“I’m guessing it’s more than a few.”
“Many, many more,” the creature snarled. “And they’re coming. All of them.”
From the corner of his eye, Dee saw movement. Glancing up, he saw a shape move on the triangular roof of St. Paul’s Church opposite. A skinhead appeared, silhouetted against the evening sky, then another, and another. There was a commotion on the other side of the square as six skinheads appeared, and then, at the opposite entrance, another three appeared.
The human tourists, seeing the sudden influx of skinheads and fearing a brawl, began to scatter. Shops hastily closed. Within moments, only the ugly shaven-headed cucubuths were left in Covent Garden’s cobbled square.
“So what are you going to do now, Dr. Dee?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The noise echoing across the London rooftops and up into the skies alerted the ravens: the primeval howling of cucubuths that had once terrified primitive humani huddling in caves.
Huginn and Muninn dipped toward the sounds.
Blackbirds and crows streamed past them, the simple creatures radiating raw fear. Doves whirled in the air almost directly below; frightened, but incapable of doing anything about their fear, they settled back onto the rooftops around a broad cobbled square, only to immediately rise into the air again as another howl broke through the night.
The ravens flew low across the Thames River, over Victoria Embankment and the Royal Opera House. They spotted the first of the cucubuths in the streets below, seeing through its almost-human guise to reveal the beast-man beneath, with its tusks and ragged claws. Each cucubuth was swathed in a dark aura. And there were hundreds of them, running, loping, jogging, singly and in pairs, converging on the enclosed space of Covent Garden.
Instantly, the ravens knew that they must have found the English Magician. As one, their beaks worked to form a single word: “Dee.”
And in a place beyond time, in an isolated Shadowrealm, Odin awoke.
The Elder’s huge gray eye opened, but he did not see the bitter snowfields and towering ice crystals that surrounded him. He found he was looking down on a scene in shifting monochrome and without sound: a single human surrounded by three cucubuths. More and more of the creatures swarmed closer. And even though there was no sign of Dee’s distinctive aura, Odin knew the human was the English Magician.
The Elder bared his teeth in a ferocious grin: those to whom Dee owed allegiance wanted him brought before them for sentencing and punishment, but Odin had other plans. The huge figure pushed away from the only living thing in his world—a puny and twisted version of the Yggdrasill—and prepared to cross the Shadowrealms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He’d found the rear door to the bookstore open.
Josh Newman shrugged off his backpack as he stepped into the gloomy hallway and then waited, allowing his eyes to adjust. The stink was incredible—a mixture of rot and mildew, a sickly mustiness overlain with the noxious stench of bad eggs. He tried to breathe only through his mouth. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his hearing. Since Mars Ultor had Awakened him, he’d become extremely conscious of just how important the senses of hearing, taste and smell were. Modern humans tended to rely heavily on sight; Josh had come to realize that his Awakened senses were really the same heightened senses that primitive man had possessed and needed to survive.
But there were no sounds in the building: it even felt deserted.
Less than a week ago, he’d run up and down this corridor unloading a delivery of books from the back of a van. Now all the boxes he had so carefully piled on top of each other were black with mildew, the sides burst open, the books swollen like rotten fruit, almost unrecognizable.
Less than a week ago.
The realization suddenly brought home to Josh how much had changed in the past few days, how much he had discovered and how little he—and the rest of the world—knew about the truth.
Taking a deep breath, the fetid air catching at the back of his throat, Josh then opened his eyes and crept down the corridor, pushed open the door and stepped out into the bookshop.
And stopped in shock.
The shop was an unrecognizable ruin, lost beneath a thick layer of dust and furry mold—it was decaying right before his eyes. The sunlight shafting through the filthy streaked windows showed that the air was thick with drifting spores. Josh clamped his lips shut; he didn’t want to risk getting any of them in his mouth. He took a step forward and felt the creaking floorboards shift beneath his weight. A bubble of foul black liquid formed on the wood, and his foot began to sink. Jerking back, he pressed himself against the wall, only to discover that it too was slimy with decay. The plaster was so soft his fingers sank into it.
Looking around, Josh realized with horror that the shop was being eaten: this fungus was feeding off everything—wood, paper, carpet. What was the place going to look like in a couple of hours?
He’d come to the bookshop because Nicholas and Perenelle lived in the apartments above it, and he was hoping that they had returned there. Glancing upward, he noticed the gaping hole in the ceiling, the trailing wires and rotten joists. He suddenly wondered how long it would be before the supports gave way and the upper floors collapsed and then the rest of the building crashed into the cellar.
He edged his way along the wall toward the stairs. It stood to reason that the Flamels would have more than one address in the city. They must have set up places they could escape to if danger threatened. Josh hoped that he’d be able to find an address upstairs—a bill, a letter, something, anything to give him a hint of where they were. The banister shifted as he grabbed it—the wood had the consistency of jelly. He pulled his hand back in disgust and was about to rub it against his jeans when he stopped. If the filthy black mold was able to eat through wood, what would it do to his pants? The last thing he needed now was for his pants to rot off his legs. Could this eat through his flesh? he suddenly wondered with a shudder. The desire to turn and run was almost overwhelming, but he knew that his only chance of finding his sister lay with the Flamels, so he started up the stairs.
