Nicholas Flamel 1 - The Alchemyst

Maybe he was a fashion designer, she thought, or a movie producer, or maybe

he was an author she d noticed that some authors liked to dress up in

peculiar outfits. She d give him a few minutes to get into the shop, then

she d call her twin for a report.

Sophie was about to turn away when the gray man suddenly spun around and

seemed to stare directly at her. As he stood under the awning, his face was

in shadow, and yet for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked as if they

were glowing.

Sophie knew just knew that there was no possible way for the small gray man

to see her: she was standing on the opposite side of the street behind a pane

of glass that was bright with reflected early-afternoon sunlight. She would

be invisible in the gloom behind the glass.

And yet

And yet in that single moment when their eyes met, Sophie felt the tiny hairs

on the back of her hands and along her forearms tingle and felt a puff of

cold air touch the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders, turning her

head slightly from side to side, strands of her long blond hair curling

across her cheek. The contact lasted only a second before the small man

looked away, but Sophie got the impression that he had looked directly at

her.

In the instant before the gray man and his three overdressed companions

disappeared into the bookshop, Sophie decided that she did not like him.

Peppermint.

And rotten eggs.

That is just vile. Josh Newman stood in the center of the bookstore s

cellar and breathed deeply. Where were those smells coming from? He looked

around at the shelves stacked high with books and wondered if something had

crawled in behind them and died. What else would account for such a foul

stink? The tiny cramped cellar always smelled dry and musty, the air heavy

with the odors of parched curling paper, mingled with the richer aroma of old

leather bindings and dusty cobwebs. He loved the smell; he always thought it

was warm and comforting, like the scents of cinnamon and spices that he

associated with Christmas.

Peppermint.

Sharp and clean, the smell cut through the close cellar atmosphere. It was

the odor of new toothpaste or those herbal teas his sister served in the

coffee shop across the street. It sliced though the heavier smells of leather

and paper, and was so strong that it made his sinuses tingle; he felt as if

he was going to sneeze at any moment. He quickly pulled out his iPod earbuds.

Sneezing with headphones on was not a good idea: made your ears pop.

Eggs.

Foul and stinking he recognized the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs. It

blanketed the clear odor of mint and it was disgusting. He could feel the

stench coating his tongue and lips, and his scalp began to itch as if

something were crawling through it. Josh ran his fingers through his shaggy

blond hair and shuddered. The drains must be backing up.

Leaving the earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he checked the book list in

his hand, then looked at the shelves again: The Complete Works of Charles

Dickens, twenty-seven volumes, red leather binding. Now where was he going to

find that?

Josh had been working in the bookshop for nearly two months and still didn't

have the faintest idea where anything was. There was no filing system or

rather, there was a system, but it was known only to Nick and Perry Fleming,

the owners of The Small Book Shop. Nick or his wife could put their hands on

any book in either the shop upstairs or the cellar in a matter of minutes.

A wave of peppermint, immediately followed by rotten eggs, filled the air

again; Josh coughed and felt his eyes water. This was impossible! Stuffing

the book list into one pocket of his jeans and the headphones into the other,

he maneuvered his way through the piled books and stacks of boxes, heading

for the stairs. He couldn t spend another minute down there with the smell.

He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, which were now stinging

furiously. Grabbing the stair rail, he pulled himself up. He needed a breath

of fresh air or he was going to throw up but, strangely, the closer he came

to the top of the stairs, the stronger the odors became.

He popped his head out of the cellar door and looked around.

And in that instant, Josh Newman realized that the world would never be the

same again.

CHAPTER TWO

J osh peered over the edge of the cellar, eyes watering with the stink of

sulfur and mint. His first impression was that the usually quiet shop was

crowded: four men facing Nick Fleming, the owner, three of them huge and

hulking, one smaller and sinister-looking. Josh immediately guessed that the

shop was being robbed.

His boss, Nick Fleming, stood in the middle of the bookshop, facing the

others. He was a rather ordinary-looking man. Average height and build, with

no real distinguishing features, except for his eyes, which were so pale that

they were almost completely colorless. His black hair was cropped close to

his skull and he always seemed to have stubble on his chin, as if he hadn't

shaved for a couple of days. He was dressed as usual in simple black jeans, a

loose black T-shirt advertising a concert that had taken place twenty-five

years earlier and a pair of battered cowboy boots. There was a cheap digital

watch on his left wrist and a heavy silver-link bracelet on his right,

alongside two tatty multicolored friendship bracelets.

Facing him was a small gray man in a smart suit.

Josh realized that they were not speaking and yet something was going on

between them. Both men were standing still, their arms close to their bodies,

elbows tucked in, open palms turned upward. Nick was in the center of the

shop, while the gray man was standing close to the door, his three

black-coated companions around him. Strangely, both men s fingers were

moving, twitching, dancing, as if they were typing furiously, thumb brushing

against forefinger, little finger touching thumb, index and little finger