Josh had no idea what to do. He needed to get to Scatty, but that meant getting around the creature, and there was simply no room. He watched as the blond woman raced down the alley. Without hesitation she leapt onto the monster’s back and climbed nimbly toward its head, arms stretched out on either side, weapons poised.
She was going to kill it, Josh decided, relief washing over him. Maybe then he could get in and grab Scatty.
Sitting astride the creature’s broad neck, the woman reached down and lashed out at Scathach’s limp and unmoving body.
Josh’s cry of horror was lost in the wail of sirens.
“Sir, we have a report of an…incident.” The ashen-faced police officer handed the phone to Niccolò Machiavelli. “The RAID officer asked to speak to you personally.”
Dee caught the man by the arm and spun him around. “What is it?” he demanded in perfect French as Machiavelli listened intently to the call, one finger in his ear, trying to drown out the noise.
“I’m not sure, sir. A mistake, certainly.” The police officer attempted a shaky laugh. “A few streets down, people are reporting that there is…a monster stuck in a house. Impossible, I know…” His voice trailed off as he turned to look toward what had once been a substantial three-story house that now had a gaping hole plowed through the side.
Machiavelli tossed the phone back to the police officer. “Get me a car.”
“A car?”
“A car and a map,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir. You can take mine.” The police officer had been one of the first on the scene following dozens of calls from alarmed citizens. He’d spotted Machiavelli and Dee hurrying from the alley close to the source of the noise and had stopped them, convinced that they had something to do with what was being reported as an explosion. His bluster had turned to dismay when he’d discovered that the mud-spattered older man with white hair in the torn suit was actually the head of the DGSE.
The officer handed over his car key and a battered and torn Michelin map of Paris’s city center. “I’m afraid this is all I have.”
Machiavelli snatched it from his hand. “You’re dismissed.” He gestured toward the street. “Go and direct traffic; let no press or public near the house. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The police officer raced away, thankful that he still had his job; no one wanted to upset one of the most powerful men in France.
Machiavelli spread the map across the hood of the car. “We’re here,” he explained to Dee. “Nidhogg is heading directly east, but at some stage, it’s got to cross the Champs-Elysées and make for the river. If it continues on its present course, I’ve a reasonably good idea it will come out”—his finger stabbed the map—“close to here.”
The two men climbed into the small car and Machiavelli looked around for a moment, trying to make sense of the controls. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven a car; Dagon had always looked after that. Finally, with a grinding crunch of gears, he got the car moving and made an illegal turn that sent them fishtailing across the road, then roared down the Champs-Elysées, leaving rubber in their wake.
Dee sat silently in the passenger seat, one hand wrapped around the seat belt, the other braced against the dashboard. “Who taught you to drive?” he asked shakily as they bounced off the curb.
“Karl Benz,” Machiavelli snapped. “A long time ago,” he added.
“And how many wheels did that car have?”
“Three.”
Dee squeezed his eyes shut as they roared across an intersection, barely missing a lumbering road-sweeper truck. “So what do we do when we get to Nidhogg?” he asked, focusing on the problem, trying to keep his mind off Machiavelli’s terrible driving.
“That’s your problem,” Machiavelli retorted. “After all, you’re the one who freed it.”
“But you invited the Disir here. So it’s partially your fault.”
Machiavelli hit the brakes hard, sending the car into a long screeching slide. The engine cut out and the car jerked to a halt.
“Why have we stopped?” Dee demanded.
Machiavelli pointed out the window. “Listen.”
“I can’t hear anything over the noise of the sirens.”
“Listen,” Machiavelli insisted. “Something’s coming.” He pointed to the left. “Over there.”
Dee rolled down his window. Over the police, ambulance and fire sirens, they could hear stones grinding, bricks falling and the sharp snap-crackle of breaking glass….
Josh watched, powerless, as the woman sitting atop the monster lashed at Scatty with her sword.
At that moment the monster shrugged, still trying to free itself from the building that encased it, and the blade missed, whistling dangerously close to the unconscious Warrior’s head. Edging higher on the monster’s broad neck, the woman gripped a clump of thick skin, leaned sideways across a huge unblinking eye and jabbed the point of her sword at Scatty. Again the creature moved and the sword bit into its arm, close to the claw wrapped around the Warrior. The monster didn’t react, but Josh saw how close the blade had come to Scatty. The woman leaned down again, and this time, Josh knew, she’d hit the Warrior.
He had to do something! He was Scatty’s only hope. He couldn’t just stand here and watch someone he knew get killed. He started running. Back at the house, when he’d slashed at the creature, nothing had happened, but when he’d plunged the sword point first into its thick hide…
Holding Clarent in the two-handed grip Joan had taught him, Josh put on a final burst of speed and raced up to the creature. He could feel the sword humming in his hands just before he stabbed it into the monster’s tail.
Instantly, heat flowed up through his arms and blossomed in his chest. The air filled with the tart smell of oranges in the heartbeat before his aura flared briefly golden and then faded to the same reddish-orange glow that was streaming off the sword protruding from the creature’s thick knobbled skin.
