Michael Scott - The Sorceress

The woman nodded. "Would you like to be awakened for lunch or dinner?"

"No, thank you. I am on a special diet," he said.

"If you had let us know in advance, we could have organized an appropriate meal…"

Machiavelli held up a long-fingered hand. "I am perfectly fine. Thank you," he said firmly, eyes moving off the woman's face, dismissing her.

"I will let the others know." The attendant moved away to check on the three other passengers in the l'Espace Affaires cabin. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked bread filled the air, and the Italian closed his eyes and tried to remember what real food-fresh food-tasted like. One of the side effects of the gift of immortality was the diminishing of appetite. Immortal humans still needed to eat, but only for fuel and energy. Most food, unless it was highly spiced or sickly sweet, was tasteless. He wondered if Flamel, who had become immortal by his own hand rather than by an Elder's, suffered the same side effect.

And thinking of Nicholas made him focus on Perenelle.

Dee's Elder had been quite clear: "Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst."

Machiavelli had trained himself to become a master of both verbal and body language. He knew when people were lying; he could read it in their eyes, the tiny movements of their clenching hands, twitching fingers and tapping feet. Even if he could not see them, several lifetimes of listening to emperors, kings, princes, politicians and thieves had taught him that it was often not what people said, but what they did not say that revealed the truth.

Dee's Elders had warned that the Sorceress was infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst. They had not indicated exactly how… but they had revealed that they were frightened of her. And why was that? he wondered. She was an immortal human: powerful, yes; dangerous, certainly; but why should she frighten the Elders?

Tilting his head, Machiavelli looked through the oval window. The 747 had risen above the clouds into a spectacularly blue sky, and he allowed his thoughts to wander, remembering the leaders he had served and manipulated down through the ages. Unlike Dee, who had come to fame as Queen Elizabeth's personal and very public advisor, he had always operated behind the scenes, dropping hints, making suggestions, allowing others to take the credit for his ideas. It was always better-safer-to be overlooked. There was an old Celtic saying he was particularly fond of: It is better to exist unknown to the law. He'd always imagined that Perenelle was a little like him, happy to stay in the background and allow her husband to take all the credit. Everyone in Europe knew the name Nicholas Flamel. Few were even aware of Perenelle's existence. The Italian nodded unconsciously; she was the power behind the man.

Machiavelli had kept a file on the Flamels for centuries. The earliest notes were on parchment with beautifully illuminated drawings; then had come thick handmade paper with pen-and-ink sketches and later still, paper with tinted photographs. The most recent files were digital, with high-resolution photographs and video. He had retained all his earlier notes on the Alchemyst and his wife, but they had also been scanned and imported into his encrypted database. There was frustratingly little information on Nicholas, and very, very little devoted to the Sorceress. So much about her was unknown. There was even a suggestion in a fourteenth-century French report that she had been a widow when she had married Nicholas. And when the Alchemyst had died, he had left everything in his will to Perenelle's nephew, a man called Perrier. Machiavelli suspected-though he had no evidence to back up his supposition-that Perrier might be a child from her first marriage. Perrier took possession of all the Alchemyst's papers and belongings… and simply vanished from history. Centuries later, a couple claiming to be the descendents of Perrier's family appeared in Paris, where they were promptly arrested by Cardinal Richelieu. The Cardinal had been forced to release them when he realized that they knew nothing about their famous ancestor and possessed none of his books and writings.

Perenelle was a mystery.

Machiavelli had spent a fortune paying spies, librarians, historians and researchers to look into the mysterious woman, but even they had found astonishingly little on her. And when he had fought her face to face in Sicily in 1669, he had discovered then that she had access to extraordinary-almost elemental-power. Drawing upon more than a century of learning, he had battled her using a combination of magical and alchemical spells from around the globe. She had countered them all with a bewildering display of sorcery. By evening, he had been exhausted, his aura dangerously depleted, but Perenelle had still looked fresh and composed. If Mount Etna had not erupted and ended the battle, he was convinced she would have destroyed him, or caused his aura to spontaneously combust and consume his body. It was only later that he'd realized that the energies they had both released had probably caused the volcano to erupt.

Niccolo Machiavelli settled a soft wool blanket up around his shoulders and hit the switch that gently converted his comfortable seat into a six-foot-long bed. Lying back, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He would think about the problem of the Sorceress for the next few hours, but one thing was already crystal clear: Perenelle frightened the Dark Elders. And people were usually afraid only of those who could destroy them. One final thought hovered at the edge of his consciousness: who-or what-was Perenelle Flamel? he cab hit a pothole and the jolt woke the twins. "Sorry," Palamedes called back cheerfully.

Moving stiffly, arms and necks aching, Josh and Sophie both stretched out. Josh automatically ran his hand through the bird's nest of his hair, yawning widely as he squinted out the window, blinking in the sunlight. "This is Stonehenge?" he asked, peering out at the field of tall grass speckled with wildflowers. Then reality hit him and he answered his own question, his voice rising in alarm. "This isn't Stonehenge." Twisting in the seat, he looked at the Alchemyst and demanded, "Where are you taking us?"

"Everything is under control," Palamedes said from the front. "There are police checkpoints on the main road. We've just taken a little detour."

Sophie hit a button and the power window whined down, flooding the car with the scent of grass. She sneezed, and as her sinuses cleared, she realized that she could pick out the scents of individual wildflowers. Leaning her head out the window, she turned her face to the sun and the cloudless blue sky. When she opened her eyes, a red admiral butterfly danced past her face. "Where are we?" she asked Nicholas.

"I've no idea," he admitted quietly. "Palamedes knows this place. Somewhere close to Stonehenge."

The car rocked again and Gilgamesh came slowly, noisily awake. Lying on the floor, he yawned hugely and stretched, then sat bolt upright and looked out the window, squinting in the bright light. "I haven't been out to the country for a while," he said happily. He looked at the twins and frowned. "Hello."

"Hi," Josh and Sophie said simultaneously.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look alike enough to be twins?" he continued, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He blinked and frowned. "You are twins," he said slowly. "You are the twins of legend. Why aren't you called the legendary twins?" he asked suddenly.

They looked at one another and shook their heads, confused.

Gilgamesh tilted his head to look up at the Alchemyst and his expression soured. "You I know. You I will never forget." He turned back to the twins. "He tried to kill me, you know that?" He frowned. "But you do know that, you were there."