Michael Scott - The Magician

And Nicholas Flamel and his companions were swallowed up by the crowd.

In a rare display of emotion, Machiavelli hit the side of the car so hard it hurt his hand. He watched the growing crowd of people and knew his men would not be able to get through in time to prevent Flamel and the others from escaping.

The air sizzled and spat with fireworks; rockets went whizzing high into the air, where they exploded into spheres and streamers of light. Firecrackers and sparklers rattled around each of the tower’s four giant metal legs.

“Sir!” A young police captain stopped before Machiavelli and saluted. “What are your orders? We can push through the crowd, but there may be injuries.”

Machiavelli shook his head. “No, do not do that.” Dee would do it, he knew. Dee would not hesitate to level the entire tower, killing hundreds just to capture Flamel. Drawing himself up to his full height, Niccolo could just about make out the shape of the leather-clad Saint-Germain and the lethal Scathach herding the young man and woman away. They melted into the now-huge crowd and disappeared. But surprisingly, shockingly, when he looked back, Nicholas Flamel remained where he had first seen him, standing almost directly beneath the center of the tower.

Flamel raised his right hand in a mocking salute, the silver-link bracelet he wore reflecting the light.

Machiavelli caught the police captain’s shoulder, spun him around with surprising strength and pointed with his long narrow fingers. “That one! If you do nothing else today, get me that one. And I want him alive and unharmed!”

As they both watched, Flamel turned and hurried toward the west leg of the Eiffel Tower, toward the Pont d’Iena, but whereas the others had run across the bridge, Flamel turned to the right, onto the Quai Branly.

“Yes, sir!” The captain struck out at an angle, determined to cut off Flamel. “Follow me,” he shouted, and his troops spread out in a line behind him.

Dagon stepped up to Machiavelli. “Do you want me to track Saint-Germain and the Shadow?” His head turned, nostrils flaring with a wet sticky sound. “I can follow their scent.”

Niccolo Machiavelli shook his head slightly as he climbed back into the car. “Get us out of here before the press turns up. Saint-Germain is nothing if not predictable. He’s undoubtedly heading to one of his homes, and we have them all under observation. All we can do is hope we capture Flamel.”

Dagon’s face was impassive as he slammed the car door closed behind his master. He turned in the direction Flamel had run and saw him disappear amongst the crowd. The police were close behind, moving fast even though they were weighed down by their body armor and weapons. But Dagon knew that over the centuries Flamel had escaped both human and inhuman hunters, had slipped past creatures that had been myth before the evolution of the apes and had outwitted monsters that had no right to exist outside of nightmares. Dagon doubted that the police would catch the Alchemyst.

Then he cocked his head, nostrils flaring again, catching the scent of Scathach. The Shadow had returned!

The enmity between Dagon and the Shadow went back millennia. He was the last of his kind…because she had destroyed his entire race one terrible night two thousand years ago. Behind his wraparound mirrored sunglasses, the creature’s eyes filled with sticky colorless tears, and he swore that, no matter what happened between Machiavelli and Flamel, this time he would have his revenge on the Shadow.

“Walk, don’t run,” Scathach commanded. “Saint-Germain, take the lead, Sophie and Josh in the middle, I’ll take up the rear.” Scatty’s tone left no room for argument.

They darted across the bridge and turned right onto the Avenue de New York. A series of lefts and rights brought them to a narrow side street. It was still early, and the street was entirely in shadow. The temperature dropped dramatically, and the twins immediately noticed that the fingers of Saint-Germain’s left hand, which were gently brushing against the dirty wall, left tiny sparks in their wake.

Sophie frowned, sorting through her memories-the Witch of Endor’s memories, she reminded herself-of the Comte de Saint-Germain. She caught her brother looking sidelong at her and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

“Your eyes turned silver. Just for a second,” he said.

Sophie glanced over her shoulder to where Scathach was trailing behind and then looked at the man in the leather coat. They were both out of earshot, she thought. “I was trying to remember what I knew…” She shook her head. “What the Witch knew about Saint-Germain.”

“What about him?” Josh said. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“He is a famous French alchemist,” she whispered, “and along with Flamel, probably one of the most mysterious men in history.”

“Is he human?” Josh wondered aloud, but Sophie pressed on.

“He’s not an Elder or Next Generation. He’s human. Even the Witch of Endor didn’t know a lot about him. She met him for the first time in London in 1740. She knew immediately that he was an immortal human, and he claimed he’d discovered the secret of immortality when he was studying with Nicholas Flamel.” She shook her head quickly. “But I don’t think the Witch quite believed that. He told her that while traveling in Tibet he had perfected a formula for immortality that didn’t need to be renewed each month. But when she asked him for a copy, he told her he’d lost it. Apparently, he spoke every language in the world fluently, was a brilliant musician and had a reputation as a jewel maker.” Her eyes blinked silver again as the memories faded. “And the Witch didn’t like or trust him.”

“Then neither should we,” Josh whispered urgently.

Sophie nodded, agreeing. “But Nicholas likes him, and obviously trusts him,” she said slowly. “Why is that?”

Josh’s expression was grim. “I’ve told you before: I don’t think we should be trusting Nicholas Flamel, either. Something’s not right about him-I’m convinced.”

Sophie bit back her response and looked away. She knew why Josh was angry with the Alchemyst; her brother was envious of her Awakened powers, and she knew he blamed Flamel for putting her in danger. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

The narrow side street led onto a broad tree-lined avenue. Although it was still too early for rush-hour, the spectacular light and fireworks display around the Eiffel Tower had brought any traffic in the area to a standstill. The air was filled with the blare of car horns and the whooping of police sirens. A fire truck was caught in the traffic jam, its wails rising and falling, though there was nowhere for it to go. Saint-Germain strode across the road, looking neither left nor right as he dug in his pocket for a slender black cell phone. He flipped it open and hit speed dial. Then he spoke in rapid-fire French.

“Are you calling for help?” Sophie asked when he had closed the phone.

Saint-Germain shook his head. “Ordering breakfast. I’m famished.” He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, which was still erupting fireworks. “Creating something like that-if you’ll pardon the pun-burns a lot of calories.”

Sophie nodded, understanding now why her stomach had been rumbling with hunger since she’d created the fog.

Scathach caught up with the twins and fell into step alongside Sophie as they hurried past the American Cathedral. “I don’t think we’re being followed,” she said, sounding surprised. “I would have expected Machiavelli to send someone after us.” She rubbed the edge of her thumb against her bottom lip, chewing on her ragged nails.

Sophie automatically brushed Scatty’s hand away from her mouth. “Don’t bite your nails.”