The Italian s fingers hit a complicated series of keystrokes and the screen
scrolled to reveal a directory called Temp. There were dozens of .jpg, .bmp
and .tmp files in the directory. Machiavelli highlighted one and hit Enter. A
box appeared in the center of the screen.
His slender fingers clicked across the keyboard as he typed in the password
encoded with unbreakable 256-bit AES encryption, the same encryption used by
most governments for their top-secret files, blinked open. Over the course of
his long life, Niccol Machiavelli had amassed a huge fortune, but he
considered this single file to be his most valuable treasure. It was a
complete dossier on every immortal human still living in the twenty-first
century, compiled by his network of spies across the globe most of whom
didn't even know they were working for him. He scrolled through the names.
Not even his own Dark Elder masters knew he possessed this list, and he was
sure some would be very unhappy if they were to discover that he also knew
the locations and attributes of almost all the Elders and Dark Elders still
walking the earth or in the Shadowrealms that bordered this world.
Knowledge, as Machiavelli well knew, was power.
Although there were three screens devoted to Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel,
hard information was scarce. There were hundreds of entries, each one a
reported sighting of the Flamels since their supposed deaths in 1418. They
had been seen on just about every continent in the world except Australia.
For the past 150 years, they had lived on the North American continent, with
the first confirmed and verified sighting of the last century taking place in
Buffalo, New York, in September 1901. He skipped to the section marked
Nothing. I have no records of the Flamels associating with other
immortals.
But now he is back in Paris, Dagon said, bubbles of liquid forming on his
lips as he spoke. He will seek out old friends. People behave differently at
home, he added; their guard comes down. And no matter how long Flamel has
lived away from this city, he will still consider it his home.
Niccol Machiavelli looked over the top of the computer screen. He was
reminded yet again of how little he knew about his faithful employee. And
where is your home, Dagon? he asked.
Gone. Long gone. A translucent skin flickered across the huge globes of his
eyes.
Why have you remained with me? Machiavelli wondered aloud. Why have you
not sought out others of your kind?
They too are gone. I am the last of my kind, and besides, you are not that
dissimilar to me.
But you are not human, Machiavelli said softly.
Are you? Dagon asked, eyes wide and unblinking.
Machiavelli took a long moment before finally nodding and returning to the
screen. So we re looking for someone the Flamels would have known when they
were still living here. And we know they haven t been in the city since the
eighteenth century, so let us limit our search to immortals who were around
then. His fingers tapped the keys, filtering the results. Seven only. Five
are loyal to us.
And the other two?
Catherine de Medici is living off the Rue du Dragon.
She s not French, Dagon mumbled stickily.
Well, she was the mother of three French kings, Machiavelli said with a
rare smile. But she is loyal only to herself . His voice trailed away and
he straightened. But what do we have here?
Dagon remained unmoving.
Niccol Machiavelli swiveled the computer screen so that his servant could
see the photograph of a man staring directly at the camera in what was
obviously a posed publicity shot. Thick curling black hair tumbled to his
shoulders, framing a round face. His eyes were startlingly blue.
I do not know this man, Dagon said.
Oh, but I do. I know him very well. This is the immortal human once known as
the Comte de Saint-Germain. He was a magician, an inventor, a musician and an
alchemist. Machiavelli closed the program and shut down the computer.
Saint-Germain was also the student of Nicholas Flamel. And he s currently
living in Paris, he finished triumphantly.
Dagon smiled, his mouth a perfect O filled with razor teeth. Does Flamel
know that Saint-Germain is here?
I have no idea. No one knows the extent of Nicholas Flamel s knowledge.
Dagon pushed his sunglasses back in place. And I thought you knew
everything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
and leaned against a building, bent over and wheezing. Every breath was an
effort, and he was beginning to see black spots dancing in front of his eyes.
Any moment now he was going to throw up. He felt this way sometimes after
football practice, and he knew from experience that he needed to sit and get
some liquids into his system.
He s right. Scatty turned to Flamel. We need to rest, even if only
briefly. She was still carrying Sophie in her arms, and with gray glimmers of
light illuminating the Parisian rooftops toward the east, the first of the
early-morning workers had begun to appear. The fugitives had kept to the dark
side streets, and so far no one had paid any attention to the strange group,
but that would quickly change as the street filled first with Parisians, then
with tourists.
Nicholas stood outlined at the mouth of the narrow street. He glanced up and
down before turning to look over his shoulder. We have to push on, he
protested. Every second we delay brings Machiavelli closer to us.
We can t, Scatty said. She looked at Flamel, and for a single instant, her
bright green eyes glowed. The twins need to rest, she said, and then added
softly, And so do you, Nicholas. You re exhausted.
The Alchemyst considered her and then he nodded and his shoulders slumped.
