Michael Scott - The Magician

“I’ll do that,” Josh said, plugging in the laptop to charge the battery.

“Let me know what you think. And you can be honest with me,” Saint-Germain added.

“Really?”

The count took a moment to consider, and then he shook his head. “No, not really. Only tell me if you think I’m good. I don’t like negative reviews, though you’d think that after nearly three hundred years, I’d be used to them.”

Josh opened the laptop and turned it on. The machine whined and flickered to life. Leaning forward, he gently blew dust off the keyboard. When the laptop booted, the screen flickered and showed an image of Saint-Germain onstage, surrounded by a dozen instruments. “You have a picture of yourself for your wallpaper?” Josh asked incredulously.

“It’s one of my favorites,” the musician said.

Josh nodded toward the screen and then looked around the room. “Can you play all these?”

“Every one. I started on the violin a long time ago, then moved on to harpsichord and flute. But I’ve kept up with the times, always learning new instruments. In the eighteenth century, I was using the latest technology-the new violins, the latest keyboards-and here I am, nearly three hundred years later, still doing that. This is a great time to be a musician. And with technology, I can finally play all the sounds I hear in my head.” His fingers brushed a keyboard and a full choir sang from the speakers.

Josh jumped. The voices were so clear that he actually looked over his shoulder.

“I load up the computer with sound samples, so I can use anything in my work.” Saint-Germain turned back to the screen and his fingers danced on the keys. “Don’t you think those fireworks yesterday morning made some great sounds? Crackling. Snapping. Maybe it’s time for another Fireworks Suite.”

Josh walked around the room, looking at the framed gold records, the signed posters and CD sleeves. “I didn’t know there was one already,” he said.

“George Frideric Handel, 1749, Music for the Royal Fireworks. What a night that was! What music!” Saint-Germain’s fingers moved across a keyboard, filling the room with a tune Josh thought sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe he’d heard it on a TV ad. “Good old George,” Saint-Germain said. “I never liked him.”

“The Witch of Endor doesn’t like you,” Josh said hesitantly. “Why?”

Saint-Germain grinned. “The Witch doesn’t like anyone. She especially doesn’t like me because I became immortal through my own efforts and, unlike Nicholas and Perry, I don’t need any recipe from a book to remain undying.”

Josh frowned. “You mean there are different types of immortality?”

“Many different types, and as many different types of immortals. The most dangerous are those who became immortal because of their loyalty to an Elder. If they fall from favor with the Elder, the gift is rescinded, of course.” He snapped his fingers and Josh jumped. “The result is instant old age. Ancient age. It’s a great way of ensuring loyalty.” He turned back to the keyboard and his fingers drew a haunting breathy sound from the speakers. He looked up as Josh joined him in front of the screen. “But the real reason the Witch of Endor doesn’t like me is because I-an ordinary mortal-became the Master of Fire.” He held up his left hand and a different-colored flame danced at the tip of each finger. The attic studio suddenly smelled of burnt leaves.

“And why would that bother her?” Josh asked, staring entranced at the dancing flames. He wanted-desperately wanted-to be able to do something like that.

“Maybe because I learned the secret of fire from her brother.” The music changed, becoming discordant and harsh. “Well, when I say learned, I should really say stole. ”

“You stole the secret of fire!” Josh said.

The Comte de Saint-Germain nodded happily. “From Prometheus.”

“And one of these days my uncle will want it back.” Scathach’s voice made them both jump. Neither had heard her enter the room. “Nicholas is here,” she said, and turned away.

N icholas Flamel was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug of soup. In front of him was a half-empty bottle of Perrier, a tall glass and a plate piled high with thick-crust bread and cheese. He looked up, nodded and smiled as Josh and Saint-Germain followed Scathach into the room.

Sophie was sitting on one side of the table, facing Joan of Arc, and Josh quickly slid into the seat beside his sister while Saint-Germain took the seat alongside his wife. Only Scathach remained standing, leaning against the sink behind the Alchemyst, staring out into the night. Josh noted that she was still wearing the bandana she had cut from Flamel’s loose black T-shirt.

Josh turned his attention to the Alchemyst. The man looked exhausted and old, and there seemed to be a dusting of silver in his close-cropped hair that hadn’t been there earlier. His skin was also shockingly pale, emphasizing the bruise-black circles beneath his eyes and the deep lines in his forehead. His clothes were rumpled and speckled with rain, and there was a long muddy streak on the sleeve of the jacket he’d hung off the back of the wooden chair. Water droplets sparkled on the worn leather.

No one spoke while the Alchemyst finished the soup and then broke off chunks of the cheese and bread. He chewed slowly and methodically, then poured water from the green bottle into the glass and drank in short sips. When he was finished, he wiped his lips on a napkin and allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you.” He nodded to Joan. “That was perfect.”

“There is a larder full of food, Nicholas,” she said, her gray eyes huge and concerned. “You really should have more than soup, bread and cheese.”

“It was enough,” he said gently. “Right now I need to rest, and I didn’t want to put a lot of food in my stomach. We shall have a big breakfast in the morning. I’ll even cook it myself.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Saint-Germain said.

“He can’t,” Scathach muttered.

“I thought eating cheese late at night gave you nightmares,” Josh said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s close to one in the morning.”

“Oh, I don’t need cheese to see nightmares. I’ve seen them in the flesh.” Nicholas smiled, though there was no humor in it. “They’re not so scary.” He looked from Josh to Sophie. “You’re safe and well?”

The twins glanced at one another and nodded.

“And rested?”

“They slept all day and most of the night,” Joan said.

“Good,” Flamel nodded. “You’re going to need all your strength. And I like the clothes.” While Josh was dressed identically to Saint-Germain, Sophie was wearing a heavy white cotton blouse and blue jeans with the ends turned up to reveal ankle-high boots.

“Joan gave them to me,” Sophie explained.

“Almost a perfect fit,” the older woman said. “We’ll go through my wardrobe shortly, get you some changes for the rest of your journey.”

Sophie smiled her thanks.

Nicholas turned to Saint-Germain. “The fireworks on the Eiffel Tower yesterday: inspired, just inspired.”

The count bowed. “Thank you, Master,” he said, looking tremendously pleased with himself.

Joan’s giggle was a low purr. “He’s been looking for an excuse to do something like that for months. You should have seen the display he set off in Hawaii when we were married. We waited until the sun went down; then Francis lit up the sky for nearly an hour. It was so beautiful, though the effort exhausted him for a week,” she added with a grin.

Two spots of color touched the count’s cheeks and he reached over to squeeze his wife’s hand. “It was worth it to see the look on your face.”