dream, watching someone who looked like me.
My football coach says that before you can take control, you have to be in
control. If you can learn how to control your aura and master the magics,
Josh continued, no one would be able to do that to you ever again. You d be
incredibly powerful. And let s say, for instance, that my power isn't
Awakened. I can learn how to use this sword. He twisted it in his hand,
attempting to spin the blade, but it slipped sideways and cut a deep gouge in
the wall. Oops.
Josh!
What? You can hardly notice it. He rubbed his sleeve against the cut. Paint
and plaster flaked away, exposing the brickwork beneath.
You re making it worse. And you've probably taken a chunk out of the sword.
But when Josh held the weapon up to the light, there wasn't even a mark on
the blade.
Sophie nodded slowly. I still think I know you re wrong about Flamel and the
others.
Sophie, you have to trust me.
I trust you. But remember, the Witch knows these people, and she trusts
them.
Sophie, Josh said in frustration, we don't know anything about the Witch.
Oh, Josh, I know everything about the Witch, Sophie said feelingly. She
tapped her temple with her forefinger. And I wish I didn't. Her entire life,
thousands of years, are in here. Josh opened his mouth to reply, but Sophie
held up her hand. Here s what I ll do: I ll work with Saint-Germain, learn
everything he has to teach me.
And keep an eye on him at the same time; try and find out what he and Flamel
are up to.
Sophie ignored him. Maybe the next time we re attacked, we ll be able to
defend ourselves. She looked across the rooftops of Paris. At least we re
safe here.
But for how long? her twin asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
D r. John Dee turned off the light and stepped out of the enormous bedroom
onto the balcony, resting his forearms on the metal railing and looking out
over the city of Paris. It had rained earlier and the air was damp and chill,
tainted with the sour smell from the Seine and the hint of exhaust fumes.
He hated Paris.
It had not always been that way. Once, this had been his favorite city in all
of Europe, filled with the most wonderful and extraordinary memories. After
all, he had been made immortal in this city. In a dungeon deep below the
Bastille, the prison fortress, the Crow Goddess had taken him to the Elder
who had granted him eternal life in return for unquestioning loyalty.
Dr. John Dee had worked for the Elders, spied for them, undertaken many
dangerous missions through countless Shadowrealms. He had fought armies of
the dead and undead, pursued monsters across bitter wastelands, stolen some
of the most precious and magical objects sacred to a dozen civilizations. In
time he had become the champion of the Dark Elders; nothing was beyond him,
no mission was too difficult except when it came to the Flamels. The English
Magician had failed, over and over, to capture Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel,
several times in this very city.
It remained one of the greatest mysteries of his long existence: how had the
Flamels evaded him? He commanded an army of human, inhuman and abhuman
agents; he had access to the birds of the air; he could command rats, cats
and dogs. He had at his disposal creatures from the darkest edges of
mythology. But for more than four hundred years, the Flamels had escaped
capture, first here in Paris, then across Europe and into America, always
staying one step ahead of him, often leaving town only hours before he
arrived. It was almost as if they were being warned. But that, of course, was
impossible. The Magician shared his plans with no one.
A door opened and closed in the room behind him. Dee s nostrils flared,
smelling a hint of musty serpent. Good evening, Niccol , Dee said, without
turning around.
Welcome to Paris. Niccol Machiavelli spoke Latin with an Italian accent.
I trust you had a good flight and that the room is to your satisfaction?
Machiavelli had arranged for Dee to be met at the airport and given a police
escort to his grand town house off the Place du Canada.
Where are they? Dee asked rudely, ignoring his host s questions, asserting
his authority. He might have been a few years younger than the Italian, but
he was in charge.
Machiavelli stepped out of the room and stood beside Dee on the balcony.
Unwilling to wrinkle his suit against the metal railing, he stood with his
hands clasped behind his back. The tall, elegant, clean-shaven Italian with
close-cropped white hair was in great contrast with the small sharp-featured
man with his pointed beard and his gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
They are still in Saint-Germain s house. And Flamel has recently joined
them.
Dr. Dee glanced sidelong at Machiavelli. I m surprised you were not tempted
to try and capture them yourself, he said slyly.
Machiavelli looked over the city he controlled. Oh, I thought I would leave
their final capture to you, he said mildly.
You mean you were instructed to leave them to me, Dee snapped.
Machiavelli said nothing.
Saint-Germain s house is completely surrounded?
Completely.
And there are only five people in the house? No servants, no guards?
The Alchemyst and Saint-Germain, the twins and the Shadow.
Scathach is the problem, Dee muttered.
I may have a solution, Machiavelli suggested softly. He waited until the
Magician turned to look at him, his stone gray eyes blinking orange in the
reflected streetlights. I sent for the Disir, Scathach s fiercest foes.
Three of them have just arrived.
A rare smile curled Dee s thin lips. Then he moved back from Machiavelli and
bowed slightly. The Valkyries a truly excellent choice.
We are on the same side, Machiavelli bowed in return. We serve the same
masters.
The Magician was about to step back into the room when he stopped and turned
to look at Machiavelli. For a moment, the faintest rotten-egg hint of sulfur
hung in the air. You have no idea whom I serve, he said.
Dagon threw open the tall double doors and stepped back. Niccol Machiavelli
and Dr. John Dee strode into the ornate book-filled library to greet their
visitors.
There were three young women in the room.
At first glance they were so alike that they could have been triplets. Tall
and thin, with shoulder-length blond hair, they were dressed alike in black
tanks under soft leather jackets and blue jeans tucked into knee-high boots.
Their faces were all angles: sharp cheekbones, deeply sunken eyes, pointed
chins. Only their eyes helped distinguish them. They were different shades of
blue, from the palest sapphire to deep, almost purple indigo. All three
looked as if they might have been sixteen or seventeen, but in actuality,
they were older than most civilizations.
They were the Disir.
Machiavelli stepped into the center of the room and turned to look at each of
the girls in turn, trying to tell them apart. One was sitting at the grand
piano, another was lounging on the sofa, while a third leaned against a