Michael Scott - The Sorceress

"I know," she said before he could speak. "Is all in readiness?"

"Yes," the ghost said shortly. "But we tried this before…"

Perenelle's smile was brilliant. "The sphinx are powerful and terrifying… but not terribly bright." She wrapped a blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered with the chill. "Where is it now?"

"Moving through the shell of the Warden's House. A hint of your odor must remain there. No offense intended, madame," he added quickly.

"None taken. That's one of the reasons I've chosen to stay outdoors tonight. I'm hoping that the gusting wind will blow away any scent."

"It is a good plan," de Ayala agreed.

"And how does the creature look?" the Sorceress wondered out loud. She patted Areop-Enap's thick cocoon, then turned and hurried away.

The ghost smiled delightedly. "Unhappy."

The sphinx lifted a huge paw and put it down carefully, wincing as the most extraordinary sensation-pain-shot up her leg. She had not been injured in three centuries. Any wound would heal, cuts and bruises would quickly fade, but the memory of her injured pride would never go away.

She had been bested. By a humani.

Throwing back her slender neck, she breathed deeply and a long black forked tongue protruded from humanlike lips. The tongue flickered, tasting the air. And there it was: a hint, the merest suggestion of a humani. But this building was roofless and open to the elements, constantly scoured by the sea breezes, and the trace was very faint. The female humani had been here. The creature padded over to a window. Right here, but not recently. A forked tongue tasted the bricks. She had rested her hand here. The head turned toward the huge opening in the wall. And then the humani had gone out into the night.

The sphinx's beautiful human face creased in a frown. Folding tattered eagle's wings tightly against her body, she pushed through the ruined house and out into the cool night.

She could not sense the humani's aura. Nor could she smell her flesh.

And yet the Sorceress had to be on the island; she could not have escaped. The sphinx had seen the Nereids in the water and had smelled the fishy odor of the Old Man of the Sea lingering on the air. She had spotted the Crow Goddess perched like a hideous weathervane on top of the lighthouse, and though the sphinx had called out to her in a variety of languages, including the lost language of Danu Talis, the creature had not responded. The sphinx was unconcerned; some of the Next Generation, like herself, preferred the night; others walked in the sunlight. The Crow Goddess had probably been sleeping.

Despite her bulk, the sphinx moved swiftly down to the wharf, claws clicking on the stones. And here she caught the faintest wisp of the odor of a humani, the smell of salt and meat.

And then she saw her.

A movement, a shadow, a hint of long hair and a flowing dress.

With a terrifying screech of triumph, the sphinx set off after the woman. This time she would not escape.

From her high vantage point in the watchtower, Perenelle watched the sphinx race off after the ghost of a long-dead warden's wife.

The merest suggestion of de Ayala's face appeared out of the night, little more than a shimmering disturbance in the air. "The ghosts of Alcatraz are in place. They will lead the sphinx away to the far end of the island and keep it busy down there for the rest of the night. Rest now, madame; sleep if you can. Who knows what the morrow will bring?" here are you taking us?" Nicholas asked softly. "Why have we left the main road?"

"Trouble," Palamedes said quietly. He tilted the rearview mirror to peer into the back of the cab.

Only the Alchemyst was awake. The twins were slumped forward, held in place by seat belts, while Gilgamesh was curled up on the floor, twitching and mumbling in Sumerian. Nicholas looked at the Saracen Knight's deep brown eyes in the mirror.

"I knew something was wrong when traffic was so heavy," the knight continued. "Then I thought there might have been an accident." They were taking seemingly random turns, heading down narrow country lanes, lush green hedgerows battering against the side of the car. "All the main roads are blocked; police are searching every car."

"Dee," Flamel whispered. Unclipping his seat belt, he slipped into the jump seat just behind the driver, twisting around to look through the glass partition at the knight. "We have to get to Stonehenge," he said. "That is our only way out of this country."

"There are other leygates. I could take you to Holyhead in Wales, and you could get the ferry to Ireland. Newgrange is still active," Palamedes suggested.

"No one knows where Newgrange comes out," Nicholas said firmly. "And the ley line on Salisbury will take me just north of San Francisco."

The knight turned down a road marked PRIVATE and stopped before a five-barred wooden gate. Leaving the engine running, he climbed out of the car and unlatched it. Flamel joined him, and together the two men pushed it open. A rutted track led down to a ramshackle wooden barn. "I know the owner," Palamedes said shortly. "We'll hide up here until everything calms down."

Flamel reached out and caught Palamedes' arm. There was a sudden odor of cloves and the Alchemyst jerked his fingers away as the knight's flesh turned hard and metallic. "We need to get to Stonehenge." The Alchemyst gestured toward the road they'd left. "We can't be more than a couple of miles away."

"We're close enough," Palamedes agreed. "Why the rush, Alchemyst?"

"I've got to get back to Perenelle." He stepped in front of the knight, forcing him to stop. "Look at me, Saracen. What do you see?" He held up his hands; blue veins were now clearly visible, and there were brown age spots scattered across his flesh. Tilting his head back, he exposed his wrinkled neck. "I'm dying, Palamedes," the Alchemyst said simply. "I don't have very long left, and when I die, I want to go with my own dear Perenelle. You were in love once, Palamedes. You understand that."

The knight sighed and then nodded. "Let's get into the barn and wake the twins and Gilgamesh. He agreed to train them in the Magic of Water. If he remembers and if he does it, then we'll press on to Stonehenge. I'm sure I can work out a route with the GPS." He reached out and caught Flamel's arm. "Remember, Nicholas. Once he starts the process, the twins' auras will blaze up, and then everyone-and everything-will know where they are." t 10:20 a.m., five minutes later than its scheduled departure time, the Air France Boeing 747 lifted off from Charles de Gaulle airport, bound for San Francisco.

Niccolo Machiavelli settled into his seat and adjusted his watch nine hours back to 1:20 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. Then he reclined his seat, laced his fingers together on his stomach, closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare luxury of being uncontactable. For the next eleven hours and fifteen minutes, no one would be able to phone, e-mail or fax him. Whatever crisis arose, someone else would have to handle it. A smile formed on his mouth: this was like a mini-vacation, and it had been a long time-more than two centuries, in fact-since he'd had a proper rest. His last holiday, in Egypt in 1798, had been ruined when Napoleon had invaded. Machiavelli's smile faded as he shook his head slightly. He had masterminded Napoleon's plan for a "federation of free peoples" and the Code Napoleon, and if the Corsican had only continued to listen to him, France would have ruled all Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. Machiavelli had even drawn up plans for an invasion of America via sea and down through Canada.

"Something to drink, monsieur?"

Machiavelli opened his eyes to find a bored-looking flight attendant smiling down at him. He shook his head. "Thank you. No. And please do not disturb me again for the duration of the flight."