Michael Scott - The Magician

Knowledge, as Machiavelli well knew, was power.

Although there were three screens devoted to Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, hard information was scarce. There were hundreds of entries, each one a reported sighting of the Flamels since their supposed deaths in 1418. They had been seen on just about every continent in the world-except Australia. For the past 150 years, they had lived on the North American continent, with the first confirmed and verified sighting of the last century taking place in Buffalo, New York, in September 1901. He skipped to the section marked Known Immortal Associates. It was blank.

“Nothing. I have no records of the Flamels’ associating with other immortals.”

“But now he is back in Paris,” Dagon said, bubbles of liquid forming on his lips as he spoke. “He will seek out old friends. People behave differently at home,” he added; “their guard comes down. And no matter how long Flamel has lived away from this city, he will still consider it his home.”

Niccolo Machiavelli looked over the top of the computer screen. He was reminded yet again of how little he knew about his faithful employee. “And where is your home, Dagon?” he asked.

“Gone. Long gone.” A translucent skin flickered across the huge globes of his eyes.

“Why have you remained with me?” Machiavelli wondered aloud. “Why have you not sought out others of your kind?”

“They too are gone. I am the last of my kind, and besides, you are not that dissimilar to me.”

“But you are not human,” Machiavelli said softly.

“Are you?” Dagon asked, eyes wide and unblinking.

Machiavelli took a long moment before finally nodding and returning to the screen. “So we’re looking for someone the Flamels would have known when they were still living here. And we know they haven’t been in the city since the eighteenth century, so let us limit our search to immortals who were around then.” His fingers tapped the keys, filtering the results. “Seven only. Five are loyal to us.”

“And the other two?”

“Catherine de Medici is living off the Rue du Dragon.”

“She’s not French,” Dagon mumbled stickily.

“Well, she was the mother of three French kings,” Machiavelli said with a rare smile. “But she is loyal only to herself…” His voice trailed away and he straightened. “But what do we have here?”

Dagon remained unmoving.

Niccolo Machiavelli swiveled the computer screen so that his servant could see the photograph of a man staring directly at the camera in what was obviously a posed publicity shot. Thick curling black hair tumbled to his shoulders, framing a round face. His eyes were startlingly blue.

“I do not know this man,” Dagon said.

“Oh, but I do. I know him very well. This is the immortal human once known as the Comte de Saint-Germain. He was a magician, an inventor, a musician…and an alchemist.” Machiavelli closed the program and shut down the computer. “Saint-Germain was also the student of Nicholas Flamel. And he’s currently living in Paris,” he finished triumphantly.

Dagon smiled, his mouth a perfect O filled with razor teeth. “Does Flamel know that Saint-Germain is here?”

“I have no idea. No one knows the extent of Nicholas Flamel’s knowledge.”

Dagon pushed his sunglasses back in place. “And I thought you knew everything.”

“W e need to rest,” Josh said finally. “I can’t go any farther.” He stopped and leaned against a building, bent over and wheezing. Every breath was an effort, and he was beginning to see black spots dancing in front of his eyes. Any moment now he was going to throw up. He felt this way sometimes after football practice, and he knew from experience that he needed to sit and get some liquids into his system.

“He’s right.” Scatty turned to Flamel. “We need to rest, even if only briefly. She was still carrying Sophie in her arms, and with gray glimmers of light illuminating the Parisian rooftops toward the east, the first of the early-morning workers had begun to appear. The fugitives had kept to the dark side streets, and so far no one had paid any attention to the strange group, but that would quickly change as the street filled first with Parisians, then with tourists.

Nicholas stood outlined at the mouth of the narrow street. He glanced up and down before turning to look over his shoulder. “We have to push on,” he protested. “Every second we delay brings Machiavelli closer to us.”

“We can’t,” Scatty said. She looked at Flamel, and for a single instant, her bright green eyes glowed. “The twins need to rest,” she said, and then added softly, “And so do you, Nicholas. You’re exhausted.”

The Alchemyst considered her and then he nodded and his shoulders slumped. “You’re right, of course. I’ll do as you say.”

“Maybe we could check into a hotel?” Josh suggested. He was achingly tired, his eyes and throat gritty, head throbbing.

Scatty shook her head. “They would ask for our passports…” Sophie stirred in her arms, and Scathach gently eased her to the ground and leaned her up against the wall.

Josh was immediately by her side. “You’re awake,” he said, relief in his voice.

“I wasn’t really asleep,” Sophie answered, her tongue feeling too big for her mouth. “I knew what was going on, but it was as if I was looking at it from the outside. Like watching something on TV.” She pressed her hands into the small of her back and pushed hard as she rotated her neck. “Ouch. That hurt.”

“What hurts?” Josh asked immediately.

“Everything.” She attempted to straighten, but aching muscles protested and a sick headache pulsed behind her eyes.

“Is there anyone here you can call for help?” Josh looked from Nicholas to Scathach. “Are there any more immortals or Elders?”

“There are immortals and Elders everywhere,” Scatty said. “Few are as friendly as we are, though,” she added with a humorless smile.

“There will be immortals in Paris,” Flamel agreed slowly, “but I’ve no idea where to find one, and even if I did, I would have no idea where their allegiances lay. Perenelle would know,” he added, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Would your grandmother know?” Josh asked Scatty.

The Warrior glanced at him. “I’m sure she would.” She turned to look at Sophie. “Amongst all of your new memories, can you recall anything about immortals or Elders living in Paris?”

Sophie closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, but the scenes and images that flashed by-fire raining from a bloodred sky, a huge flat-topped pyramid about to be overwhelmed by a gigantic wave-were chaotic and terrifying. She started to shake her head, then stopped. Even the simplest of movements hurt. “I can’t think,” she sighed. “My head is so full, it feels like it’s going to burst.”

“The Witch might know,” Flamel said, “but we have no way of getting in touch with her. She has no phone.”

“What about her neighbors, friends?” Josh asked. He turned back to his sister. “I know you don’t want to think about this, but you have to. It’s important.”

“I can’t think…,” Sophie began, looking away and shaking her head.

“Don’t think. Just answer,” Josh snapped. He took a quick breath and lowered his voice, speaking slowly. “Sis, who is the Witch of Endor’s closest friend in Ojai?”

Sophie’s bright blue eyes closed again and she swayed as if she was about to faint. When her eyes opened, she shook her head. “She has no friends there. But everyone knows her. Maybe we could call the store next to hers…,” she suggested. Then she shook her head. “It’s too late there.”

Flamel nodded. “Sophie’s right; it’ll be closed at this time of night.”