“Master,” he said, wrapping both arms around Nicholas and kissing him quickly on both cheeks. “You have returned.” The man blinked, eyes moist, and for an instant the pupils winked red. There was a sudden hint of burnt leaves in the air.
“And you never left,” Nicholas said warmly, holding the man at arm’s length and examining him critically. “You look well, Francis. Better than the last time I saw you.” He turned, putting his arm around the man’s shoulder. “Scathach you know, of course.”
“Who could forget the Shadow?” The blue-eyed man stepped forward, caught the Warrior’s pale hand in his and brought it to his lips in an old-fashioned courtly gesture.
Scathach leaned forward and pinched the man’s cheek hard enough to leave a red mark. “I told you last time; don’t do that to me.”
“Admit it—you love it.” He grinned. “And this must be Sophie and Josh. The Witch told me about them,” he added. The man’s bright blue eyes remained wide and unblinking as he regarded the two in turn. “The twins of legend,” he murmured, frowning a bit as he stared hard at them. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Nicholas said firmly.
The stranger nodded and bowed slightly. “The twins of legend,” he repeated. “I am honored to make your acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself. I am le Comte de Saint-Germain,” he announced dramatically, and then paused, almost as if he expected them to know the name.
The twins looked at him blankly, identical expressions on their faces.
“But you must call me Francis; all my friends do.”
“My favorite student,” Nicholas added fondly. “Certainly my best student. We’ve known one another a long time.”
“How long?” Sophie asked automatically, although even as she was asking the question, the answer popped into her head.
“For about three hundred years or so,” Nicholas said. “Francis trained to be an alchemist with me. He quickly surpassed me,” he added. “He specialized in creating jewels.”
“I learned everything I know about alchemy from the master: Nicholas Flamel,” Saint-Germain said quickly.
“In the eighteenth century, Francis was also an accomplished singer and musician. And what are you this century?” Nicholas asked.
“Well, I have to say I am disappointed you’ve not heard of me,” the man said in accentless English. “You’ve obviously not been keeping up with the charts. I’ve had five number-one hits in the States and three in Germany, and I won an MTV Europe Best Newcomer award.”
“Best Newcomer?” Nicholas grinned, emphasizing the word new. “You!”
“You know that I have always been a musician, but in this century, Nicholas, I’m a rock star!” he said proudly. “I am Germain!” He looked at the twins as he spoke, eyebrows raised, nodding, waiting for them to react to the announcement.
They shook their heads simultaneously. “Never heard of you,” Josh said bluntly.
Saint-Germain shrugged and looked disappointed. He brought the collar of his coat up around his ears. “Five number-one hits,” he muttered.
“What type of music?” Sophie asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling at the crestfallen expression on the man’s face.
“Dance…electro…techno…that sort of thing.”
Sophie and Josh shook their heads again. “Don’t listen to it,” Josh answered, but Saint-Germain was no longer looking at the twins. His head had swiveled toward the Avenue Gustave Eiffel, to where a long sleek black Mercedes had pulled up to the curb. Three plain black vans drew up behind it.
“Machiavelli!” Flamel snapped angrily. “Francis, you were followed.”
“But how…,” the count began.
“Remember, it’s Niccolò we’re dealing with.” Flamel looked around quickly, assessing the situation. “Scathach, take the twins, go with Saint-Germain. Protect them with your lives.”
“We can stay, I can fight,” Scathach said.
Nicholas shook his head. He waved at the gathered tourists. “Too many people. Someone would be killed. But Machiavelli is not Dee; he’s subtle. He’ll not use magic—not if he can help it. We can use that to our advantage. If we split up, he will follow me; I’m the one he wants. And not just me.” Reaching under his shirt, he pulled out a small square cloth bag.
“What’s that?” Saint-Germain asked.
Nicholas answered Saint-Germain but looked at the twins as he spoke. “Once it held the entire Codex, but now Dee has that. Josh managed to tear two pages from the back of the book. They’re in here. The pages contain the Final Summoning,” he added significantly. “Dee and his Elders need these pages.” He smoothed the cloth and then suddenly handed the bag over to Josh. “Keep these safe,” he said.
