The Magician quickly considered his options. If he did wield the sword, he was sure it would light up the London skies for miles around, and probably blaze into the nearby Shadowrealms. But if he didn’t use the sword or his powers, then the cucubuths would capture him and bring him before his Dark Elder masters. And he most certainly did not want to do that: he hadn’t reached his five hundredth birthday yet. He was far too young to die.
“Come quietly, Doctor,” the cucubuth said in the ancient Wendish language of east Europe.
Dee’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword. He felt its chill numb his fingers, and instantly, strange and bizarre thoughts flickered at the very edges of his consciousness.
Cucubuths in leather and hide armor … vampires wearing chain mail and metal … wading ashore from narrow metal boats, fighting on a beach, battling hairy, primitive one-eyed beasts …
The sound that sliced through the night was so high-pitched it was almost beyond the range of human hearing: a single drawn-out wavering note.
The cucubuths fell as if they had been struck. Those closest to Dee dropped first, and then in a long rippling wave the creatures toppled to the ground, hands pressed to their ears, writhing in agony.
Virginia Dare stepped out of the shadows, her flute pressed to her lips, and smiled at Dee.
“I am indebted to you.” The doctor bowed deeply, an old-fashioned gesture last used in the court of the first Queen Elizabeth.
Virginia drew in a breath. “Consider this repayment for the time you saved my life in Boston.”
One of the cucubuths reached for Dee’s ankle and he kicked the hand aside. “We should go,” he said. A few of the creatures were already staggering to their feet, but another series of piercing notes from Dare’s flute dropped them to the ground again.
Stepping lightly over the mass of squirming bodies, Dare and Dee made their way out of Covent Garden. Dee paused at the King Street entrance and turned to look back. The cobbled square was a mass of twisting, shifting bodies. Some of the creatures were already beginning to lose their human appearance as their hands and faces reverted back to their beast forms. “That’s a neat trick,” he said, hurrying to catch up with Dare, who had continued on down the street, still playing the flute. “How long will the spell last?” Dee asked.
“Not long. The more intelligent the creature, the longer the spell endures. On primitive beasts like these: ten, twenty minutes.”
The street was littered with cucubuths squirming in pain, their hands pressed to their ears. Two fell off the roof of a building directly in front of Dee and Dare, hitting the ground hard enough to crack the paving slabs. Without breaking stride, Virginia stepped over their twitching bodies. Dee walked around them; he knew a simple fall would not harm the creatures, only slow them down.
“I learned the tune from a German,” she said between breaths. “He used to be a rat catcher.”
“What made you choose my side?” Dee asked.
“You promised me a world,” Virginia Dare said seriously. “You better keep that promise,” she added. “I learned some other tunes from the rat catcher, and believe me, you do not want me to play them.”
The Magician attempted a laugh. “Why, that sounds almost like a threat …,” he began.
“It was,” she said, then grinned. “Actually, it was more than a threat. It’s a promise.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The ravens watched the slender female figure step out of the shadows, a long wooden flute pressed to her lips.
Vaguely—more a sensation in their bones than a vibration in the air—they experienced the ghost of a sound. Ancient instincts sent them soaring upward, higher and higher, away from the deathly noise.
From their great height, they watched the cucubuths fall like grass flattened by a wind. And they saw Dee and the woman move through the bodies, strolling unhurriedly away from the chaos.
In his Shadowrealm, Odin watched the couple through the raven’s eyes. Who was this woman and how had she rendered the cucubuths unconscious?
The Elder frowned, trying to focus on the female humani. There was something about her, something almost familiar. She was obviously an ally of Dee’s, and she possessed what looked like one of the ancient artifacts of power.
And suddenly, the name came to him in a flood of bitter memories, and he threw back his head and howled in delight. Virginia Dare: one of the few immortals who had slain their master and survived. He had known her master and counted him a friend. Now he could avenge the death of his love and his friend.
