Michael Scott - The Magician

Scathach blinked at her in surprise, then self-consciously put her hand down. “An old habit,” she muttered. “A very old habit.”

“What happens now?” Josh asked.

“We get off the streets and rest,” Scathach said grimly. “Have we much farther to go?” she called out to Saint-Germain, who was still in the lead.

“A few minutes,” he said, without turning around. “One of my smaller town houses is nearby.”

Scathach nodded. “Once we get there, we’ll lie low until Nicholas returns, get some rest and a change of clothes.” She wrinkled her nose in Josh’s direction. “And a shower, too,” she added significantly.

Color touched the young man’s cheeks. “Are you saying I smell?” he asked, both embarrassed and angry.

Sophie laid her hand on her brother’s arm before the Warrior could answer. “Just a little,” she said. “We probably all do.”

Josh looked away, clearly upset, then glanced back at Scathach. “I don’t suppose you smell,” he snapped.

“No,” she said. “No sweat glands. The Vampire are a much more evolved species than the humani.”

They continued in silence until the Rue Pierre Charron opened out onto the broad Champs-Elysees, Paris’s main thoroughfare. To their left they could see the Arc de Triomphe. Traffic on both sides of the street was stopped, with drivers standing alongside their cars chatting animatedly, gesticulating wildly. All eyes were turned to the rippling fireworks still exploding over the Eiffel Tower.

“How do you think this will be reported on the news?” Josh said. “The Eiffel Tower suddenly erupting with fireworks.”

Saint-Germain glanced over his shoulder. “Truth is, it’s not that out of the ordinary. The tower is often lit up with fireworks-on New Year’s Eve and Bastille Day, for example. I would imagine it will be reported that next month’s Bastille Day fireworks went off prematurely.” He stopped and looked around, hearing someone call out his name.

“Don’t look…,” Scatty began, but it was too late: the twins and Saint-Germain had turned in the direction of the shouts.

“Germain…”

“Hey, Germain…”

Two young men who were standing next to their unmoving car were pointing at Saint-Germain and shouting his name.

Both men were dressed in jeans and T-shirts and looked alike, with slicked-backed hair and overlarge sunglasses. Abandoning their car in the middle of the road, they wove through the stalled traffic, both holding what Josh thought looked like long, narrow blades in their hands.

“Francis,” Scatty warned urgently, her hands locking into fists. She moved forward just as the first man reached Saint-Germain, “let me…”

“Gentlemen.” Saint-Germain turned toward the two men, smiling widely, though the twins, who were behind him, saw yellow-blue flames dance across his fingertips.

“Great concert last night,” the first man said breathlessly, speaking English with a strong German accent. He pushed back his sunglasses and held out his right hand, and Josh realized that what he’d first imagined was a knife was nothing more than a fat pen. “Any chance I could get an autograph?”

The flames on Saint-Germain’s fingers winked out. “Of course,” he said, smiling delightedly, reaching for the pen and pulling a spiral-bound notebook from an inner pocket. “Did you get the new CD?” he asked, flipping open the notebook.

The second man, wearing identical glasses, plucked a black and red iPod from the back pocket of his jeans. “Got it on iTunes yesterday,” he answered in the same distinctive accent.

“And don’t forget to check out the DVD of the show when it comes out in a month’s time. Got some great extras, a couple of remixes and a great mashup,” Saint-Germain added as he signed his name with an elaborate flourish and pulled the pages from the notebook. “I’d love to chat, guys, but I’m in a rush. Thanks for stopping, I appreciate it.”

They shook hands quickly and the two men hurried back to their car, high-fiving one another as they compared their autographs.

Smiling broadly, Saint-Germain took a deep breath and turned to look at the twins. “Told you I was famous.”

“And you’ll soon be dead famous if we don’t get off this street,” Scathach reminded him. “Or maybe just dead.”

“We’re just here,” Saint-Germain muttered. He led them across the Champs-Elysees and down a side street, then ducked into a narrow, high-walled cobbled lane that snaked around the backs of the buildings. Stopping halfway down the alley, he slid a key into an anonymous-looking door set flush with the wall. The wooden door was chipped and scarred, foul green paint peeling in long strips to reveal blistered wood beneath; the bottom was splintered and cracked from rubbing the ground.

“May I suggest a new gate?” Scathach said.

“This is the new gate.” Saint-Germain smiled quickly. “The wood is just a disguise. Beneath it is a slab of solid steel with a five-point dead bolt.” He stepped back and allowed the twins to precede him through the entrance. “Enter freely and of your own will,” he said formally.

The twins stepped forward and were vaguely disappointed with what they found. Behind the gate was a small courtyard and a four-story building. To the left and right, tall spike-tipped walls separated the house from its neighbors. Sophie and Josh had been expecting something exotic or even dramatic, but all they saw was an unkempt leaf-strewn rear garden. A huge and hideous stone birdbath was set in the center of the courtyard, but instead of water, the bowl was filled with dead leaves and the remains of a bird’s nest. All the plants in the pots and baskets surrounding the fountain at its center were dead or dying.

“The gardener’s away,” Saint-Germain said without a trace of embarrassment, “and I’m really not very good with plants.” He held up his right hand and spread his fingers. Each one popped alight with a different-colored flame. He grinned and the colored flames painted his face in flickering shadows. “Not my specialty.”

Scathach paused by the gate, looking up and down the alleyway, head tilted to one side, listening. When she was satisfied that they were not being followed, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. The dead bolts slid into place with a satisfying thunk.

“How will Flamel find us?” Josh asked. Even though he was wary and fearful of the Alchemyst, he felt even more nervous around Saint-Germain.

“I gave him a little guide,” Saint-Germain explained.

“Will he be all right?” Sophie asked Scathach.

“I’m sure he will be,” she said, though the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes betrayed her fears. She was turning away from the gate when she stiffened, jaw unhinging, vampire teeth suddenly-terrifyingly-visible.

The door to the rear of the house had opened suddenly, and a figure stepped out into the courtyard. Abruptly, Sophie’s aura blazed silver-white, the shock sending her spinning back into her brother, bringing his aura to crackling life as well, outlining his body in gold and bronze. And as the twins held on to one another, blinded by the silver and gold light of their own auras, they heard Scathach scream. It was the most terrifying sound they had ever heard.

“S top!”

Nicholas Flamel kept running, turning to the right, racing down the Quai Branly.

“Stop or I shoot!”

Flamel knew the police wouldn’t shoot-they couldn’t. Machiavelli would not want him harmed.

The slap of leather on concrete and the jingle of weapons were close now, and he could hear his pursuer’s even breathing. Nicholas’s own breathing was beginning to come in great heaving gasps, and there was a stitch in his side just below his ribs. The recipe in the Codex kept him alive and healthy, but there was no way he could outrun this highly trained and obviously fit police officer.