Michael Scott - The Magician

“We’d no way of contacting you. Your cell wasn’t working, and e-mails bounced back saying your mailbox was full.” Joan caught Scathach’s hand. “Come, I have photos I can show you.” The woman turned back to Sophie. “You should eat now. You need to replace the energy you’ve burned up. Drink plenty of liquids. Water, fruit juices, but no caffeine-no tea and no coffee, nothing that’s going to keep you awake. Once you’ve eaten, Francis will show you to your rooms, where you can shower and rest.” She slowly looked Sophie up and down. “I’ll get you some clothes. You’re about my size. And then later we’ll talk about your aura.” Joan held up her left hand and spread her fingers. An articulated metal glove sparkled into existence over her flesh. “I’ll show you how to control it, how to shape it, make it into anything you wish.” The glove turned into a metal raptor’s claw complete with curved talons before it faded back to Joan’s tanned flesh. Only her fingernails remained silver. She leaned in and kissed Sophie quickly on each cheek. “But first you must rest. Now,” she said, looking at Scathach, “let me show you the photos.”

The two women hurried from the kitchen, and Sophie made her way back down the long room to where Saint-Germain was talking earnestly to her brother. Josh handed her a plate piled high with fruit and bread. His own plate was heaped with eggs and sausages. Sophie felt her stomach object at the sight and she forced herself to look away. She nibbled on the fruit, listening to the conversation.

“No, I’m human, I cannot Awaken your powers,” Saint-Germain was saying as she joined them. “For that you need an Elder or one of the handful of Next Generation who could do it.” He smiled, showing his misshapen teeth. “Don’t worry, Nicholas will find someone to Awaken you.”

“Is there anyone here, in Paris, who could do it?”

Saint-Germain took a moment to consider. “Machiavelli would know someone, I’m sure. He knows everything. But I don’t.” He turned to Sophie, bowing slightly. “I understand you were lucky enough to be Awakened by the legendary Hekate and then trained in the Magic of Air by my old teacher, the Witch of Endor.” He shook his head. “How is the old witch? She never liked me,” he added.

“Still doesn’t,” Sophie said quickly, then blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

The Count laughed. “Oh, Sophie, you didn’t say it…well, not really. The Witch did. It’s going to take some time for you to sort through her memories. I got a call from her this morning. She told me how she imbued you not only with the Magic of Air, but with her entire body of knowledge. The mummy technique hasn’t been used in living memory; it is incredibly dangerous.”

Sophie glanced quickly at her brother. He was watching Saint-Germain carefully, listening to every word. She noted the tension in his neck and jaw from how he was squeezing his mouth shut.

“You should have rested for at least twenty-four hours to allow your conscious and subconscious time to sort through the sudden influx of alien memories, thoughts and ideas.”

“There wasn’t time,” Sophie muttered.

“Well, there is now. Eat up; then I’ll show you to your rooms. Sleep as long as you like. You’re completely safe. No one even knows you’re here.”

“T hey’re in Saint-Germain’s town house off the Champs-Elysees.” Machiavelli pressed the phone to his ear and leaned back in the black leather chair, swiveling to look through the tall window. In the distance, across the slanted tile rooftops, he could make out the tip of the Eiffel Tower. The fireworks had finally stopped, but a pall of rainbow-colored clouds still hung in the air. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we have the house under observation. Saint-Germain, Scathach and the twins are inside. There are no other occupants.”

Machiavelli held the phone away from his ear as static rippled and crackled. Dee’s jet was just taking off from a small private airfield north of L.A. It would stop in New York to refuel, then fly transatlantic to Shannon in Ireland and refuel again before continuing on to Paris. The crackling faded and Dee’s voice, strong and clear, came through the phone.

“And the Alchemyst?”

“Lost in Paris. My men had him on the ground at gunpoint, but he somehow coated them in sugar and then unleashed every ant in the city onto them. They panicked; he escaped.”

“Transmutation,” Dee remarked. “Water is composed of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen: sucrose has the same ratio. He changed the water into sugar; it’s a parlor trick-I would have expected more of him.”

Machiavelli ran his hand across his short snow white hair. “I though it was rather clever myself,” he said mildly. “He hospitalized six police officers.”

“He will return to the twins,” Dee snapped. “He needs them. He’s been waiting all his life to find them.”

“We’ve all been waiting,” Machiavelli reminded the Magician quietly. “And right now, we know where they are, which means we know where Flamel will go.”

“Do nothing until I get there,” Dee commanded.

“And have you any idea when that might-” Machiavelli began, but the line was dead. He was unsure whether Dee had hung up or the call had dropped. Knowing Dee, he guessed he’d hung up; that was his usual style. The tall, elegant man tapped the phone against his thin lips before replacing the handset. He had no intention of following Dee’s orders; he was going to capture Flamel and the twins before Dee’s plane touched down in Paris. He would do what Dee had failed to do for centuries, and in return, the Elders would grant him anything he desired.

Machiavelli’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. An unusually long string of numbers scrolled across it, looking like no other number he’d ever seen before. The head of the DGSE frowned. Only the president of France, a few highly placed cabinet ministers and his own personal staff had this number. He hit Answer but didn’t speak.

“The English Magician believes you will try and capture Flamel and the twins before he arrives.” The voice on the other end spoke Greek in a dialect that had not been used in millennia.

Niccolo Machiavelli sat bolt upright in his chair. “Master?” he said.

“Give Dee your full support. Do not move against Flamel until he arrives.” The line went dead.

Machiavelli carefully placed his cell phone on the bare desk and sat back. Holding both hands up before his face, he was unsurprised to find that they were shaking slightly. The last time he’d spoken to the Elder he called Master had been more than a century and a half ago. This was the Elder who had granted him immortality at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Had Dee somehow contacted him? Machiavelli shook his head. Highly unlikely; probably Dee had contacted his own master and asked him to make the request. But Machiavelli’s master was one of the most powerful of the Dark Elders… That brought him back to a question that had troubled him down through the centuries: who was Dee’s master?

Every human granted immortality by an Elder was bound to that Elder. An Elder who bestowed immortality could just as easily revoke it. Machiavelli had even seen it happen: he’d watched a healthy-looking young man wither and age in a matter of heartbeats, eventually collapsing into a pile of crackling bones and dusty skin.

Machiavelli’s dossier of immortal humans was cross-linked to the Elder or Dark Elder they served. There were only a very few humani-like Flamel, Perenelle and Saint-Germain-who owed no loyalty to an Elder, because they had become immortal by their own efforts.