Each step moved beneath his weight. He was halfway up when his foot went all the way through a stair with a dull snap. He felt the entire staircase sway, and he realized that it was going to collapse. He launched himself up the rest of the way just as the staircase shuddered and collapsed, crashing into the shop below. Josh’s chest slammed onto the landing; his legs dangled in midair as his fingers scrambled to grab hold of the thick carpet covering the upper floor, but it ripped and shredded to threads in his grip. He attempted to scream but the sound got caught at the back of his throat. A chunk of carpet ripped away in his hand and he jerked backward.…
Iron-hard fingers caught his wrists.
Josh was hauled up and found himself looking into Perenelle Flamel’s bright green eyes. “Josh Newman,” she murmured as she set him down gently on the landing. “We were not expecting you.”
Nicholas appeared out of a doorway and stopped beside his wife. “We were expecting … trouble,” he said quietly. “It’s good to see you.”
Josh rubbed his numb wrists. Perenelle’s strength was astonishing, and she’d almost wrenched his shoulders out of their sockets when she’d lifted him straight up in the air. He pressed his hands against his chest where it had hit the landing and took a deep breath. He was bruised, but he didn’t think he’d broken any ribs.
“What brings you here, Josh?” Perenelle said softly, her eyes searching his face. She answered her own question: “Sophie.”
“Sophie’s missing,” Josh said breathlessly. “She was kidnapped by a girl calling herself Aoife. She said she was Scathach’s sister,” he added. “She sure looked like her.” He saw their expressions change slightly, watched what he recognized as fear flicker in the Alchemyst’s eyes. “That’s not good, is it?”
Perenelle shook her head. “Not good at all.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Vingt … vingt-et-un … twenty-tw
o.” Joan of Arc slid down the grassy incline and rejoined her companion on the banks of the narrow stream. “What do you call twenty-two saber-toothed tigers?” the slender, gray-eyed woman asked breathlessly. “A pack, a pride?”
“I call them trouble,” Scathach said shortly. She straightened and looked back up the incline. “And you’re about to tell me they’re heading this way.”
Joan nodded. “They are heading this way,” she said with a grin.
Scathach tapped her foot at the edge of the stream. It fit into a huge splayed footprint sunk in the mud. “This is their watering hole.” Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and then pointed with one of her matched short swords. “More are approaching from the south.”
“And from the east,” Joan added.
Scatty opened her eyes and looked at her friend. The late-afternoon sunshine turned Joan’s pale skin golden. “How do you know?”
The Frenchwoman caught the red-haired warrior’s shoulder and turned her. Three enormous saber-toothed tigers had appeared out of the tall grass. They stood still, savage jaws gaping, eyes wide and unblinking, only their tails twitching slightly. “Fight or run?” Joan asked.
“If we run, they’ll chase us,” Scatty said matter-of-factly.
“If we fight, they’ll overpower us. There are too many of them. Maybe thirty in total.”
The largest of the saber-toothed tigers moved almost in slow motion and took a tentative step forward. Enormous slit-pupiled golden eyes fixed on Scathach.
“I think he likes you,” Joan murmured. She touched the sword strapped to her shoulder and realized that if all the creatures attacked at once, her weapon would be useless.
“I’ve always preferred dogs,” Scathach said, watching the creature carefully. “You know where you are with dogs.” She slid her matched swords into their sheaths on her back and pulled her nunchaku from their pouch on her hip. “Stay here,” she commanded, and then, before Joan could reply, she raced toward the tiger.
The huge creature froze.
A dozen steps carried the warrior across the ground, the nunchaku buzzing and spinning in her right hand.
The tiger hunched, tail swishing wildly, ropy threads of saliva on its enormous teeth … and then it jumped, thick claws extended.
“Scatty!” Joan managed to gasp, even as the red-haired warrior launched herself into the air, like a swimmer diving into the sea. Her leap carried her straight over the tiger, and her nunchaku snapped out, the blunt end of the twelve-inch length of carved wood catching the creature on the back of the skull. Scatty spun in midair and landed lightly on her feet. The tiger, stunned by the blow, crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The beast immediately clambered shakily to its feet, wobbled and then fell over again.
Scatty turned to face its two companions, tapping the nunchaku in the palm of her left hand. The creatures looked at her, looked at their companion, then stepped back, melting into the long grasses.
When Joan spun around, she discovered that the other tigers had disappeared too. “Very impressive,” she said.
“You just have to show them who’s boss,” Scatty answered, kneeling beside the huge saber-toothed tiger. She ran her hand over the back of its head, then raised its eyelid to look at it. The beast rumbled but made no attempt to get up.
Joan crouched beside her friend. She looked at the tiger’s teeth. The incisors were the length of her hand and tapered to points that could probably pierce armor.