“Bring Dee to me,” he instructed the ravens. “Kill the female.”
High above the city, the ravens followed the immortal humani and the Elder watched through their eyes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“When we first saw her, we thought it was Scatty,” Josh said.
“Aoife of the Shadows,” Perenelle said, “Scathach’s twin sister.”
“Younger or older?” Josh asked. He was twenty-eight seconds younger than his sister, and although he was a head taller, he still felt like the little brother. Perenelle and Josh had climbed down the metal fire escape and were standing in the alleyway behind the shop, waiting for Nicholas to join them.
“Well that depends on whom you talk to,” Perenelle said with a smile. “Scathach says she is the elder, but Aoife claims that she was born first.”
Nicholas appeared at the top of the stairs and started to climb down. He was moving slowly and awkwardly because of the wooden box strapped to his back.
“Scatty never said anything about having a sister,” Josh said. He found the concept hard to believe. He couldn’t imagine ever not acknowledging his sister, his twin.
“Yes, well, they had a terrible argument a long time ago. There was a boy they both loved. Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster. And despite his name, he was completely human.”
“What happened?” Josh asked.
“He died,” Perenelle said shortly, then she sighed. “Scatty will not speak of it, but Cuchulain died a hero’s death. The sisters blamed one another for it, though as far I can see, neither was entirely to blame. Cuchulain was young and headstrong. No one could control him. He was also one of the finest warriors who ever lived, and the last to be trained by both Aoife and Scathach. The sisters have not spoken in a very long time. In the early days, Scatty remained in Europe and the Americas while Aoife traveled south into Africa, where she was worshipped as a goddess. Then Aoife went east into the Orient, where she now spends most of her time. I doubt they have met in the last four or five centuries.”
“Was Aoife responsible for Cu … Coo …”
“Cuchulain.”
“For his death?” Josh asked.
“As responsible as Scathach. If they had fought by his side, he would not have died.”
Nicholas reached the end of the ladder and Perenelle and Josh helped him down the last steps. He stood leaning against the wall, his breath coming in great heaving gasps, and Josh suddenly realized that the Alchemyst was now an old man. He looked at Flamel closely, and as he did it became clear just how much the events of the past week had aged the man—his close-cropped hair was now almost bone white, and wrinkles were etched deeply into his forehead and cheeks. The veins on the back of his hands were prominent, and the skin speckled with age spots. Josh turned to look at the Sorceress. She too had aged, though not quite so dramatically as her husband. Perenelle caught him staring at her and her smile turned wistful. Reaching out, she pressed her forefinger to Josh’s chest. Paper crinkled under his T-shirt. “Unless we get the Codex and renew the immortality spell, we will be dead of old age within a matter of days.” Abruptly, her green eyes grew huge with tears. “Nicholas first, then me.”
Josh felt his breath catch in his throat. Although he didn’t trust Nicholas and was unsure how he felt about Perenelle, the thought of them dying filled him with terror. He and Sophie needed the Flamels.
“We must get the Book of Abraham the Mage,” Perenelle repeated.
&nbs
p; “Dee has the Codex,” Josh said. “He’s probably passed it on to his masters by now.”
Nicholas shook his head. “I doubt he’s had time to do that. Everything has happened so fast.” He handed Josh the carved wooden box. “Carry that for me, would you?” Josh grunted with the weight of the box; it was surprisingly heavy. “Think—the Magician has been close behind us from the moment he got the Codex last week. I don’t think he would have had time to give it to his Elder masters. And I think it unlikely he would carry it to England with him in his luggage. Logic says it’s probably still here in San Francisco.”
“Where?” Josh asked quickly. “Maybe we could steal it back.…” He stopped. Both Perenelle and Nicholas were shaking their heads.
“Even if we could,” the Sorceress said, “I’ll wager it is protected by more than human guards. Also”—she tapped the box in Josh’s arms—“we have more important things to do.”
