Michael Scott - The Magician

They shook their heads simultaneously. “Never heard of you,” Josh said bluntly.

Saint-Germain shrugged and looked disappointed. He brought the collar of his coat up around his ears. “Five number-one hits,” he muttered.

“What type of music?” Sophie asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling at the crestfallen expression on the man’s face.

“Dance…electro…techno…that sort of thing.”

Sophie and Josh shook their heads again. “Don’t listen to it,” Josh answered, but Saint-Germain was no longer looking at the twins. His head had swiveled toward the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, to where a long sleek black Mercedes had pulled up to the curb. Three plain black vans drew up behind it.

“Machiavelli!” Flamel snapped angrily. “Francis, you were followed.”

“But how…,” the count began.

“Remember, it’s Niccolo we’re dealing with.” Flamel looked around quickly, assessing the situation. “Scathach, take the twins, go with Saint-Germain. Protect them with your lives.”

“We can stay, I can fight,” Scathach said.

Nicholas shook his head. He waved at the gathered tourists. “Too many people. Someone would be killed. But Machiavelli is not Dee; he’s subtle. He’ll not use magic-not if he can help it. We can use that to our advantage. If we split up, he will follow me; I’m the one he wants. And not just me.” Reaching under his shirt, he pulled out a small square cloth bag.

“What’s that?” Saint-Germain asked.

Nicholas answered Saint-Germain but looked at the twins as he spoke. “Once it held the entire Codex, but now Dee has that. Josh managed to tear two pages from the back of the book. They’re in here. The pages contain the Final Summoning,” he added significantly. “Dee and his Elders need these pages.” He smoothed the cloth and then suddenly handed the bag over to Josh. “Keep these safe,” he said.

“Me?” Josh looked from the bag to Flamel’s face but made no move to take it from the man’s hand.

“Yes, you. Take it,” Flamel commanded.

Reluctantly, the boy reached for the bag, the cloth crackling and sparking as he shoved it under his T-shirt. “Why me?” he asked. He looked quickly at his sister. “I mean, Scathach or Saint-Germain would be better…”

“You rescued the pages, Josh. It’s only right that you should guard them.” Flamel gripped Josh’s shoulders and looked into the boy’s eyes. “I know I can trust you to take care of them.”

Josh pressed his hand against his stomach, feeling the cloth against his skin. When Josh and Sophie had started working in the bookshop and the coffee shop respectively, their father had used an almost identical phrase when talking about Sophie. “I know I can trust you to take care of her.” In that moment, he’d felt both proud and a little bit frightened. Right now, he just felt frightened.

The Mercedes driver’s door opened and a man in a black suit climbed out, mirrored shades reflecting the early-morning sky, making it look as if he had two holes in his face.

“Dagon,” Scathach snarled, sharp teeth suddenly visible, and reached for a weapon in her bag, but Nicholas caught her arm and squeezed it.

“This is not the time.”

Dagon opened the rear door and Niccolo Machiavelli emerged. Although he was at least a hundred yards away, they could clearly see the look of triumph on his face.

Behind the Mercedes, the vans’ doors slid open simultaneously and heavily armed and armored police jumped out and started jogging toward the tower. A tourist screamed, and the dozens of people standing around the base of the Eiffel Tower immediately swiveled their cameras in that direction.

“Time to go,” Flamel said quickly. “You head across the river, I’ll lead them in the other direction. Saint-Germain, my friend,” Nicholas whispered softly, “we’re going to need a distraction to help us escape. Something spectacular.”

“Where will you go?” Saint-Germain demanded.

Flamel smiled. “This was my city long before Machiavelli came here. Perhaps some of my old haunts still remain.”

“It has changed a lot since you were last here,” Saint-Germain warned. As he was speaking, he took Flamel’s left hand in both of his, turned it over and pressed the ball of his right thumb into the center of the Alchemyst’s palm. Sophie and Josh were close enough to see that when he took his hand away, there was the impression of a tiny black-winged butterfly on Flamel’s skin. “It will lead you back to me,” Saint-Germain said mysteriously. “Now, you wanted something spectacular.” He grinned and pushed back the sleeves of his leather coat to reveal bare arms. His skin was covered in dozens of tiny tattooed butterflies that wrapped around his wrists like bracelets, then coiled up around his arm to the crook of his elbow. Lacing the fingers of his hands together, he twisted his wrists and bent them outward with an audible crack, like a pianist preparing to play. “Did you ever see what Paris did to celebrate the millennium?”

“The millennium?” The twins looked at him blankly.

“The millennium. The year 2000. Although the millennium should have been celebrated in 2001,” he added.

“Oh, that millennium,” Sophie said. She looked at her brother, confused. What did the millennium have to do with anything?

“Our parents took us to Times Square,” Josh said. “Why?”

“Then you missed something truly spectacular here in Paris. Next time you’re online, check out the pictures.” Saint-Germain rubbed his arms briskly and then, standing below the huge metal tower, he raised his hands high and suddenly the scent of burnt leaves filled the air.

Both Sophie and Josh watched the butterfly tattoos spasm, then shiver and pulse on Saint-Germain’s arms. Gossamer wings trembled and vibrated, antennas twitched…and then the tattoos lifted away from the man’s flesh.

An endless stream of tiny red and white butterflies peeled off Saint-Germain’s pale skin and curled into the cool Parisian air. They circled upward, spinning away from the small man, a seemingly never-ending spiral of crimson and ashen dots. The butterflies curled around the struts and spars, the rivets and bolts of the metal tower, covering it in an iridescent, shimmering skin.

“Ignis,” Saint-Germain whispered, throwing back his head and clapping his hands together.

And the Tower exploded into a cracking, sparking fountain of light.

He laughed delightedly at the twins’ expressions and said, “Know me: I am le Comte de Saint-Germain. I am the Master of Fire!”

“F ireworks,” Sophie breathed in awe.

The Eiffel Tower lit up with a spectacular fireworks display. Blue and gold traceries of light raced almost one thousand feet to the mast at the very top of the tower, where they blossomed into fountains of blue globes. Sparking, hissing, fizzing rainbow-colored threads wove through the struts, bursting and snapping. The tower’s thick rivets popped with white fire, while the arching spars rained cool ice blue droplets into the street far below.

The effect was dramatic, but it became truly spectacular when Saint-Germain snapped the fingers of both hands and the entire Eiffel Tower turned bronze, then gold, then green and finally blue in the morning sun. Rattling traceries of light darted up and down the metal. Catherine wheels and rockets, fountains and Roman candles, flying spinners and snakes spun off from every floor. The mast at the very tip of the tower fountained red, white and blue sparks that cascaded like bubbling liquid down through the heart of the tower.

The crowd was entranced.

People gathered at the base, oohing and aahing, applauding at each new explosion, their cameras clicking furiously. Motorists stopped on the roads and climbed out of their cars, holding camera phones to snap the stunning and beautiful images. Within moments, the dozens of people around the tower had grown to a hundred and then, within a matter of minutes, had doubled and then doubled again as people came running from shops and homes to observe the extraordinary display.