“Me?” Josh looked from the bag to Flamel’s face but made no move to take it from the man’s hand.
“Yes, you. Take it,” Flamel commanded.
Reluctantly, the boy reached for the bag, the cloth crackling and sparking as he shoved it under his T-shirt. “Why me?” he asked. He looked quickly at his sister. “I mean, Scathach or Saint-Germain would be better….”
“You rescued the pages, Josh. It’s only right that you should guard them.” Flamel gripped Josh’s shoulders and looked into the boy’s eyes. “I know I can trust you to take care of them.”
Josh pressed his hand against his stomach, feeling the cloth against his skin. When Josh and Sophie had started working in the bookshop and the coffee shop respectively, their father had used an almost identical phrase when talking about Sophie. “I know I can trust you to take care of her.” In that moment, he’d felt both proud and a little bit frightened. Right now, he just felt frightened.
The Mercedes driver’s door opened and a man in a black suit climbed out, mirrored shades reflecting the early-morning sky, making it look as if he had two holes in his face.
“Dagon,” Scathach snarled, sharp teeth suddenly visible, and reached for a weapon in her bag, but Nicholas caught her arm and squeezed it.
“This is not the time.”
Dagon opened the rear door and Niccolò Machiavelli emerged. Although he was at least a hundred yards away, they could clearly see the look of triumph on his face.
Behind the Mercedes, the vans’ doors slid open simultaneously and heavily armed and armored police jumped out and started jogging toward the tower. A tourist screamed, and the dozens of people standing around the base of the Eiffel Tower immediately swiveled their cameras in that direction.
“Time to go,” Flamel said quickly. “You head across the river, I’ll lead them in the other direction. Saint-Germain, my friend,” Nicholas whispered softly, “we’re going to need a distraction to help us escape. Something spectacular.”
“Where will you go?” Saint-Germain demanded.
Flamel smiled. “This was my city long before Machiavelli came here. Perhaps some of my old haunts still remain.”
“It has changed a lot since you were last here,” Saint-Germain warned. As he was speaking, he took Flamel’s left hand in both of his, turned it over and pressed the ball of his right thumb into the center of the Alchemyst’s palm. Sophie and Josh were close enough to see that when he took his hand away, there was the impression of a tiny black-winged butterfly on Flamel’s skin. “It will lead you back to me,” Saint-Germain said mysteriously. “Now, you wanted something spectacular.” He grinned and pushed back the sleeves of his leather coat to reveal bare arms. His skin was covered in dozens of tiny tattooed butterflies that wrapped around his wrists like bracelets, then coiled up around his arm to the crook of his elbow. Lacing the fingers of his hands together, he twisted his wrists and bent them outward with an audible crack, like a pianist preparing to play. “Did you ever see what Paris did to celebrate the millennium?”
“The millennium?” The twins looked at him blankly.
“The millennium. The year 2000. Although the millennium should have been celebrated in 2001,” he added.
“Oh, that millennium,” Sop
hie said. She looked at her brother, confused. What did the millennium have to do with anything?
“Our parents took us to Times Square,” Josh said. “Why?”
“Then you missed something truly spectacular here in Paris. Next time you’re online, check out the pictures.” Saint-Germain rubbed his arms briskly and then, standing below the huge metal tower, he raised his hands high and suddenly the scent of burnt leaves filled the air.
Both Sophie and Josh watched the butterfly tattoos spasm, then shiver and pulse on Saint-Germain’s arms. Gossamer wings trembled and vibrated, antennas twitched…and then the tattoos lifted away from the man’s flesh.
An endless stream of tiny red and white butterflies peeled off Saint-Germain’s pale skin and curled into the cool Parisian air. They circled upward, spinning away from the small man, a seemingly never-ending spiral of crimson and ashen dots. The butterflies curled around the struts and spars, the rivets and bolts of the metal tower, covering it in an iridescent, shimmering skin.
“Ignis,” Saint-Germain whispered, throwing back his head and clapping his hands together.
