For Courtney and Piers
I am dying.
Perenelle, too, is dying.
The spell that has kept us alive these six hundred years is fading, and now
we age a year for every day that passes. I need the Codex, the Book of
Abraham the Mage, to re-create the immortality spell; without it, we have
less than a month to live.
But much can be achieved in a month.
Dee and his dark masters have my dear Perenelle prisoner, they have finally
secured the Book, and they know that Perenelle and I cannot survive for much
longer.
But they cannot be resting easy.
They do not have the complete Book yet. We still have the final two pages,
and by now they must know that Sophie and Josh Newman are the twins described
in that ancient text: twins with auras of silver and gold, a brother and
sister with the power to either save the world or destroy it. The girl s
powers have been Awakened and her training begun in the elemental magics,
though, sadly, the boy s have not.
We are now in Paris, the city of my birth, the city where I first discovered
the Codex and began the long quest to translate it. That journey ultimately
led me to discover the existence of the Elder Race and revealed the mystery
of the philosopher s stone and finally the secret of immortality. I love this
city. It holds many secrets and is home to more than one human immortal and
ancient Elder. Here, I will find a way to Awaken Josh s powers and continue
Sophie's education.
I must.
For their sakes and for the continuance of the human race.
SATURDAY,
CHAPTER ONE
dinner had ended. It was almost four in the morning and the auction was only
now drawing to a close. A digital display behind the celebrity auctioneer an
actor who had played James Bond on-screen for many years showed the running
total at more than one million euro.
Lot number two hundred and ten: a pair of early-nineteenth-century Japanese
Kabuki masks.
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowded room. Inlaid with chips of
solid jade, the Kabuki masks were the highlight of the auction and were
expected to fetch in excess of half a million euro.
At the back of the room the tall, thin man with the fuzz of close-cropped
snow white hair was prepared to pay twice that.
Niccol Machiavelli stood apart from the rest of the crowd, arms lightly
folded across his chest, careful not to wrinkle his Savile Row tailored black
silk tuxedo. Stone gray eyes swept over the other bidders, analyzing and
assessing them. There were really only five others he needed to look out for:
two private collectors like himself, a minor European royal, a once-famous
American movie actor and a Canadian antiques dealer. The remainder of the
audience were tired, had spent their budget or were unwilling to bid on the
vaguely disturbing-looking masks.
Machiavelli loved all types of masks. He had been collecting them for a very
long time, and he wanted this particular pair to complete his collection of
Japanese theater costumes. These masks had last come up for sale in 1898 in
Vienna, and he had then been outbid by a Romanov prince. Machiavelli had
patiently bided his time; the masks would come back on the market again when
the Prince and his descendents died. Machiavelli knew he would still be
around to buy them; it was one of the many advantages of being immortal.
Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand euro?
Machiavelli looked up, caught the auctioneer s attention and nodded.
The auctioneer had been expecting his bid and nodded in return. I am bid one
hundred thousand euro by Monsieur Machiavelli. Always one of this charity s
most generous supporters and sponsors.
A smattering of applause ran around the room, and several people turned to
look at him and raise their glasses. Niccol acknowledged them with a polite
smile.
Do I have one hundred and ten? the auctioneer asked.
One of the private collectors raised his hand slightly.
One-twenty? The auctioneer looked back to Machiavelli, who immediately
nodded.
Within the next three minutes, a flurry of bids brought the price up to two
hundred and fifty thousand euro. There were only three serious bidders left:
Machiavelli, the American actor and the Canadian.
Machiavelli s thin lips twisted into a rare smile; his patience was about to
be rewarded, and finally the masks would be his. Then the smile faded as he
felt the cell phone in his back pocket buzz silently. For an instant he was
tempted to ignore it; he d given his staff strict instructions that he was
not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely critical. He also knew they were
so terrified of him that they would not phone unless it was an emergency.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the ultraslim phone and glanced down.
A picture of a sword pulsed gently on the large LCD screen.
Machiavelli s smile vanished. In that second he knew he was not going to be
able to buy the Kabuki masks this century. Turning on his heel, he strode out
of the room and pressed the phone to his ear. Behind him, he could hear the
auctioneer s hammer hit the lectern Sold. For two hundred and sixty thousand
euro
I m here, Machiavelli said, reverting to the Italian of his youth.
