Nicholas Flamel 2 - The Magician

the island. He doesn t know about this entrance.

Perenelle found a rusted length of metal and used it to scrape away the dirt,

revealing broken and cracked concrete beneath the soil. Using the edge of the

metal bar, she began to dig away at the dirt. She kept glancing up, trying to

gauge how close the birds had come to the island, but with the wind whipping

in over the ruined buildings and keening through the rusted metal struts of

the water tower, it was impossible to make out any other noises. Tendrils of

the thick fog that had claimed San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge had

now reached the island, coating everything in a dripping, salt-smelling

cloud.

When she had scraped back the earth, de Ayala drifted over one particular

spot. Just here, he said, his voice a breath in her ear. The prisoners

discovered the existence of the tunnel and managed to dig a shaft down to it.

They understood that decades of water dripping from the tower had softened

the soil and even eaten away at the stones beneath. But when they eventually

broke through to the tunnel below, it was at high tide, and they found that

it was flooded. They abandoned their efforts. He showed his teeth in a

perfect smile he had not possessed in life. If only they had waited until

the tide turned.

Perenelle scraped away more soil, revealing more broken stone. Jamming the

metal bar under the edge of a block, she leaned hard on it. The stone didn't

budge. She pressed again with both hands, and then, when that didn't work,

lifted a boulder and hammered once on the metal bar: the clink rang out

across the island, tolling like a bell.

Oh, this is impossible, she muttered. She was reluctant to use her powers,

since it would reveal her location to the sphinx, but she had no other

choice. Cupping her right hand, she allowed her aura to gather in her palm,

where it puddled like mercury. She rested her hand lightly, almost gently, on

the stone, then turned her hand over and allowed the raw power to pour from

her palm and seep into the granite. The stone turned soft and soapy and then

melted like candle wax. Thick globs of liquid rock fell away and disappeared

into the darkness below.

I ve been dead a long time; I thought I d seen wonders, but I ve never seen

anything like that, de Ayala said in awe.

A Scythian mage taught me the spell in return for saving his life. It s

quite simple, really, she said. She leaned over the hole and then jerked

back, eyes watering. Oh my: it stinks!

The ghost of Juan Manuel de Ayala hovered directly over the hole. He turned

and smiled, showing his perfect teeth again. I can't smell anything.

Trust me, be glad you cannot, Perenelle muttered, shaking her head; ghosts

often had a peculiar sense of humor. The tunnel reeked of rotting fish and

ancient seaweed, of rancid bird and bat droppings, of pulped wood and rusting

metal. There was another scent also, bitter and acrid, almost like vinegar.

Bending down, she tore a strip off the bottom of her dress and wrapped it

around her nose and mouth as a crude mask.

There is a ladder of sorts, de Ayala said, but be careful, I m sure it s

rusted through. He suddenly glanced up. The birds have reached the southern

end of the island. And something else. Something evil. I can feel it.

The Morrigan. Perenelle leaned over the hole and snapped her fingers. A

slender feather of soft white light peeled off her fingertips and drifted

down the hole, disappearing into the gloom below, shedding a flickering milky

light on the streaked and dripping walls. The light had also revealed the

narrow ladder, which turned out to be little more than spikes driven at

irregular angles into the wall. The spikes, each no longer than four inches,

were thick with rust and dripping moisture. Leaning over, she caught the

first spike and tugged hard. It seemed solid enough.

Perenelle twisted around and slid one leg into the opening. Her foot found

one of the spikes and immediately slipped off. Drawing her leg back out of

the hole, she tugged off her sandals and tucked them into her belt. She could

hear the flapping of birds thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of

them drawing closer. She knew her tiny expenditure of power to melt the stone

and light up the interior of the tunnel would have alerted the Morrigan to

her position. She had only moments before the birds arrived .

Perenelle put her leg into the shaft again, her bare foot touching the spike.

It was cold and slimy beneath her skin, but at least she was able to get a

better grip. Grasping handfuls of tough grass, she lowered herself, her foot

finding another spike, and then she reached down and caught a spike in her

left hand. She winced. It felt disgusting, squelching beneath her fingers.

And then she smiled; how she d changed. When she was a girl, growing up in

Quimper in France all those years ago, she d gone paddling in rock pools,

picking and eating raw shellfish. She d wandered barefoot through streets

that were ankle deep in mud and filth.

Testing each step, Perenelle climbed down the length of the shaft. At one

point a spike broke away beneath her foot and went clanging into the

darkness. It seemed to fall for a long time. She lay back against the foul

wall, feeling the damp soak through her thin summer dress. Holding on

desperately, she sought another spike. She felt the metal nail in her hand

shift, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought it was going to pull free

of the wall. But it held.

A close call. I thought you were going to be joining me, the ghost of de

Ayala said, materializing out of the gloom directly before her face.

I m not that easy to kill, Perenelle said grimly, continuing to climb down.

Though it would be funny if, having survived decades of concentrated attacks

from Dee and his Dark Elders, I was to die in a fall. She looked at the

vague shape of the face before her. What s happening up there? She jerked

her head in the direction of the opening of the shaft, visible only because

of the wisps of gray fog that curled and dribbled into it.

The island is covered with birds, de Ayala said. Perhaps a hundred

thousand of them; they are perched on every available surface. The Crow

Goddess has gone into the heart of the prison, no doubt in search of the

sphinx.

We don't have much time, Perenelle warned. She took another step and her

foot sank up to the ankle in thick gooey mud. She had reached the bottom of