Michael Scott - The Magician

The two immortals sat unmoving in the car, watching as the creature lurched forward, moving more slowly now, the weight of its tail dragging behind it. All that stood between it and the water was one of the glass-enclosed boats-the bateaux-mouches-that took tourists up and down the river.

Dee nodded toward the boat. “Once it climbs onto that, the boat will sink, and Nidhogg and Scathach will disappear into the Seine forever.”

“And what about the Disir?”

“I’m sure she can swim.”

Machiavelli allowed himself a wry smile. “So all we’re waiting for now…”

“…is for it to reach the boat,” Dee finished, just as Josh appeared through the gaping hole in the tree-lined quayside and darted across the parking lot.

As Josh raced up to the creature, the sword in his right hand began to burn, long streamers of orange fire curling off the blade. His aura started to crackle a matching golden color, suffusing the air with the smell of oranges.

Abruptly, the Disir slid off the monster’s back, flickering back into her white chain mail in the instant before her feet touched the ground. She rounded on Josh, her features locked into an ugly, savage mask. “You are becoming a nuisance, boy,” she snarled in barely comprehensible English. Lifting her great broadsword in both hands, she threw herself toward Josh. “This will just take a moment.”

H uge sweeping banks of fog rolled across San Francisco Bay.

Perenelle Flamel folded her arms across her chest and watched the night sky fill with birds. A great wheeling flock rose over the city, gathered in a thick moving cloud, and then, like tendrils of spilled ink, three separate streams of birds set out across the bay, heading directly for the island. And she knew that somewhere in the heart of the great flock was the Crow Goddess. The Morrigan was coming to Alcatraz.

Perenelle was standing in the burned-out ruins of the warden’s house, where she’d finally managed to escape the masses of spiders. Although it had burned more than three decades ago, she could smell the ghost-odors of charred wood, cracked plaster and melted piping lingering in the air. The Sorceress knew that if she lowered her defenses and concentrated, she would be able to hear the voices of the wardens and their families who had occupied the building through the years.

Shading her bright green eyes and squinting hard, Perenelle concentrated on the approaching birds, trying to distinguish them from the night and work out just how much time she had before they arrived. The flock was huge, and the thickening fog made it impossible to guess either size or distance. But she guessed she had perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before they reached the island. She brought her little finger and thumb close together. A single white spark cracked between them. Perenelle nodded. Her powers were returning, just not fast enough. They would continue to strengthen now that she was away from the sphinx, but her aura would recharge more slowly at night. She also knew that she was still nowhere near strong enough to defeat the Morrigan and her pets.

But that didn’t mean she was defenseless; a lifetime of study had taught her many useful things.

The Sorceress felt a chill breeze ruffle her long hair in the instant before the ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala flickered into existence beside her. The ghost hung in the air, taking substance and definition from a host of dust particles and water droplets in the gathering fog. Like many of the ghosts she’d encountered, he was wearing the clothes he had felt most comfortable in while he was alive: a loose white linen shirt tucked into knee-length trousers. His legs tapered away below his knees, and, like a lot of spirits, he had no feet. While they were alive, people rarely looked down at their feet. “This was once the most beautiful spot on this earth, was it not?” he asked, flat moist eyes fixed on the city of San Francisco.

“It still is,” she said, turning to look across the bay to where the city sparkled and glittered with countless tiny lights. “Nicholas and I have called it home for many years.”

“Oh, not the city!” de Ayala said dismissively.

Perenelle glanced sidelong at the ghost. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “It looks beautiful.”

“I once stood here, close to this very spot, and watched perhaps a thousand fires burning on the shores. Each fire represented a family. In time I came to know all of them.” The Spaniard’s long face grimaced in what might have been pain. “They taught me about the land, and about this place, spoke to me of their gods and spirits. I think it was those people who bound me to this land. All I see now are lights; I cannot see the stars, I cannot see the tribes or individuals huddling around their fires. Where is the place I loved?”

Perenelle nodded toward the distant lights. “It’s still there. Just grown.”

“It’s changed out of all recognition,” de Ayala said, “and not for the better.”

“I’ve watched the world change too, Juan.” Perenelle spoke very softly. “But I like to believe that it has changed for the better. I am older than you. I was born into an age when a toothache could kill you, when life was short and brutal and death was often painful. Around the same time you were discovering this island, the average life expectancy of a healthy adult was no more than thirty-five years. Now it is double that. Toothaches no longer kill-well, not usually,” she added with a laugh. Getting Nicholas to go to the dentist was practically impossible. “Humans have made astonishing strides in the last few hundred years; they have created wonders.”

De Ayala floated around to hover directly in front of her. “And in their rush to create wonders, they have ignored the wonders all around them, ignored the mysteries, the beauty. Myths and legends walk unseen amongst them, ignored, unrecognized. It was not always so.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Perenelle agreed sadly. She looked across the bay. The city was fast disappearing into the mist, the lights taking on a magical, ethereal quality. It was easy now to see what it must have looked like in the past…and what it might look like again if the Dark Elders reclaimed the earth. In past ages, mankind had recognized that there really were creatures and other races-the Vampire, the Were, the Giants-living in the shadows. Sometimes beings as powerful as gods lived in the heart of the mountains or deep in the impenetrable forests. There were ghouls in the earth, wolves really did roam the forest, and there were creatures much worse than trolls under bridges. When travelers had returned from distant lands, bringing with them stories of the monsters and creatures they had met, the wonders they had seen, no one doubted them. Nowadays, even with photographs, videos or eyewitness accounts of something extraordinary or otherworldly, people still doubted-dismissing everything as a hoax.

“And now one of those terrible wonders is coming to my island,” Juan said sadly. “I can feel it approach. Who is it?”

“The Morrigan, the Crow Goddess.”

Juan turned to Perenelle. “I’ve heard of her; some of the Irish and Scottish sailors in my crews feared her. She’s coming for you, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” The Sorceress smiled grimly.

“What will she do?”

Perenelle tilted her head to one side, considering. “Well, they’ve tried imprisoning me. That’s failed. I imagine Dee’s masters have finally sanctioned a more permanent solution.” She laughed shakily. “I’ve been in trickier situations…” Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard and tried again. “But I’ve always had Nicholas by my side. Together we were undefeatable. I wish he were here with me now.” She took a deep breath, steadying her breathing and raising both hands in front of her face. Smoking wisps of her ice white aura curled off her fingertips. “But I am the immortal Perenelle Flamel, and I will not go down without a fight.”