“We have to find your sister,” Nicholas said.
“And destroy the creatures on Alcatraz,” Perenelle added.
Josh looked at them both in alarm. “But how are you going to do that? Won’t that use all your powers and age you? And kill you?” He added in a whisper.
“Yes,” Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel said in unison.
“And it is a price we are willing to pay,” Perenelle declared.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sophie regained consciousness, but she remained still, her eyes closed. Concentrating on her Awakened senses, she tried to create a mental picture of her surroundings from the sounds, smells and sensations that engulfed her. There was salt in the air, which wasn’t unusual in San Francisco, but this was a bitter, slightly sour odor, as if she was very close to the sea. The salt smell was touched with the tang of diesel fuel, which suggested that she might be in a port. Oddly, there was also the crisp smell of wood and the hint of spices in the warm, close air. Even before she felt the slight shifting movements beneath her and heard the faint slap of water against wood, she knew she was on a boat. She was lying down, not on a bed, but on something soft that held her tightly and raised her head and feet.
“I know you’re awake.”
The voice brought Sophie’s eyes open. Scathach! The shock of red hair was the only point of color in the dark room, and for a single instant, Sophie thought the woman was floating in midair. She struggled to sit up—she’d been lying in a hammock, she realized—and discovered that the woman was sitting cross-legged on a wooden box, her black clothing helping her to blend in with the darkened room. But as Sophie straightened, memories flooded back and she knew that this was not the Shadow. This was Aoife of the Shadows.
Sophie looked around, noting the heavy curtains covering the windows. One of the windows had been boarded up, and the rest were crisscrossed with thick metal bars.
“How did you know I was awake?” she asked, struggling upright in the hammock.
“I heard the change in your breathing,” Aoife answered simply.
Sophie maneuvered herself to the edge of her swinging perch. Dangling her legs, she looked at the figure sitting on the box. The resemblance to Scathach was startling—the same bright red hair, the same brilliant green eyes and pale skin—but there was something about the jut of her jaw that set her apart from her sister. And while Scatty had tiny laugh lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, Aoife’s face was smooth.
“You are not frightened?” Aoife asked, tilting her head slightly to one side.
“No,” Sophie said with sudden realization. “Should I be?”
“Perhaps if you knew me …”
Sophie was about to say that she knew all about Aoife, but that would mean revealing that the Witch of Endor had passed on her memories, and she still didn’t want Aoife to know that. “I know your sister,” she said instead.
“I am not my sister,” Aoife said, her accent changing, revealing hints of her Celtic background.
“Who do you serve?” Sophie asked.
“Myself.”
“Elders or Dark Elders?” Sophie persisted.
Aoife’s hands moved in a dismissive gesture. “The terms are meaningless. Good or bad is a matter of perspective. I met an immortal humani once, a man called William Shakespeare, who wrote that there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
Sophie bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. She wasn’t about to tell Aoife that she’d actually met the famous bard only the day before yesterday. “Why did you kidnap me?”
“Kidnap you?” Aoife’s eyes widened in surprise and then her lips curled. “I suppose I did. I just needed to talk to you without interruption.”
“We could have talked on the street.”
“I wanted to talk in private. You could have invited me in.”
Sophie shook her head. “No, I wasn’t going to do that. My brother will find you,” she added.
Aoife laughed dismissively. “I doubt that. I had a brief encounter with him—he is powerful, but unskilled.” Then, with a touch of what might have been awe in her voice, she asked, “He is Gold?”
“And I’m Silver,” Sophie said proudly.
“The twins of legend.” Aoife sneered disbelievingly.
“You don’t believe that?”
“Do you know how many twins of legend there have been?”
“I know that there’ve been others …,” Sophie said cautiously.
“Many others. And do you know where they are now?”
Sophie started to shake her head, though she knew the answer.
