Welcome to Paris. Niccol Machiavelli spoke Latin with an Italian accent.
I trust you had a good flight and that the room is to your satisfaction?
Machiavelli had arranged for Dee to be met at the airport and given a police
escort to his grand town house off the Place du Canada.
Where are they? Dee asked rudely, ignoring his host s questions, asserting
his authority. He might have been a few years younger than the Italian, but
he was in charge.
Machiavelli stepped out of the room and stood beside Dee on the balcony.
Unwilling to wrinkle his suit against the metal railing, he stood with his
hands clasped behind his back. The tall, elegant, clean-shaven Italian with
close-cropped white hair was in great contrast with the small sharp-featured
man with his pointed beard and his gray hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
They are still in Saint-Germain s house. And Flamel has recently joined
them.
Dr. Dee glanced sidelong at Machiavelli. I m surprised you were not tempted
to try and capture them yourself, he said slyly.
Machiavelli looked over the city he controlled. Oh, I thought I would leave
their final capture to you, he said mildly.
You mean you were instructed to leave them to me, Dee snapped.
Machiavelli said nothing.
Saint-Germain s house is completely surrounded?
Completely.
And there are only five people in the house? No servants, no guards?
The Alchemyst and Saint-Germain, the twins and the Shadow.
Scathach is the problem, Dee muttered.
I may have a solution, Machiavelli suggested softly. He waited until the
Magician turned to look at him, his stone gray eyes blinking orange in the
reflected streetlights. I sent for the Disir, Scathach s fiercest foes.
Three of them have just arrived.
A rare smile curled Dee s thin lips. Then he moved back from Machiavelli and
bowed slightly. The Valkyries a truly excellent choice.
We are on the same side, Machiavelli bowed in return. We serve the same
masters.
The Magician was about to step back into the room when he stopped and turned
to look at Machiavelli. For a moment, the faintest rotten-egg hint of sulfur
hung in the air. You have no idea whom I serve, he said.
Dagon threw open the tall double doors and stepped back. Niccol Machiavelli
and Dr. John Dee strode into the ornate book-filled library to greet their
visitors.
There were three young women in the room.
At first glance they were so alike that they could have been triplets. Tall
and thin, with shoulder-length blond hair, they were dressed alike in black
tanks under soft leather jackets and blue jeans tucked into knee-high boots.
Their faces were all angles: sharp cheekbones, deeply sunken eyes, pointed
chins. Only their eyes helped distinguish them. They were different shades of
blue, from the palest sapphire to deep, almost purple indigo. All three
looked as if they might have been sixteen or seventeen, but in actuality,
they were older than most civilizations.
They were the Disir.
Machiavelli stepped into the center of the room and turned to look at each of
the girls in turn, trying to tell them apart. One was sitting at the grand
piano, another was lounging on the sofa, while a third leaned against a
window, staring out into the night, an unopened leather-bound book in her
hands. As he got closer to them, their heads pivoted, and he noticed that
their eye colors matched their nail polish. Thank you for coming, he said,
speaking Latin, which, along with Greek, was the one language most of the
Elders were familiar with.
The girls looked at him blankly.
Machiavelli glanced at Dagon, who had stepped into the room and closed the
door behind him. He pulled off his glasses, revealing his bulbous eyes, and
spoke quickly in a language no human throat or tongue could shape.
The women ignored him.
Dr. John Dee sighed dramatically. He dropped into a high-backed leather
armchair and clapped his small hands together with a sharp crack. Enough of
this nonsense, he said in English. You re here for Scathach. Now, do you
want her or not?
The girl sitting at the piano stared at the Magician. If he noticed that her
head was now twisted at an impossible angle, he didn't react. Where is she?
Her English was perfect.
Close by, Machiavelli said, moving slowly around the room.
The three girls directed their attention to him, heads turning to track him,
like owls following a mouse.
What is she doing?
She is protecting the Alchemyst Flamel, Saint-Germain and two humani,
Machiavelli said. We only want the humani and Flamel. Scathach is yours. He
paused and then added, You can have Saint-Germain, too, if you want him.
He s no use to us.
The Shadow. We just want the Shadow, the woman sitting at the piano said.
Her indigo-tipped fingers moved across the keys, the sound delicate and
beautiful.
Machiavelli crossed to a side table and poured coffee from a tall silver pot.
He looked at Dee and raised his eyebrows and the pot at the same time. The
Magician shook his head. You should know that Scathach is still powerful,
Machiavelli continued, speaking now to the woman seated at the piano. The
pupils of her indigo eyes were narrow and horizontal. She knocked out a unit
of highly trained police officers yesterday morning.
Humani, the Disir almost spat. No humani can stand against the Shadow.
But we are not humani, the woman standing at the window said.
We are the Disir, finished the woman sitting across from Dee. We are the
Shieldmaidens, the Choosers of the Dead, the Warriors of
Yes, yes, yes, Dee said impatiently. We know who you are: Valkyries.
Probably the greatest warriors the world has ever seen according to
yourselves, anyway. We want to know if you can defeat the Shadow.
The Disir with indigo eyes swiveled her body away from the piano and flowed
smoothly to her feet. She stalked across the carpet to stand before Dee. Her
two sisters were suddenly by her side, and the temperature in the room
abruptly plummeted.
It would be a mistake to mock us, Dr. Dee, one said.
Dee sighed. Can you defeat the Shadow? he asked again. Because if you
