Michael Scott - The Sorceress

Machiavelli shook his head. "I'm not hungry. Unless you want to eat."

"I don't eat much these days," Billy admitted.

Machiavelli's cell phone pinged. "Excuse me." He pulled out the wafer-thin phone and stared at the screen. "Ah," he said in delight.

"Good news?" Billy asked.

Machiavelli sat back in the seat and grinned. "I set a trap yesterday; it was sprung a couple of hours ago."

Billy glanced sidelong but remained silent.

"The moment I discovered the Alchemyst's wife was being detained in San Francisco, I knew that either he or some of his allies would attempt to make their way back here. They had two alternatives: the flight on which I've just come in, or the Notre Dame leygate."

"I'm going to guess you did something to this leygate." Billy grinned. "That sounds like the sort of thing I'd do."

"The gate is activated at Point Zero in Paris. I simply coated the stones with an alchemical concoction made from ground-up mammoth bones-bones from the Pleistocene Epoch-and added a simple Attraction spell to the mix."

The light changed to red and Billy brought the car to a stop. Tugging on the hand brake, he swiveled in his seat to look at the Italian with something like awe. "So whoever used the leygate…"

"… was pulled back in time to the Pleistocene Epoch."

"Which was when?" Billy asked. "I never did get much schooling."

"Anywhere between one point eight million and maybe eleven thousand five hundred years ago." Machiavelli smiled.

"Oh, you're good." Billy shook his head. "So, do you have any idea who activated the gate?"

"A security camera has been trained on the spot for the past twenty-four hours." Machiavelli held up his phone. It showed an image of two women standing back to back in the middle of a rock-strewn square. "I've no idea who the smaller woman is," Machiavelli said, "but the one to the left is Scathach."

"The Shadow?" Billy whispered, leaning forward to look at the screen. "That's the Warrior Maid?" He looked unimpressed. "I thought she'd be taller."

"Everyone does," Machiavelli said. "That's usually their first mistake."

Car horns blared behind the Thunderbird as the lights changed, and someone shouted.

Machiavelli glanced at the American immortal curiously, wondering how he'd react. But Billy the Kid had tamed his famous temper decades ago. He raised his hand and waved an apology in the air, then took off.

"So with the Shadow out of the picture, I take it that our job is much easier."

"Infinitely," Machiavelli agreed. "I had a vague suspicion that she'd somehow turn up on Alcatraz and spoil the party."

"Well, that ain't going to happen now." Billy grinned, then got serious. "Under your seat you'll find an envelope. It contains a printout of an e-mail I received from Enoch Enterprises sometime yesterday afternoon, giving us permission to land on Alcatraz. Dee's company currently owns the island. You'll also find a photograph that came attached to an anonymous e-mail that arrived this morning. I'm guessing it's for you. Means nothing to me."

Machiavelli shook out the two pages. On Enoch Enterprises letterhead was a long legal-looking document giving the bearer permission to land on the island and carry out "historical research." It was signed John Dee, PhD. The second sheet was a high-resolution color photo of the images on the wall of an Egyptian pyramid.

"Do you know what it means?" Billy asked.

Machiavelli turned the page sideways. "This is taken from the pyramid of Unas, who reigned in Egypt over four thousand years ago," he said slowly. A perfectly manicured nail traced a line of hieroglyphs. "These used to be called Pyramid Texts; nowadays we call them the Book of the Dead." He tapped the photograph and laughed softly. "I do believe this is the formula of words for awakening all the creatures sleeping on the island." He slipped the pages back into the envelope and looked over at the younger man. "Let's get out to Alcatraz. It is time to kill Perenelle Flamel." r. John Dee examined the business card in his hand. It was exceptionally beautiful, silver ink embossed on thick handmade rag paper. He turned it over; there was no name on the card, only the stylized representation of a stag with flaring antlers enclosed in a double circle. Leaning forward, he pressed the intercom button. "Send the gentleman in; I will see him now."

His office door opened almost immediately, and a nervous-looking male secretary appeared and ushered a tall sharp-faced man into the room. "Mr. Hunter, sir."

"Hold my calls," Dee snapped. "I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances."

"Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"That will be all. Tell the staff they can go home now." Dee had insisted that everyone remain long after normal office hours.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will you be here tomorrow?"

Dee's look sent the secretary scurrying. The Magician knew the entire office were on tenterhooks because he had turned up unexpectedly. Rumors were flying around the building that he was going to close the London branch of Enoch Enterprises. Even though it was now ten o'clock in the evening, no one had complained about staying late.

"Take a seat, Mr. Hunter." Dee indicated the low leather and metal chair before him. He remained seated behind his desk of polished black marble, watching the newcomer carefully. There was something wrong about him, the Magician decided. The planes and angles of his face were awry; his eyes were slightly too high, each one was a different color and his mouth a little too low and wide. It was almost as if he had been created by someone who had not seen a human for a long time. He was dressed in a pale blue pinstripe suit, but the trousers were just a little too short and showed a flash of white flesh just above his black socks, while the sleeves of his jacket ended below his knuckles. His shoes were filthy, thickly caked with mud.

Hunter folded himself into the seat, the movement awkward and stiff, as if he wasn't quite sure what to with his arms and legs.

Dee allowed his fingers to brush against Excalibur, which was propped under his desk. He also knew half a dozen auric spells, any one of which was designed to overload an aura and bring it to blazing life. Then the only problem would be cleaning the dust out of the carpet. The chair would probably melt.

"How did you know I was here?" Dee asked suddenly. "I rarely visit this office. And it is a little late in the evening for a meeting."

The tall pale-faced man tried to smile, but instead twisted his lips oddly. "My employer knew you were in the city. He presumed you would make your way to this office inasmuch as it gives you access to your communications network." The man spoke English with clipped precision, but in a slightly high-pitched voice that made everything sound faintly ridiculous.

"Can you not speak plainly?" Dee snapped. He was tired and running out of time. Despite the hours of roadblocks and countless police checkpoints, there was still no sign of Flamel and the children. The British government was coming under pressure to remove the checkpoints. All roads leading in and out of the city were still gridlocked, and London itself was at a standstill.

"You had a meeting with my employer late last night," the pale man said. "It was terminated before it had reached a satisfactory conclusion, due to circumstances entirely beyond your control."

The Magician rose and walked around the desk. He was holding Excalibur in his right hand, tapping the stone blade gently against his left. The seated man showed no reaction. "What are you?" Dee asked, curious. He had come to the conclusion that the creature was not entirely natural and probably not even human. Going down on one knee, he stared into the man's face, looking at the mismatched eyes. Green and gray. "Are you a tulpa, a Golem, simulacrum or homunculus?"