“These gold and silver auras are not gifts. They are a curse,” Aoife snapped. “They will destroy you and everyone around you. I have seen entire cities laid to waste to kill just one twin.”
“The Alchemyst said that the Dark Elders—”
“I have told you: there are no Dark Elders,” Aoife snapped. “There are just Elders, neither good nor bad. Just a race of beings we now call Elders. Some encourage the humani, others despise them: that is the only difference between them. And even those guardians of humanity often change their allegiances. Do you think my sister was always the champion of the new humani race?”
The question shocked Sophie into silence. She wanted to refute the suggestion, but the Witch’s insidious memories trickled into her consciousness and she caught hints and glimpses of the truth—the real truth—about Scathach and why she was called the Shadow.
“I need you to tell me …,” Aoife began.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Sophie asked suddenly.
The question caught Aoife by surprise. “Of course not.”
“Good.” Sophie slipped out of the hammock and dropped to the floor. She swayed slightly. “I need something to eat,” she interrupted. “I’m starving. Do you have any crackers or fruit?”
Aoife blinked. She flowed to her feet and stood in front of the girl. “Well, no, actually. I don’t eat. Not food … not as you would recognize it, anyway.”
“I need some food. Real food. No meat,” she added quickly, her stomach rebelling even at the thought. “And no onions either.”
“What’s wrong with onions?” Aoife asked.
“I don’t like the taste.”
The houseboat was moored in the bay at Sausalito. It was a long rectangular wooden box—like the upper story of a house set directly onto the water. It had been painted and repainted green—each time with a different shade of the color—but the sea air and time had stripped the surface and the paint now hung in long peeling sheets, revealing the mottled wood beneath. There was no engine, and it was clear that the houseboat hadn’t moved from its moorings in years.
Sophie and Aoife sat on the deck in two white plastic chairs. Sophie had already eaten two bananas, an orange and a pear and was now slowly munching her way through a pound of grapes, flicking the seeds into the water.
“I am not your enemy,” Aoife began. “Nor am I your friend,” she added hastily. “I just want to know what has happened to my sister.”
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“Why do you care?” Sophie asked curiously, glancing sidelong at the red-haired woman. Although Aoife’s eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, the girl could feel them drill into her. “I thought you haven’t spoken in centuries.”
“She is still my sister. She is … family. She is my responsibility.”
Sophie nodded. She understood that. She’d always felt she had a responsibility to look after her brother—even though he was perfectly capable of looking after himself. “How much do you know about what’s happened in the past few days?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Aoife said, surprising her. “I felt Scathach go and I came here immediately.”
“Where were you?”
“In the Gobi Desert.”
Sophie squeezed a seed between her fingers and watched it arc into the water. “But that’s in Mongolia, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Scatty only disappeared yesterday. You must have used leygates to get here.”
Aoife nodded. “I used a little trick your friend Saint-Germain taught me a long time ago: he showed me how to see the gold and silver leygate spires. I used the gates to leap from Mongolia to the Ise Shine in Japan, to Uluru in Australia, then Easter Island and finally on to Mount Tamalpais.” She leaned forward and tapped Sophie on the knee. “I hate leygates.”
“Scatty said they make her seasick.”
Aoife sat back and nodded. “Aye, that’s just how they make me feel.”
Sophie twisted around to where the Japanese man who had driven the limo was scraping paint from the wall of the houseboat. “Did he come with you from Japan?”
“Who? Niten? No, he lives here in San Francisco. He is an immortal human and we are old friends,” she added with a hint of a genuine smile. “This is his houseboat.”
“Looks like he hasn’t been here for a while.”
“Niten travels,” Aoife said simply. “He wanders the Shadowrealms.”
Sophie looked again at the Asian man. She had initially assumed he was in his late teens or early twenties, but now she could make out the faint lines around his eyes, and she noticed that his wrists and knuckles were thick: the sure signs of a martial artist. He was stripping old paint from the wood with smooth, fluid movements.