Michael Scott - The Magician

Sophie nodded, remembering the dozens of tiny tattooed butterflies that wrapped around the count’s wrists and coiled up his arm.

“They are my trigger.” Saint-Germain lifted the girl’s hands. “And now you have yours.”

Sophie looked down at her hands. The fire had gone out, leaving black sooty streaks on her flesh and around her wrists. She brushed her hands together, but succeeded only in smearing the dust.

“Allow me.” Saint-Germain lifted a watering can and shook it. Liquid sloshed inside. “Hold out your hands.” He poured water over her palms-it sizzled as it touched her flesh-washing away the black streaks. The count pulled a spotless white handkerchief from his back pocket, dipped it into the watering can and carefully wiped off the remainder of the soot. But around her right wrist, where Saint-Germain had held it, the soot refused to wash away. A thick black band encircled her wrist like a bracelet.

Saint-Germain snapped his fingers and his index and little finger lit up. He brought the light close to Sophie’s hand.

She looked down to discover that a tattoo was burned into her skin.

Silently lifting her arm, she twisted her wrist to examine the ornate band twisted around it. Two strands, gold and silver, entwined and curled around one another to form an intricate, almost Celtic-looking pattern. On the underside of her wrist, where Saint-Germain had pressed his thumb, was a perfect gold circle with a red dot in the center.

“When you wish to trigger the Magic of Fire, press your thumb against the circle and focus your aura,” Saint-Germain explained. “That will bring the fire alive instantly.”

“And that’s it?” Sophie asked, sounding surprised. “That’s all?”

Saint-Germain nodded. “That’s it. Why, what were you expecting?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know, but when the Witch of Endor taught me Air magic, she wrapped me in bandages like a mummy.”

Saint-Germain smiled shyly. “Well, I’m not the Witch of Endor, of course. Joan tells me the Witch imbued you with all of her memories and knowledge. I’ve no idea why she did that; it certainly wasn’t necessary. But no doubt she had her reasons. Besides, I don’t know how to do that-and I’m not sure I’d want you knowing all my thoughts and memories,” he added with a grin. “Some of them are not very nice.”

Sophie smiled. “I’m relieved-another batch of memories wouldn’t be that great to deal with.” Holding up her hand, she pressed the circle on her wrist and her little finger smoked; then the nail glowed dull orange for a moment before it popped alight with a slender, wavering flame. “How did you know what to do?”

“Well, I was first and foremost an alchemist. I suppose you’d call me a scientist today. When Nicholas asked me to train you in the Magic of Fire, I’d no idea how to do it, so I just approached this like any other experiment.”

“An experiment?” Sophie blinked. “Could it have gone wrong?”

“The real danger was that it simply would not have worked.”

“Thank you,” she said finally, and then she grinned. “I was expecting the process to be a lot more dramatic. I’m really glad it was so”-she paused, looking for the right word-“ordinary.”

“Well, maybe not that ordinary. It’s not every day you learn how to master fire. How about extraordinary?” Saint-Germain suggested.

“Well, that too.”

“That’s all. Oh, there are tricks I can-and will-teach you. Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to create globes, donuts and rings of fire. But once you have the trigger, you can call upon fire at any time.”

“But do I need to say anything?” Sophie asked. “Do I need to learn any words?”

“Like what?”

“Well, when you lit up the Eiffel Tower, you said something that sounded like eggness. ”

“Ignis,” the count said. “Latin for fire. No, you don’t need to say anything.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

Saint-Germain grinned. “I just thought it sounded cool.”

P erenelle Flamel was puzzled.

Creeping along the dimly lit corridors, she’d discovered that all the lower cells of the island prison were filled with creatures from the darker edges of myth. The Sorceress had encountered a dozen different vampire breeds and various werebeasts, as well as boggarts, trolls and cluricauns. One cell held nothing but a sleeping child minotaur, while in the cell opposite, two cannibal Windigo lay unconscious alongside a trio of oni. An entire corridor of cells was given over to dragon-kin, wyverns and firedrakes.

Perenelle didn’t think they were prisoners-none of the cells were locked-yet they were all asleep, and they were secured behind the shining silver spider’s web. Still, she wasn’t sure whether that was to keep the creatures prisoners or keep them apart. None of the creatures she’d discovered were allies. She passed one cell where the web hung in ragged tatters. The cell was empty, but the web and floor were clogged with bones, none of them even vaguely human.

These were creatures from a dozen lands and as many mythologies. Some-like the Windigo-she had only heard of, but at least they were native to the American continent. Others, as far as she knew, had never traveled to the New World and had remained safe and secure in their homelands or in Shadowrealms that bordered those lands. Japanese oni should not coexist alongside Celtic peists.

There was something terribly wrong here.

Perenelle rounded a corner and felt a breeze ruffle her hair. She turned her face to it, nostrils flaring, smelling salt and seaweed. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she hurried down the corridor.

Dee had to be collecting these creatures, had to be gathering them together, but why? And more importantly, how? Capturing a single vetala was unheard of, but a dozen? And how had they managed to get a baby minotaur away from its mother? Even Scathach, as fearless and deadly as she was, would never face down one of the bull-headed race if she could help it.

Perenelle came to a flight of steps. The smell of salt air was stronger now, the breeze cooler, but she hesitated before putting her foot down and bent to check the stair for silver strands. There were none. She still hadn’t spotted whatever had spun the webs that festooned the lower cells, and it was making her incredibly nervous. It suggested that the web creators were probably sleeping…which meant that they would wake up sooner or later. When they did, the entire prison would be swarming with spiders-or maybe worse-and she didn’t want to be out in the open when that happened.

A little of her power had returned-certainly enough to defend herself, though the moment she used her magic, it would draw the sphinx to her and simultaneously weaken and age her. Perenelle knew she would only get one chance to face down the creature, and she wanted- needed -to be as powerful as possible for that encounter. Darting up the creaking metal stairs, she stopped at the rust-eaten door. Pushing back her hair, she placed her ear against the corroded metal. All she could hear was the dull pounding of the sea as it continued to eat away at the island. Gripping the handle in both hands, she gently bore down on it and pushed the door open, gritting her teeth as old hinges squeaked and squalled, the sound echoing through the corridors.

Perenelle stepped out into a broad courtyard surrounded by ruined and tumbled buildings. To the right the sun was sinking in the west, and it painted the stones in a warm orange light. With a sigh of relief, she spread her arms wide, turned her face to the sun, threw her head back and closed her eyes. Static crackled and ran along the length of her black hair, lifting it off her shoulders as her aura immediately began to recharge. The wind whipping in off the bay was cool, and she breathed deeply, ridding her lungs of the stench of rot, mildew and the monsters below.