Josh twisted Clarent and pulled it free. In the grayish brown hide, the wound burned bright red and immediately started to hardened into a black crust. It took a moment for the sensation to travel through the creature’s primitive nervous system. Then the monster abruptly reared up on its hind legs, hissing and squealing in agony. It wrenched itself free of the house, the sudden rain of bricks, roof tiles and wooden beams sending Josh scrambling back, out of harm’s way. He hit the ground, covering his head as debris crashed about him. He thought it would be just his luck to be killed by a roof tile. The unexpected movement almost dislodged the woman on the monster’s back. Swaying, she dropped the war hammer and desperately grabbed at the creature’s back to prevent herself from being thrown down directly in front of it. Lying on the ground, bricks raining around him, Josh watched as the thick black crust began to spread out from the wound and creep up the monster’s tail. It reared again and then plowed right through the corner of the house and out across the Champs-Elysées. Josh was relieved to see that Scatty’s limp form was still gripped in his front claws.
Taking a deep breath, Josh scrambled to his feet and snatched up the sword. Instantly, he felt power buzz through his body, heightening every sense. He stood swaying as raw power energized him; then he turned and raced after the monster. He felt amazing. Even though it was still not quite dawn, he could see clearly, though the colors were slightly off. He could smell the myriad scents of the city through the rancid serpent-stink of the creature. His hearing was so acute he could differentiate the sirens of the many different emergency services; he could even distinguish individual cars. He could actually feel the irregular indentations in the pavement beneath his feet through the rubber soles of his sneakers. He waved the sword in the air before him. It keened and hummed, and instantly, Josh imagined he could hear distant whispers and make out words he could almost understand. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alive: and he knew then that this was how Sophie had felt when she’d been Awakened. But whereas she’d been frightened, confused by the
sensations…he felt exhilarated.
He wanted this. More than anything else in the world.
Dagon padded into the alleyway, scooped up the Disir’s fallen war hammer and raced after the boy.
Dagon had seen the flare of the boy’s aura and knew that it was indeed powerful, though whether the boy and girl were the twins of legend was a different matter. Obviously, the Alchemyst, and Dee, too, seemed convinced that they were. But Dagon knew that even Machiavelli—one of the most brilliant humani he’d ever associated with—was unsure, and the brief glimpse he’d caught of the boy’s aura wasn’t enough to convince him either way. Gold and silver auras were rare—though not as rare as the black aura—and Dagon had encountered at least four sets of twins down through the ages with the sun and moon auras, as well as dozens of individuals.
But what neither Dee nor Machiavelli knew was that Dagon had seen the original twins.
He’d been on Danu Talis at the very end, for the Final Battle. He’d worn his father’s armor on that auspicious day, when all knew that the fate of the island hung in the balance. Like everyone else, he’d cowered in terror as silver and gold lights blazed from the top of the Pyramid of the Sun in a display of primal power. The elemental magics had lain waste to the ancient landscape and sundered the island at the heart of the world.
Dagon rarely slept anymore; he didn’t even possess a bed. Like a shark, he could sleep and continue to move about. He rarely dreamed, but when he did, the dreams were always the same: a vivid nightmare of those times when the skies had burned with gold and silver lights and the world had ended.
He’d spent many years in Machiavelli’s service. He’d seen both wonders and terrors during those centuries, and together, they’d been present for some of the most significant and interesting moments in the earth’s recent history.
And Dagon was beginning to think that this night might be one of the most memorable.
“Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Dee muttered.
The Magician and Machiavelli watched Nidhogg burst through a building on the left side of the Champs-Elysées, trample the trees that lined the street and career across the road. It still held red-haired Scatty in its claws, and the Disir was clinging to its back. The two immortals watched the huge swinging tail turn a set of traffic lights into a mangled ruin as the creature darted down another street.
“It’s heading for the river,” Machiavelli said.
“But what happened to the boy, I wonder?” Dee mused aloud.
“Maybe he got lost,” Machiavelli began, “or was trampled by Nidhogg. Or maybe not,” he added as Josh Newman stepped through the uprooted trees and out into the broad road. He looked left and right, but there was no traffic, and he didn’t even glance at the police car badly parked against the curb. He darted across the wide avenue, the sword in his hand streaming smoky gold threads behind him.
“The boy’s a survivor,” Dee said admiringly. “Brave, too.”
Seconds later, Dagon burst out of the side street, following Josh. He was carrying a war hammer. Spotting Dee and Machiavelli in the car, he raised his other hand in what might have been a greeting, or a farewell.
“Now what?” Dee demanded.
Machiavelli turned the key in the ignition and wrenched the car into first gear. It jerked forward, bouncing a little; then the engine howled as he put his foot to the floor. “The Rue de Marignan comes out onto the Avenue Montaigne. I think I can get there before Nidhogg does.” He hit the sirens.
Dee nodded. “Perhaps you might think about changing gear.” His lips moved in a barely discernable smile. “You’ll find the car will go faster that way.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Your garage isn’t attached to your house?” Sophie asked, climbing into the back of a small red and black Citroën 2CV, taking up a position behind Nicholas, who was sitting up front with Joan.
