Michael Scott - The Magician

Then there were a few others who, like Nicholas and Perenelle, had discovered for themselves how to become immortal. Down through the millennia, the secrets of alchemy had been discovered, lost and rediscovered countless times. One of the greatest secrets of alchemy was the formula for immortality. And all alchemy-and possibly even modern science-had one single source: the Book of Abraham the Mage.

Then there were those who had been given the gift of immortality. These were humans who had, either accidentally or deliberately, come to the attention of one or other of the Elders who had remained in this world after the Fall of Danu Talis. The Elders were always on the lookout for people of exceptional or unusual ability to recruit to their cause. And in return for their service, the Elders granted their followers extended life. It was a gift very few humans could refuse. It was also a gift that ensured absolute, unswerving loyalty…because it could be withdrawn as quickly as it had been given. Nicholas knew that if he encountered immortals in Paris-even if he had known them in the past-there would now be a very real danger that they were in the service of the Dark Elders.

He was passing an all-night video store that advertised high-speed Internet when he noticed the sign in the window, written in ten languages: NATIONAL amp; INTERNATIONAL CALLS. CHEAPEST RATES. Pushing open the door, he suddenly breathed in the sour odor of unwashed bodies, stale perfume, greasy food and the ozone of too many computers packed tightly together. The store was surprisingly busy: a group of students who looked like they’d been up all night clustered around three computers displaying the World of Warcraft logo, while most of the other machines were taken up by serious-faced young men and women staring intently at the screens. As he made his way to the counter at the back of the shop, Nicholas could see that most of the young people were e-mailing and instant-messaging. He smiled briefly; only a few days ago, on Monday afternoon, when the bookshop was quiet, Josh had spent an hour explaining to him the difference between the two methods of communication. Josh had even set him up with his own e-mail account-which Nicholas doubted he would ever use-though he could see a use for the instant-messaging programs.

The Chinese girl behind the counter was dressed in ragged and torn clothes that Nicholas thought looked fit only for the trash but that he guessed had probably cost a fortune. She was in full goth makeup and was busy painting her nails when Nicholas stepped up to the desk.

“Three euro for fifteen minutes, five for thirty, seven for forty-five, ten for an hour,” she rattled off in atrocious French without looking up.

“I want to make an international call.”

“Cash or credit card?” She still hadn’t raised her head, and Nicholas noticed that she was blackening her nails not with polish but with a felt-tip marker.

“Credit card.” He wanted to conserve the little cash he had to buy some food. Although he rarely ate, and Scathach never ate, he would need to feed the children.

“Use booth number one. Instructions are on the wall.”

Nicholas slipped into the glass-fronted booth and pulled the door closed behind him. The shouts of the students faded, but the booth smelled strongly of stale food. He quickly read the instructions as he fished the credit card he’d used to buy hot chocolate for the twins from the back of his wallet. It was in the name of Nick Fleming, the name he’d been using for the past ten years, and he briefly wondered whether Dee or Machiavelli had the resources to track him through it. He knew that of course they did, but a quick smile curled Flamel’s thin lips; what did it matter? All it would tell them was that he was in Paris, and they already knew that. Following the instructions on the wall, he dialed the international access code and then the number Sophie had recalled from the Witch of Endor’s memories.

The line crackled and clicked with transatlantic static, and then, more than five and a half thousand miles away, the phone started ringing. It was answered on the second ring. “ Ojai Valley News; how can I help?” The young woman’s voice was surprisingly clear.

Nicholas deliberately affected a thick French accent. “Good morning…or rather, good evening to you. I’m delighted to find you still at the office. This is Monsieur Montmorency, phoning you from Paris, France. I’m a reporter with Le Monde newspaper. I’ve just seen online that you’ve had quite an exciting evening there.”

“Gosh-news does travel fast, Mr…”

“Montmorency.”

“Montmorency. Yes, we’ve had quite an evening. How can we help?”

“We would like to include a piece in this evening’s paper-I was wondering if you had a reporter on the scene?”

“Actually, all our reporters are downtown at the moment.”

“Would it be possible to put me through, do you think? I can get a quick on-the-spot description of the scene and a comment.” When there was no immediate response, he added quickly, “There would be a proper credit for your newspaper, of course.”

“Let me see if I can patch you through to one of our reporters on the street, Mr. Montmorency.”

“ Merci. I am very grateful.”

The line clicked again, and there was a long pause. Nicholas guessed that the receptionist was talking to the reporter before transferring the call. There was another click, and the girl said, “Putting you through…” He was saying thank you when the phone was answered.

“Michael Carroll, Ojai Valley News. I understand you’re calling from Paris, France?” There was a note of incredulity in the man’s voice.

“Indeed I am, Monsieur Carroll.”

“News travels fast,” the reporter said, echoing the receptionist.

“The Internet,” Flamel said vaguely, adding, “There’s a video on YouTube.” He had absolutely no doubt that there were videos of the scene in Ojai online. He turned to stare out into the Internet cafe. From where he was standing he could see half a dozen screens; each one displayed a Web page in a different language. “I’ve been asked to get a quote for our arts and culture page. One of our editors has visited your beautiful city often and bought several amazing glass pieces from an antiques shop on Ojai Avenue. I’m not sure if you know it: the shop sells only mirrors and glassware,” Flamel added.

“Witcherly Antiques,” Michael Carroll said immediately. “I know it well. I’m afraid it was completely destroyed in an explosion.”

Flamel felt suddenly breathless. Hekate had died because he had brought the twins into her Shadowrealm; had the Witch of Endor shared Hekate’s fate? He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “And the owner, Mrs. Witcherly? Is she…?”

“She’s fine,” the reporter said, and Flamel felt a wave of relief wash over him. “I’ve just taken a statement from her. She’s in remarkably good spirits for someone whose shop has just blown up.” He laughed and added, “She said that when you’ve lived as long as she has, nothing much surprises you.”

“Is she still there?” Flamel asked, trying to contain the eagerness is his voice. “Would she like to make a statement for the French press? Tell her it’s Nicholas Montmorency. We spoke once before; I’m sure she’ll remember me,” he added.

“I’ll ask…”

The voice faded away and Flamel heard the reporter calling out for Dora Witcherly. In the background, he also heard the sound of countless police, fire and ambulance sirens and the fainter shouts and cries of distressed people.

And it was all his fault.

He shook his head quickly. No, it was not his fault. This was Dee’s doing. Dee knew no sense of proportion; he had almost burned London to the ground in 1666, had devastated Ireland with the Great Famine in the 1840s, had destroyed most of San Francisco in 1906-and now he’d emptied the graveyards around Ojai. No doubt the streets were littered with bones and bodies. Nicholas heard the reporter’s muted voice and then the sound of the cell phone being handed over.