And the Tower exploded into a cracking, sparking fountain of light.
He laughed delightedly at the twins’ expressions and said, “Know me: I am le Comte de Saint-Germain. I am the Master of Fire!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Fireworks,” Sophie breathed in awe.
The Eiffel Tower lit up with a spectacular fireworks display. Blue and gold traceries of light raced almost one thousand feet to the mast at the very top of the tower, where they blossomed into fountains of blue globes. Sparking, hissing, fizzing rainbow-colored threads wove through the struts, bursting and snapping. The tower’s thick rivets popped with white fire, while the arching spars rained cool ice blue droplets into the street far below.
The effect was dramatic, but it became truly spectacular when Saint-Germain snapped the fingers of both hands and the entire Eiffel Tower turned bronze, then gold, then green and finally blue in the morning sun. Rattling traceries of light darted up and down the metal. Catherine wheels and rockets, fountains and Roman candles, flying spinners and snakes spun off from every floor. The mast at the very tip of the tower fountained red, white and blue sparks that cascaded like bubbling liquid down through the heart of the tower.
The crowd was entranced.
People gathered at the base, oohing and aahing, applauding at each new explosion, their cameras clicking furiously. Motorists stopped on the roads and climbed out of their cars, holding camera phones to snap the stunning and beautiful images. Within moments, the dozens of people around the tower had grown to a hundred and then, within a matter of minutes, had doubled and then doubled again as people came running from shops and homes to observe the extraordinary display.
And Nicholas Flamel and his companions were swallowed up by the crowd.
In a rare display of emotion, Machiavelli hit the side of the car so hard it hurt his hand. He watched the growing crowd of people and knew his men would not be able to get through in time to prevent Flamel and the others from escaping.
The air sizzled and spat with fireworks; rockets went whizzing high into the air, where they exploded into spheres and streamers of light. Firecrackers and sparklers rattled around each of the tower’s four giant metal legs.
“Sir!” A young police captain stopped before Machiavelli and saluted. “What are your orders? We can push through the crowd, but there may be injuries.”
Machiavelli shook his head. “No, do not do that.” Dee would do it, he knew. Dee would not hesitate to level the entire tower, killing hundreds just to capture Flamel. Drawing himself up to his full height, Niccolò could just about make out the shape of the leather-clad Saint-Germain and the lethal Scathach herding the young man and woman away. They melted into the now-huge crowd and disappeared. But surprisingly, shockingly, when he looked back, Nicholas Flamel remained where he had first seen him, standing almost directly beneath the center of the tower.
Flamel raised his right hand in a mocking salute, the silver-link bracelet he wore reflecting the light.
Machiavelli caught the police captain’s shoulder, spun him around with surprising strength and pointed with his long narrow fingers. “That one! If you do nothing else today, get me that one. And I want him alive and unharmed!”
As they both watched, Flamel turned and hurried toward the west leg of the Eiffel Tower, toward the Pont d’Iéna, but whereas the others had run across the bridge, Flamel turned to the right, onto the Quai Branly.
“Yes, sir!” The captain struck out at an angle, determined to cut off Flamel. “Follow me,” he shouted, and his troops spread out in a line behind him.
Dagon stepped up to Machiavelli. “Do you want me to track Saint-Germain and the Shadow?” His head turned, nostrils flaring with a wet sticky sound. “I can follow their scent.”
Niccolò Machiavelli shook his head slightly as he climbed back into the car. “Get us out of here before the press turns up. Saint-Germain is nothing if not predictable. He’s undoubtedly heading to one of his homes, and we have them all under observation. All we can do is hope we capture Flamel.”
Dagon’s face was impassive as he slammed the car door closed behind his master. He turned in the direction Flamel had run and saw him disappear amongst the crowd. The police were close behind, moving fast even though they were weighed down by their body armor and weapons. But Dagon knew that over the centuries Flamel had escaped both human and inhuman hunters, had slipped past creatures that had been myth before the evolution of the apes and had outwitted monsters that had no right to exist outside of nightmares. Dagon doubted that the police would catch the Alchemyst.
