing before Areop-Enap's cocoon looking for any sign of movement when she had smelled the distinctive scent of the creature on the salt air, a rancid mixture of snake and lion and musty feathers. A heartbeat later, de Ayala had blinked into existence before her.