Michael Scott - The Sorceress

Scatty drew Joan into her arms and held her close. "She might have a long wait," she said grimly. "Jeanne, we've gone back in time maybe a million years. The Sorceress is on her own."

"And so are we," Joan sobbed.

"Not really." Scatty grinned. "We've got one another."

"What are we going to do?" the immortal Frenchwoman wondered, angrily brushing her tears away.

"We will do what we have always done: we will survive."

"And what about Perenelle?" Joan asked.

But Scathach had no answer to that. illy the Kid glanced at the black-and-white photograph cupped in the palm of his hand, fixing Machiavelli's severe appearance in his head. The short white hair should be easy to spot, he decided. Tucking the image into the back pocket of his jeans, he folded his arms across his thin chest and watched the first passengers appear in the arrivals hall of San Francisco International Airport.

The tourists were easy to pick out; they were casually dressed in jeans or shorts and T-shirts, most with baggage carts piled high with far too many suitcases full of clothes they would never wear. Then there were the businessmen in light-colored suits, or slacks and sports jackets, carrying briefcases or pulling small overnight bags, striding out purposefully, already checking their cell phones, Bluetooth earpieces blinking in their ears. Billy paid particular attention to the families: elderly parents or grandparents greeting grandchildren, young men and women-maybe students-returning home to their parents, couples reuniting. There were lots of tears, shouts of joy, smiles and handshakes. Billy wondered what it would be like to be met like that, to step out into an airport arrivals hall and scan the faces, knowing that you would find someone genuinely pleased to see you-a parent, a sibling, even a friend, someone with whom you shared a history and a past.

He had no one. There hadn't been anyone for a very long time. Even during his natural life, he'd had few friends, and most of those had tried to kill him. None had ever succeeded.

Finally, tall and elegant in a smart black suit, a black leather computer bag over his shoulder, the white-haired man in the photograph came into the hall. Billy bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling: maybe in some European airport Machiavelli would pass unnoticed, but here, amid all the color and casual clothes, he stood out. Even if Billy hadn't seen the photograph, he would have known that this was the European immortal. He watched Machiavelli put on a pair of plain black sunglasses and scan the crowd, and even though he showed no sign of recognition, the Italian turned and made his way toward Billy. The American wondered if he would shake hands. Many immortals were reluctant to touch other humans, and especially other immortals. Though he'd met the English Magician a few times, Billy had never seen Dee take off his gray gloves.

Machiavelli stretched out his hand.

Billy smiled, quickly rubbed his palm on the leg of his jeans and stretched out his hand in turn. "How did you know it was me?" he asked in passable French. The Italian's grip was firm, his flesh cool and dry.

"I usually just follow my nose," Machiavelli replied in the same language, and then slipped into accentless English. He breathed deeply. "The hint of cayenne pepper, I believe."

"Just so," Billy agreed. He tried breathing in to catch the Italian's scent, but all he could smell were the myriad odors of the airport, plus-bizarrely-the faint odor that every cowboy associated with rattlesnakes.

"And of course I looked you up online," Machiavelli added with a wry smile. "You still resemble the famous photograph. Curious, though; you knew me the moment I stepped through the door. I could feel your eyes on me."

"I knew who I was looking for."

Machiavelli's eyebrows raised in a silent question. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his high forehead, gray eyes flashing as he looked down. He was at least a head taller than the American. "I take great care to ensure that no photographs of me appear online or in print."

"Our employers sent this to me." Billy fished the photo out of his back pocket and handed it over. Machiavelli looked at it, then the tiniest of smiles creased his mouth. They both knew what it meant. The Dark Elders were spying on Machiavelli… which probably meant that they were also watching Billy. Machiavelli went to return the photo, but Billy shook his head. Looking into the Italian's eyes, he said, "It served it's purpose. You might find another use for it."

Machiavelli's head moved in a slight bow that dropped his sunglasses back onto his long nose. "I am sure I will." They both knew that when the Italian returned to Paris, he would do everything in his power to find out who had taken the photograph.

The American looked at the single bag in Machiavelli's hand. "Is that all your luggage?"

"Yes. I had packed a larger case, but then I realized I would not be here long enough to use even a tenth of the clothing I intended to bring. So I left it all behind and just brought a change of socks and underwear. And my laptop, of course."

The two men made an odd couple as they headed for the exit, Machiavelli in his tailor-made black suit, Billy in a faded denim shirt, battered jeans and down-at-heel boots. Although the airport was packed, no one came close enough to brush against them, and the crowd unconsciously parted before them.

"So this is just a quick in-and-out trip?" Billy asked.

"I hope to be on the first available flight home." Machiavelli smiled.

"I admire your confidence," the American said, keeping his voice neutral, "I'm just of the opinion that Mrs. Flamel may not be so easily defeated." He pulled an ancient pair of Ray Bans from his shirt pocket as they stepped out into the brilliant early-afternoon sunshine.

"Is everything in readiness?" Machiavelli asked as they walked into the dimness of the parking garage.

Billy tugged his car keys out of his pocket. "I've hired a boat. It will be waiting for us at Pier Thirty-nine." He stopped, suddenly realizing that the Italian was no longer standing beside him. He turned, the key to the bright red Thunderbird in his hand, and looked back to find the Italian staring admiringly at the convertible, which was a dramatic splash of color and style in the middle of all the other ordinary cars.

"Nineteen fifty-nine Thunderbird convertible-no, nineteen sixty," Machiavelli amended. He ran a hand across the gleaming hood and over the lights. "Magnificent."

Billy grinned. He'd been prepared to dislike Niccolo Machiavelli, but the Italian had just gone up a notch in his estimation. "It's my pride and joy."

The immortal walked around the car, stooping to examine the wheels and the exhaust. "And so it should be: everything looks original."

"Everything is," Billy said proudly. "I've replaced the exhaust twice, but I made sure the replacements were from an identical model." He climbed into the car and waited while Machiavelli strapped himself in. "I'd have pegged you for a Lamborghini driver, or an Alfa Romeo, maybe."

"Ferarri, maybe, but never an Alfa!"

"Do you own many cars?" Billy asked.

"None. I have a company car and a driver. I don't drive," the Italian admitted.

"Don't or can't?"

"I do not like to drive. I'm a really bad driver," he admitted with a wry smile. "But then, I did learn to drive in a three-wheeled car."

"When was that?" Billy asked.

"In 1885."

"I died in 1881." Billy shook his head. "I can't imagine not being able to drive," he murmured as they pulled out of the parking lot. "Like not being able to ride." He hit the accelerator and the car surged forward and slotted into the heavy airport traffic. "Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked. "There's some good French and Italian restaurants…"