Then he cocked his head, nostrils flaring again, catching the scent of Scathach. The Shadow had returned!
The enmity between Dagon and the Shadow went back millennia. He was the last of his kind…because she had destroyed his entire race one terrible night two thousand years ago. Behind his wraparound mirrored sunglasses, the creature’s eyes filled with sticky colorless tears, and he swore that, no matter what happened between Machiavelli and Flamel, this time he would have his revenge on the Shadow.
“Walk, don’t run,” Scathach commanded. “Saint-Germain, take the lead, Sophie and Josh in the middle, I’ll take up the rear.” Scatty’s tone left no room for argument.
They darted across the bridge and turned right onto the Avenue de New York. A series of lefts and rights brought them to a narrow side street. It was still early, and the street was entirely in shadow. The temperature dropped dramatically, and the twins immediately noticed that the fingers of Saint-Germain’s left hand, which were gently brushing against the dirty wall, left tiny sparks in their wake.
Sophie frowned, sorting through her memories—the Witch of Endor’s memories, she reminded herself—of the Comte de Saint-Germain. She caught her brother looking sidelong at her and raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Your eyes turned silver. Just for a second,” he said.
Sophie glanced over her shoulder to where Scathach was trailing behind and then looked at the man in the leather coat. They were both out of earshot, she thought. “I was trying to remember what I knew….” She shook her head. “What the Witch knew about Saint-Germain.”
“What about him?” Josh said. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He is a famous French alchemist,” she whispered, “and along with Flamel, probably one of the most mysterious men in history.”
“Is he human?” Josh wondered aloud, but Sophie pressed on.
“He’s not an Elder or Next Generation. He’s human. Even the Witch of Endor didn’t know a lot about him. She met him for the first time in London in 1740. She knew immediately that he was an immortal human, and he claimed he’d discovered the secret of immortality when he was studying with Nicholas Flamel.” She shook her head quickly. “But I don’t think the Witch quite believed that. He told her that while traveling in Tibet he had perfected a formula f
or immortality that didn’t need to be renewed each month. But when she asked him for a copy, he told her he’d lost it. Apparently, he spoke every language in the world fluently, was a brilliant musician and had a reputation as a jewel maker.” Her eyes blinked silver again as the memories faded. “And the Witch didn’t like or trust him.”
“Then neither should we,” Josh whispered urgently.
Sophie nodded, agreeing. “But Nicholas likes him, and obviously trusts him,” she said slowly. “Why is that?”
Josh’s expression was grim. “I’ve told you before: I don’t think we should be trusting Nicholas Flamel, either. Something’s not right about him—I’m convinced.”
Sophie bit back her response and looked away. She knew why Josh was angry with the Alchemyst; her brother was envious of her Awakened powers, and she knew he blamed Flamel for putting her in danger. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.
The narrow side street led onto a broad tree-lined avenue. Although it was still too early for rush-hour, the spectacular light and fireworks display around the Eiffel Tower had brought any traffic in the area to a standstill. The air was filled with the blare of car horns and the whooping of police sirens. A fire truck was caught in the traffic jam, its wails rising and falling, though there was nowhere for it to go. Saint-Germain strode across the road, looking neither left nor right as he dug in his pocket for a slender black cell phone. He flipped it open and hit speed dial. Then he spoke in rapid-fire French.
“Are you calling for help?” Sophie asked when he had closed the phone.
Saint-Germain shook his head. “Ordering breakfast. I’m famished.” He jerked his thumb back in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, which was still erupting fireworks. “Creating something like that—if you’ll pardon the pun—burns a lot of calories.”
Sophie nodded, understanding now why her stomach had been rumbling with hunger since she’d created the fog.
Scathach caught up with the twins and fell into step alongside Sophie as they hurried past the American Cathedral. “I don’t think we’re being followed,” she said, sounding surprised. “I would have expected Machiavelli to send someone after us.” She rubbed the edge of her thumb against her bottom lip, chewing on her ragged nails.