Michael Scott - The Magician

Josh turned to regard Niccolo Machiavelli. The tall white-haired man looked vaguely troubled, but he nodded in agreement. “The English Magician is correct: your powers could be Awakened today. I imagine we could probably find someone to do it within the hour.”

Smiling triumphantly, Dee turned back to Josh. “It’s your choice. So, give me your answer-do you want to go back to Flamel and his vague promises, or do you want to have your powers Awakened?”

Even as he was turning to follow the black threads of dark energy that drifted off Excalibur’s stone blade, Josh knew the answer. He remembered the feelings, the emotions, the power, that had coursed through his body when he’d held Clarent. And Dee had said those feelings were nowhere near as intense as being Awakened.

“I need an answer,” Dee said.

Josh Newman took a deep breath. “What do I have to do?”

J oan swung the battered Citroen into the mouth of the alleyway and eased the car to a halt, blocking the entrance. Leaning over the steering wheel, she scoured the alley, looking for movement, wondering if this was a trap.

Following Josh had been remarkably easy; all she’d had to do was to follow the gouge cut into the street by the metal rim of his car’s front wheel. She’d had a brief moment of panic when she’d lost him in a maze of back streets, but then a thick plume of black smoke rose over the rooftops and she’d followed that: it had led her to the alley and the burning police car.

“Stay here,” she commanded the exhausted Flamel and the ashen-faced Sophie as she climbed out of the car. She carried her sword loosely in her right hand as she walked down the alley, tapping the blade gently against the palm of her left hand. She was fairly sure that they were too late and that Dee, Machiavelli and Josh were gone, but she wasn’t prepared to take any risks.

Padding silently down the center of the alley, wary of the piles of trash cans that could be hiding an assailant, Joan realized she was still in a state of shock following Scatty’s disappearance. One moment Joan had been standing in front of her old friend, and the next, the creature that was more fish than man had reared up out of the water and dragged Scatty down with him.

Joan blinked away tears. She had known Scathach for more than five hundred years. In those early centuries they’d been inseparable, adventuring together across the world into countries yet to be explored by the West, encountering tribes that still lived as their ancestors had thousands of years in the past. They’d discovered lost islands, hidden cities and forgotten countries, and Scatty had even taken her into some of the Shadowrealms, where they had fought creatures that had long been extinct on the earth. In the Shadowrealms, Joan had seen her friend fight and defeat creatures that existed only in the darkest human myths. Joan knew that nothing could stand against the Shadow…and yet Scatty herself had always said that she could be defeated, that she was immortal but not invulnerable. Joan had always imagined that when Scatty finally laid down her life it would be in one final dramatic and extraordinary event…not by being dragged into a dirty river by an overgrown fish-man.

Joan grieved for her friend, and she would weep for her, but not now. Not yet.

Joan of Arc had been a warrior from the time she was barely a teenager, riding into battle at the head of a massive French army. She had seen too many friends fall in battle and had learned that if she concentrated on their deaths she would be incapable of fighting. Right now she knew she needed to protect Nicholas and the girl. Later, there would be time to grieve for Scathach the Shadow, and there would also be time to go in search of the creature Flamel had called Dagon. Joan hefted the sword in her hand. She would avenge her friend.

The petite Frenchwoman walked past the blazing remains of the police car and crouched on the ground, expertly reading the traces and signs on the damp stones. She heard Nicholas and Sophie climb out of the battered Citroen and walk down the alley, stepping around puddles of oil and dirty water. Nicholas was carrying Clarent. Joan distinctly heard it buzz as he approached the burning car, and she wondered if it was still connected to the boy.

“They ran from the car and stopped here,” she said, without looking up, as they stopped beside her. “Dee and Machiavelli were facing Josh. He stood over there.” She pointed. “They ran through the water back there; you can clearly see the outlines of their shoes on the ground.”

Sophie and Flamel leaned over and looked at the ground. They nodded, though she knew they could see nothing.

“Now, this is interesting,” she continued. “At one stage Josh’s footsteps are pointing down the alley, and he’s on the balls of his feet, almost as if he was thinking about running. But look here.” She pointed to traces of heel prints on the ground that only she could see. “The three of them walked off together, Dee and Josh first, Machiavelli following behind.”

“Can you track them?” Flamel demanded.

Joan shrugged. “To the end of the alley, maybe, but beyond that…” She shrugged again and straightened up, dusting off her hands. “Impossible; there will be too many other prints.”

“What are we going to do?” Nicholas whispered. “How are we going to find the boy?”

Joan’s eyes drifted from Flamel’s face to Sophie. “We can’t…but Sophie can.”

“How?” he asked.

Joan moved her hand in a horizontal line in front of her. It left the faintest tracery of light in the air, and the foul alley briefly smelled of lavender. “She’s his twin: she’ll be able to follow his aura.”

Nicholas Flamel caught both of Sophie’s shoulders, forcing the girl to look into his eyes. “Sophie!” he snapped. “Sophie, look at me.”

Sophie raised red-rimmed eyes to look at the Alchemyst. She was completely numb. Scatty was gone, and now Josh had vanished, kidnapped by Dee and Machiavelli. Everything was falling apart.

“Sophie,” Nicholas said very quietly, his pale eyes catching and holding hers. “I need you to be strong now.”

“What’s the point?” she asked. “They’re gone.”

“They’re not gone,” he said confidently.

“But Scatty…” The girl hiccupped.

“…is one of the most dangerous women in the world,” he finished. “She’s survived for over two thousand years and fought creatures infinitely more dangerous than Dagon.”

Sophie wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or her. “I saw that thing drag her into the river, and we waited for at least ten minutes. She didn’t come back up. She must have drowned.” Her voice caught and she could feel the tears pricking at the back of her eyes again. Her throat felt as if it were on fire.

“I’ve seen her survive worse, much worse.” Nicholas attempted a wan smile. “I think Dagon is in for a surprise! Scatty’s like a cat: she hates getting wet. The Seine runs very fast; they were probably swept downriver. She’ll contact us.”

“But how? She’ll have no idea where we are.” Sophie really hated the way adults lied. They were just so transparent.

“Sophie,” Nicholas said seriously. “If Scathach is alive, she will find us. Trust me.”

And in that moment, Sophie realized that she did not trust the Alchemyst.

Joan put her arm on Sophie’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Nicholas is right. Scatty is…” She smiled, and her entire face lit up. “She is extraordinary. Her aunt once abandoned her in one of the Underworld Shadowrealms: it took her centuries to find her way out. But she did it.”

Sophie nodded slowly. She knew that what they were saying was true-the Witch of Endor knew more about Scathach than either the Alchemyst or Joan-but she could also tell that they were very worried.