Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician

asking you for fog. That doesn t make sense.

It does to me, Sophie said as a dozen images of fog, clouds and smoke

flashed through her brain.

Niccol Machiavelli paused on the steps and drew in a deep breath. My people

have the entire area surrounded, he said, moving slowly toward the

Alchemyst. He was slightly out of breath and his heart was hammering; he

really needed to get back to the gym.

Creating the wax tulpa had exhausted him. He had never made one so big

before, and never from the back of a car roaring through Montmartre s narrow

and winding streets. It wasn't an elegant solution, but all he had needed to

do was to keep Flamel and his companions trapped in the church until he got

there, and he had succeeded. Now the church was surrounded, more gendarmes

were en route and he had called in all available agents. As the head of the

DGSE, his powers were almost limitless, and he d issued an order to impose a

press blackout. He prided himself on having complete control of his emotions,

but he had to admit that right now he was feeling quite excited: soon he

would have Nicholas Flamel, Scathach and the children in custody. He would

have triumphed where Dee had failed.

Later he would have someone in his department leak a story to the press that

thieves had been apprehended breaking into the national monument. Close to

dawn just in time for the early-morning news a second report would be leaked,

revealing how the desperate prisoners had overpowered their guards and

escaped on their way to the police station. They would never be seen again.

I have you now, Nicholas Flamel.

Flamel came to stand at the edge of the steps and pushed his hands into the

back pockets of his worn black jeans. I believe the last time you made that

statement, you were just about to break into my tomb.

Machiavelli stopped in shock. How do you know that?

More than three hundred years ago, in the dead of night, Machiavelli had

cracked open Nicholas and Perenelle s tomb, looking for proof that the

Alchemyst and his wife were indeed dead and trying to determine whether they

had been buried with the Book of Abraham the Mage. The Italian hadn't been

entirely surprised to find that both coffins were filled with stones.

Perry and I were right there behind you, standing in the shadows, close

enough to touch you when you lifted the top off our tomb. I knew someone

would come I just never imagined it would be you. I ll admit I was

disappointed, Niccol , he added.

The white-haired man continued up the steps to Sacre -Coeur. You always

thought I was a better person than I was, Nicholas.

I believe there is good in everyone, Flamel whispered, even you.

Not me, Alchemyst, not anymore, and not for a very long time. Machiavelli

stopped and indicated the police and heavily armed black-clad French special

forces gathering at the bottom of the steps. Come now. Surrender. No harm

will come to you.

I cannot tell you how many people have said that to me, Nicholas said

sadly. And they were always lying, he added.

Machiavelli s voice hardened. You can deal with me or with Dr. Dee. And you

know the English Magician never had any patience.

There is one other option, Flamel said with a shrug. His thin lips curled

in a smile. I could deal with neither of you. He half turned, but when he

looked back at Machiavelli, the expression on the Alchemyst s face made the

immortal Italian take a step back in shock. For an instant something ancient

and implacable shone through Flamel s pale eyes, which flickered a brilliant

emerald green. Now it was Flamel s voice that dropped to a whisper, still

clearly audible to Machiavelli. It would be better if you and I were never

to meet again.

Machiavelli attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. That sounds

like a threat and believe me, you are in no position to issue threats.

Not a threat, Flamel said, and stepped back from the top steps. A

promise.

The cool damp Parisian night air was abruptly touched with the rich odor of

vanilla, and Niccol Machiavelli knew then that something was very wrong.

Standing straight, eyes closed, arms at her sides, palms facing outward,

Sophie Newman took a deep breath, attempting to calm her thundering heart and

allow her mind to wander. When the Witch of Endor had wrapped her like a

mummy with bandages of solidified air, she had imparted thousands of years of

knowledge into the girl in a matter of heartbeats. Sophie had imagined she d

felt her head swelling as her brain filled with the Witch s memories. Since

then, her skull had throbbed with a headache, the base of her neck felt stiff

and tight and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. Two days ago she had

been an ordinary American teenager, her head filled with normal everyday

things: homework and school projects, the latest songs and videos, boys she

liked, cell phone numbers and Web addresses, blogs and urls.

Now she knew things that no person should ever know.

Sophie Newman possessed the Witch of Endor s memories; she knew all that the

Witch had seen, everything she had done over millennia. It was all a jumble:

a mixture of thoughts and wishes, observations, fears and desires, a

confusing mess of bizarre sights, terrifying images and incomprehensible

sounds. It was as if a thousand movies had been mixed up and edited together.

And scattered throughout the tangle of memories were countless incidences

when the Witch had actually used her special power, the Magic of Air. All

Sophie had to do was find a time when the Witch had used fog.

But when and where and how to find it?

Ignoring Flamel s voice calling down to Machiavelli, blanking out the sour

smell of her brother s fear and the jingle of Scathach s swords, Sophie

concentrated her thoughts on mist and fog.

San Francisco was often wrapped in fog, and she d seen the Golden Gate Bridge

rising out of a thick layer of cloud. And only last fall, when the family had

been in St. Paul s Cathedral in Boston, they d stepped out onto Tremont

Street to find that a damp fog had completely obscured the Common. Other

memories began to intrude: mist in Glasgow; swirling damp fog in Vienna;

thick foul-smelling yellow smog in London.

Sophie frowned; she had never been to Glasgow, Vienna or London. But the

Witch had and these were the Witch of Endor s memories.

Images, thoughts and memories like the strands of fog she was seeing in her

head shifted and twisted. And then they suddenly cleared. Sophie clearly

remembered standing alongside a figure dressed in the formal clothing of the

nineteenth century. She could see him in her mind s eye, a man with a long