“The trick,” Scatty said, “is to hit them just where the base of the skull touches the spine. The blow stuns them.”
“And if you miss?”
“Then you just make them mad.” Scatty’s smile revealed her own savage teeth. “But I don’t miss.” She patted the huge beast. “It’ll wake up with a headache.”
Joan of Arc straightened and tapped her friend’s shoulder.
“What?” Scatty looked up.
Joan nodded toward the hill. The twenty-two saber-toothed tigers had gathered on the brow. They were joined by two more, and then another four appeared. They all looked to be fully grown adults, and their rumbling growls actually vibrated through the ground.
“Do you think this one might have been the leader of the pack?” Joan asked.
The animals parted and another saber-toothed tiger appeared. It was huge, towering head and shoulders over the others and at least half as long again. Its dun coat was white with the lines of ancient scars, one of its bottom teeth had broken off into a ragged spur, and its left eye was only a white glassy globe.
“This one is the leader of the pack,” Scatty said, taking a step backward.
The creature’s single good eye moved from the tiger on the ground to Scatty and back to the tiger again. And then it opened its maw and growled. The sound was incredible, a bone-shaking rumble that sent birds wheeling into the air for miles around. Then, slowly, almost delicately, it started to pick its way down the incline.
Scatty took a step toward the creature, but Joan caught her arm. “Do you remember something you taught me when I was fighting the English?” she asked urgently.
Scatty looked at her blankly.
“You told me that it was a mistake to fight the scarred warriors. They were the survivors.” The Frenchwoman nodded toward the beast approaching them. “Look at this creature. It has survived many battles.”
Scathach looked at the huge scarred saber-toothed tiger. “I am the Shadow,” she said simply. “I can defeat her.”
Joan’s fingers tightened on her friend’s arm. “You also told me never to engage in a battle unless it was completely unavoidable. You don’t have to do this.”
“You’re right, I suppose.” Scatty sighed, then asked, almost regretfully, “So what do we do?”
“We run!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Niccolò Machiavelli took a deep breath of the salty sea air and pressed his hands against his aching stomach. Before he’d become immortal he’d been troubled with ulcers, and although his Elder master had cured him of all human ills, at times of great stress his stomach still cramped. Now, standing on the quay on Alcatraz, staring out toward San Francisco, his stomach felt as if it were on fire.
“We’re going to be fine, just fine,” the young man in the stained jeans and battered cowboy boots standing beside him said for the tenth time. “We’re going to be fine.”
“William,” Machiavelli said carefully, keeping his voice low, “how long have you been immortal?”
“One hundred and twenty-six years,” Billy the Kid said proudly.
“I became immortal in the year 1527,” the Italian said, glancing at the American. “I was alive when Columbus claimed discovery of this country. I am not the oldest immortal—I am older than Dee, but the Alchemyst Flamel is older than I, Duns Scotus is even older still, and Mo-Tzu older still. Gilgamesh is older than all of us. But I have had more contact with the Elders than these others. And let me tell you that our Elder masters do not countenance failure. They demand complete obedience. They expect results. And we have failed,” he added. He held up his closed fist and extended his little finger. “We were sent here to kill the Sorceress Perenelle”—he stuck a second finger up—“and release the creatures in the cells into the city.” Another finger. “Perenelle escaped, in our boat,” he added, extending a fourth finger, “leaving us trapped on the island with the monsters still in their cells. We failed. We are most definitely not going to be fine.”
Both men turned as the sound of an engine drew nearer. Machiavelli shaded his stone-gray eyes and saw a boat approaching, leaving a wide white wake across the bay.
Billy held up his cell phone. “I called for help,” he said, almost apologetically. “What do you reckon will happen?”
Machiavelli sighed. “We will be summoned before our masters and our immortality will be removed. We will die. Quickly, if we are lucky, but our masters are often cruel.…”
Billy shuddered. “Not sure I like the thought of that. I’ve sort of grown
used to being immortal.” Then he shook his head quickly. “My master is …” He paused, trying to find the proper word. “He’s different from some of these other Elders. I can explain all this to him.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the prison buildings behind him. “We’ll be fine.”
“Please stop saying that.”
A bright red speedboat pulled up to the dock and a tall, striking-looking Native American with copper skin and hatchet-sharp features grinned up at Billy the Kid. “Our master wants to see you—you too,” he said, looking at Machiavelli. “You are both in so much trouble.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The cucubuths closed in on Dee.
Dozens had crowded into Covent Garden; scores more lined the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and their bestial howls still echoed across the city. The shaven-headed leader spread his arms wide, exposing the black tattoos that snaked along the underside of his arms. “What are you going to do now, Doctor?”
Dee reached under his coat and touched the hilt of the stone blade that hung beneath his arm. He had fashioned a sheath for it out of two leather belts. He had no idea what would happen if he actually used the sword. He had carried Excalibur for centuries and still had only the vaguest understanding of its powers. His limited experience with Clarent suggested that it was even more powerful than its twin blade. Though now that they had fused, they had to be even more powerful … or did the two cancel each other out?