“These are converted stables. In previous centuries, the stables were never too close to the house. I guess the rich didn’t like living with the smell of horse manure. It’s not so bad, though it can be a bit of an inconvenience on a rainy night, knowing you have to run three blocks home. If Francis and I go out for an evening, we usually take the Metro.”
Joan eased the car out of the garage and turned right, moving away from the damaged house, which was quickly being surrounded by fire trucks, ambulances, police cars and press. When they’d left, Francis had been going upstairs to change; he reasoned that all the publicity would do wonders for the sale of his new album.
“We’ll cut across the Champs-Elysées and then head down toward the river,” Joan said, expertly maneuvering the Citroën through the narrow cobbled alleyway. “Are you sure that’s where Nidhogg will go?”
Nicholas Flamel sighed. “I’m only guessing,” he admitted. “I’ve never actually seen it—I don’t know of anyone who has and lived—but I’ve come across creatures like it in my travels, and they are all related to the marine lizards, like the mosasaur. It’s scared, maybe it’s hurt. It’ll head to the water, seeking cool, healing mud.”
Sophie leaned forward between the front seats. She deliberately focused on Nidhogg, desperately sorting through the Witch’s memories, looking for something that might help her. But even the Witch knew little about the primal creature except that it was locked in the roots of the World Tree, the tree that Dee had destroyed with…
“Excalibur,” she whispered.
The Alchemyst swiveled in the seat to look at her. “What about it?”
Sophie frowned, trying to remember. “Josh told me earlier that Dee had destroyed Yggdrasill with Excalibur.”
Flamel nodded.
“And you told me that Clarent is Excalibur’s twin.”
“It is.”
“Does it share the same powers?” she asked.
Flamel’s cool gray eyes flashed. “And you’re wondering, if Excalibur could destroy something as ancient as the World Tree, could Clarent destroy Nidhogg?” He was nodding even as he was speaking. “The ancient weapons of power predate the Elders. No one has any idea where they came from, though we do know that the Elders used some of them. The fact that the weapons are still around today proves just how indestructible they are.” He nodded. “I’m sure Clarent could hurt and possibly even kill Nidhogg.”
“And you believe Nidhogg is hurt now?” Joan spotted an opening in the light early-morning traffic and slotted neatly into it. Car horns blared behind her.
“Something drove it from the house.”
“Then you know what you’ve just confirmed?” she said.
Flamel nodded. “We know Scatty would never touch Clarent. Therefore, Josh wounded the creature—enough to send it careering madly across Paris. And now he’s chasing it.”
“And Machiavelli and Dee?” Joan asked.
“Probably chasing him.”
Joan cut across two lanes of traffic and roared down the Champs-Elysées. “Let’s hope they don’t catch up with him.”
A sudden thought struck Sophie. “Dee met Josh….” She stopped, realizing what she’d just said.
“In Ojai. I know,” Flamel said, surprising her. “He told me.”
Sophie sat back, surprised that her twin had told the Alchemyst. Color touched her cheeks. “I think Dee made an impression on him.” She felt almost embarrassed saying this to the Alchemyst, as if she was betraying her brother, but she pressed on. This was no time for secrets. “Dee told him some things about you. I think…I think Josh sort of believed him,” she finished in a rush.
“I know,” Flamel said softly. “The English Magician can be very persuasive.”
Joan slowed the car to a stop. “This isn’t good,” she muttered. “There should be virtually no one on the road at this hour.”
They had driven right into a huge traffic jam. It stretched down the Champs-Elysées directly ahead of them. For the second day in a row, traffic on Paris’s main thoroughfare had come to a complete halt. People were standing beside their
cars looking at the gaping hole in the side of the building across the street. Police had just arrived and were quickly trying to take control, urging traffic to move on and allow the emergency services to get through to the building.
Joan of Arc leaned across the steering wheel, cool gray eyes assessing the situation. “It crossed the street and went this way,” Joan said, signaling quickly and turning right, into the narrow Rue de Marignan, driving past a pair of mangled traffic lights. “I don’t see them.”
Nicholas rose in the seat, trying to see as far as possible down the long straight street. “Where does this come out?”
“On the Rue François, just before the Avenue Montaigne,” Joan answered. “I’ve walked, cycled and driven through these streets for decades. I know them like the back of my hand.” They drove past a dozen cars, each one bearing the marks of Nidhogg: metalwork crumpled like tinfoil, windows spiderwebbed and smashed. A ball of metal that had once been a bicycle was now pressed deeply into the pavement, still attached to a railing by a length of chain.
“Joan,” Nicholas said very softly, “I think you should hurry up.”
“I don’t like driving fast.” She glanced sidelong at the Alchemyst, and whatever expression she saw on his face made her push her foot to the floor. The small engine howled and the car lurched forward. “What is it?” she demanded.
Nicholas chewed his bottom lip. “I’ve just thought of a potential problem,” he admitted finally.
“What sort of problem?” Joan and Sophie asked simultaneously.
“A serious problem.”
“Bigger than Nidhogg?” Joan jerked the stick shift and slammed the car into top gear. Sophie couldn’t see that it made any difference; she still felt she could be walking faster. She pounded the back of the seat, frantic with worry. They needed to get to her brother.