Michael Scott - The Magician

“Monsieur Montmorency?” Dora said politely in perfect French.

“Madame. You are unharmed?”

Dora’s voice fell to a whisper and she slipped into an archaic form of the French language that would be incomprehensible to any modern eavesdropper. “It’s not that easy to kill me,” she said quickly. “Dee has escaped, cut, bruised, battered and very, very upset. You are all safe? Scathach too?”

“Scatty is safe. However, we’ve had an encounter with Niccolo Machiavelli.”

“So he’s still around. Dee must have warned him. Be careful, Nicholas. Machiavelli is more dangerous than you can imagine. He is even more cunning than Dee. Now I must hurry,” she added urgently. “This reporter is getting suspicious. He probably thinks I’m giving you a better story than I gave him. What do you want?”

“I need your help, Dora. I need to know who I can trust in Paris. I need to get the children off the streets. They’re exhausted.”

“Hmmm.” The line crackled with the sound of rustling paper. “I don’t know who is in Paris at the moment. But I’ll find out,” she said decisively. “What time is it there?”

He glanced at his watch and did the math. “Five-thirty in the morning.”

“Get to the Eiffel Tower. Be there by seven a.m. and wait for ten minutes. If I can find someone trustworthy, I’ll have them meet you there. If no one you recognize arrives, go back at eight and then at nine. If no one is there by nine, then you’ll know there is no one in Paris you can trust, and you will have to make your own arrangements.”

“Thank you, Madame Dora,” he said quietly. “I’ll not forget this debt.”

“There are no debts between friends,” she said. “Oh, and Nicholas, try and keep my granddaughter out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best,” Flamel said. “But you know what she’s like: she seems to attract trouble. Though right now, she’s watching over the twins in a cafe not far from here. At least she can’t get into any trouble there.”

S cathach brought her leg up, pressed the sole of her foot against the seat of a chair and shoved hard. The wooden chair skipped across the floor and slammed into the two police officers as they pushed through the door. They crashed to the ground, a radio flying from the hand of one, a baton from the hand of the other. The squawking radio skidded to a halt at Josh’s feet. He leaned over and poured his hot chocolate on it. It died in a fizz of sparks.

Scathach surged to her feet. Without turning her head, she raised an arm and pointed at Roux. “You. Stay right where you are. And don’t even think about phoning for the police.”

Heart hammering, Josh grabbed Sophie and pulled her away from the table, toward the back of the shop, shielding her with his body from the police at the door.

One of the officers raised a gun. And Scatty’s nunchaku struck it in the barrel with enough force to bend the metal and send the weapon spinning from the man’s hand.

The second officer scrambled to his feet, pulling out a long black baton. Scathach’s right shoulder dipped and the nunchaku reversed direction in midair, the twelve-inch length of hardened wood striking the police baton just above its short handle. The baton shattered into ragged splinters. Scathach flipped the nunchaku back and it dropped into her outstretched hand.

“I’m in a really bad mood,” she said in perfect French. “Believe me when I tell you that you really do not want to fight me.”

“Scatty…,” Josh hissed in alarm.

“Not now,” the Warrior snapped in English. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Yeah, well, you’re about to get busier,” Josh shouted. “A lot busier. Look outside.”

A police riot squad, in black body armor, full-face helmets and shields, armed with batons and assault rifles, were racing down the street, straight for the cafe.

“RAID,” the shop assistant whispered in horror.

“Just like SWAT,” Scathach said in English, “only tougher.” She sounded almost pleased. Glancing sidelong at Roux, she snapped in French, “Is there a back door?”

The shop assistant was shocked into immobility, staring at the approaching squad, and didn’t react until Scathach whipped out the nunchaku and the rounded end whistled past his face, the breeze making him blink.

“Is there a back door?” she demanded again, but in English.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Then get my friends out.”

“No…,” Josh began.

“Let me do something,” Sophie said, a dozen wind spells flickering into her consciousness. “I can help…”

“No,” Josh protested, and reached for his twin just as her blond hair crackled, sparkling silver.

“Out!” Scatty shouted, and suddenly it was as if the planes and angles of her face had altered, cheekbones and chin becoming prominent, green eyes turned to reflective glass. For an instant, there was something ancient and primeval-and totally alien-in her face. “I can take care of this.” She started spinning the nunchaku, creating an impenetrable shield between her and the two policemen. One officer picked up a chair and flung it at her, but the nunchaku turned it to matchwood.

“Roux-get them out now!” Scatty snarled.

“This way,” the terrified clerk said in American-accented English. He pushed past the twins and led them down a narrow chilly corridor and out into a small foul-smelling yard piled high with trash cans, bits of broken restaurant furniture and the skeleton of a long-abandoned Christmas tree. Behind them came the sound of breaking wood.

Roux pointed to a red gate and continued in English. His face was the color of chalk. “That leads to the alleyway. Turn left for the Rue de Dunkerque; right will bring you down to the Gare du Nord Metro station.” Behind them there was a tremendous smash, followed by the sound of breaking glass. “Your friend, she is in so much trouble,” he moaned miserably. “And RAID will wreck the shop. How am I going to explain that to the owner?”

There was another crash from inside. A slate tile slid off the roof and crashed into the yard.

“Go, go now.” He spun the combination lock and tugged the gate open.

Sophie and Josh ignored him. “What do we do?” Josh asked his twin. “Go or stay?”

Sophie shook her head. She glanced at Roux and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We have nowhere to go-we don’t know anyone in the city except Scatty and Nicholas. We don’t have any money and we have no passports.”

“We could go to the American embassy.” Josh turned to Roux. “Is there an American embassy in Paris?”

“Yes, of course, on the Avenue Gabriel, beside the Hotel de Crillon.” The shaven-headed youth cringed as a colossal thump shook the whole building, filling the air with minute particles of dust. The glass in the window beside them cracked from top to bottom and more tiles slid off the roof, to rain down into the yard.

“And what do we tell the embassy?” Sophie demanded. “They’ll want to know how we got here.”

“Kidnapped?” Josh suggested. And then a sudden thought struck him and he felt sick. “And what do we tell Mom and Dad? How are we going to explain it to them?”

Crockery tinkled and shattered, and then there was a tremendous crack.

Sophie cocked her head to one side and brushed her hair off her ear. “That was the main window.” She took a step back toward the door. “I should help her.” Wisps of mist curled off her fingers as she reached for the handle.

“No!” Josh snatched her hand, and static crackled between them. “You can’t use your powers,” he whispered urgently. “You’re too exhausted; remember what Scatty said. You could burst into flames.”