Michael Scott - The Alchemyst

Death has no claim over me, illness cannot touch me. Look at me now and itwould be hard to put an age upon me, and yet I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1330, more than six hundred and seventy years ago.

I have been many things in my time: a physician and a cook, a bookseller anda soldier, a teacher of languages and chemistry, both an officer of the lawand a thief.

But before all these I was an alchemyst. I was the Alchemyst.

I was acknowledged as the greatest Alchemyst of all, sought after by kingsand princes, by emperors and even the Pope himself. I could turn ordinarymetal into gold, I could change common stones into precious jewels. More thanthis: I discovered the secret of Life Eternal hidden deep in a book ofancient magic.

Now my wife, Perenelle, has been kidnapped and the book stolen.

Without the book, she and I will age. Within the full cycle of the moon, wewill wither and die. And if we die, then the evil we have so long foughtagainst will triumph. The Elder Race will reclaim this Earth again, and theywill wipe humanity from the face of this planet.

But I will not go down without a fight.

For I am the immortal Nicholas Flamel.

From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, AlchemystWrit this day, Thursday, 31st May, inSan Francisco, my adopted city

31st May

OK answer me this: why would anyone want to wear an overcoat in SanFrancisco in the middle of summer? Sophie Newman pressed her fingers againstthe Bluetooth earpiece as she spoke.

On the other side of the continent, her fashion-conscious friend Elleinquired matter-of-factly, What sort of coat?

Wiping her hands on the cloth tucked into her apron strings, Sophie moved outfrom behind the counter of the empty coffee shop and stepped up to thewindow, watching men emerge from the car across the street. Heavy black woolovercoats. They re even wearing black gloves and hats. And sunglasses. She pressed her face against the glass. Even for this city, that s just a littletoo weird.

Maybe they re undertakers? Elle suggested, her voice popping and clickingon the cell phone. Sophie could hear something loud and dismal playing in thebackground Lacrimosa maybe, or Amorphis. Elle had never quite got over herGoth phase.

Maybe, Sophie answered, sounding unconvinced. She d been chatting on thephone with her friend when, a few moments earlier, she d spotted theunusual-looking car. It was long and sleek and looked as if it belonged in anold black-and-white movie. As it drove past the window, sunlight reflectedoff the blacked-out windows, briefly illuminating the interior of the coffeeshop in warm yellow-gold light, blinding Sophie. Blinking away the blackspots dancing before her eyes, she watched as the car turned at the bottom ofthe hill and slowly returned. Without signaling, it pulled over directly infront of The Small Book Shop, right across the street.

Maybe they re Mafia, Elle suggested dramatically. My dad knows someone inthe Mafia. But he drives a Prius, she added.

This is most definitely not a Prius, Sophie said, looking again at the carand the two large men standing on the street bundled up in their heavyovercoats, gloves and hats, their eyes hidden behind overlarge sunglasses.

Maybe they re just cold, Elle suggested. Doesn t it get cool in SanFrancisco?

Sophie Newman glanced at the clock and thermometer on the wall over thecounter behind her. It s two-fifteen here and eighty-one degrees, she said.

Trust me, they re not cold. They must be dying. Wait, she said,interrupting herself, something s happening.

The rear door opened and another man, even larger than the first two, climbedstiffly out of the car. As he closed the door, sunlight briefly touched hisface and Sophie caught a glimpse of pale, unhealthy-looking gray-white skin.She adjusted the volume on the earpiece. OK. You should see what justclimbed out of the car. A huge guy with gray skin. Gray. That might explainit; maybe they have some type of skin condition.

I saw a National Geographic documentary about people who can t go out in thesun, Elle began, but Sophie was no longer listening to her.

He was a small, rather dapper-looking man, dressed in a neat charcoal-graythree-piece suit that looked vaguely old-fashioned but that she could tellhad been tailor-made for him. His iron gray hair was pulled back from anangular face into a tight ponytail, while a neat triangular beard, mostlyblack but flecked with gray, concealed his mouth and chin. He moved away fromthe car and stepped under the striped awning that covered the trays of booksoutside the shop. When he picked up a brightly colored paperback and turnedit over in his hands, Sophie noticed that he was wearing gray gloves. A pearlbutton at the wrist winked in the light.

They re going into the bookshop, she said into her earpiece.

Is Josh still working there? Elle immediately asked.

Sophie ignored the sudden interest in her friend s voice. The fact that herbest friend liked her twin brother was just a little too weird. Yeah. I m going to call him to see what s up. I ll call you right back. She hung up,pulled out the earpiece and absently rubbed her hot ear as she stared,fascinated, at the small man. There was something about him something odd. Maybe he was a fashion designer, she thought, or a movie producer, or maybehe was an author she d noticed that some authors liked to dress up inpeculiar outfits. She d give him a few minutes to get into the shop, thenshe d call her twin for a report.

Sophie was about to turn away when the gray man suddenly spun around andseemed to stare directly at her. As he stood under the awning, his face wasin shadow, and yet for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked as if theywere glowing.

Sophie knew just knew that there was no possible way for the small gray manto see her: she was standing on the opposite side of the street behind a paneof glass that was bright with reflected early-afternoon sunlight. She wouldbe invisible in the gloom behind the glass.

And yet

And yet in that single moment when their eyes met, Sophie felt the tiny hairson the back of her hands and along her forearms tingle and felt a puff ofcold air touch the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders, turning herhead slightly from side to side, strands of her long blond hair curlingacross her cheek. The contact lasted only a second before the small manlooked away, but Sophie got the impression that he had looked directly ather.

In the instant before the gray man and his three overdressed companionsdisappeared into the bookshop, Sophie decided that she did not like him.

Peppermint. And rotten eggs.

That is just vile. Josh Newman stood in the center of the bookstore s cellar and breathed deeply. Where were those smells coming from? He lookedaround at the shelves stacked high with books and wondered if something hadcrawled in behind them and died. What else would account for such a foul stink? The tiny cramped cellar always smelled dry and musty, the air heavywith the odors of parched curling paper, mingled with the richer aroma of oldleather bindings and dusty cobwebs. He loved the smell; he always thought itwas warm and comforting, like the scents of cinnamon and spices that heassociated with Christmas.

Peppermint.

Sharp and clean, the smell cut through the close cellar atmosphere. It wasthe odor of new toothpaste or those herbal teas his sister served in thecoffee shop across the street. It sliced though the heavier smells of leatherand paper, and was so strong that it made his sinuses tingle; he felt as ifhe was going to sneeze at any moment. He quickly pulled out his iPod earbuds.Sneezing with headphones on was not a good idea: made your ears pop.