nose and a high forehead topped with graying curly hair. He was sitting at a
high desk, a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper before him, dipping a simple
pen into a brimming inkwell. It took her a moment to realize that this was
not one of her own memories, nor was it something she had seen on TV or in a
movie. She was
she turned to look closely at the figure, the Witch s memories flooded her:
the man was a famous English writer and was just about to begin work on a new
book. The writer glanced up and smiled at her; then his lips moved, but there
was no sound. Leaning over his shoulder, she saw him write the words
script. Outside the writer s study window, fog, thick and opaque, rolled like
smoke against the dirty glass, blotting out the background in an impenetrable
blanket.
And beneath the portico of Sacre -Coeur in Paris, the air turned chill and
moist, rich with the odor of vanilla ice cream. A trickle of white dribbled
from each of Sophie s outstretched fingers. The wispy streams curled down to
puddle at her feet. Behind her closed eyes, she watched the writer dip his
pen into the inkwell and continue.
Thick white fog spilled from Sophie s fingers and spread across the stones,
shifting like heavy smoke, flowing in twisting ropes and gossamer threads.
Coiling and shifting, it flowed through Flamel s legs and tumbled down the
steps, growing, thickening, darkening.
Niccol watched the fog flow down the steps of Sacre -Coeur like dirty milk,
watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that
Flamel was going to elude him. By the time the fog reached him it was chest
high, wet and vanilla scented. He breathed deeply, recognizing the odor of
magic.
Remarkable, he said, but the fog flattened his voice, dulling his carefully
cultivated French accent, revealing the harsher Italian beneath.
Leave us alone, Flamel s voice boomed out of the fog.
That sounds like another threat, Nicholas. Believe me when I tell you that
you have no idea of the forces gathered against you now. Your parlor tricks
will not save you. Machiavelli pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed
dial number. Attack. Attack now! He raced up the steps as he spoke, moving
silently on expensive leather-soled shoes, while far below, booted feet
thumped on stone as the gathered police charged up the steps.
I ve survived for a very long time. Flamel s voice didn't come from where
Machiavelli expected it to, and he stopped, turning left and right, trying to
make out a shape in the fog.
The world moved on, Nicholas, Machiavelli said. You did not. You might
have escaped us in America, but here, in Europe, there are too many Elders,
too many immortal humans who know you. You will not be able to remain hidden
for long. We will find you.
Machiavelli dashed up the final few steps that brought him directly to the
entrance of the church. There was no mist here. The unnatural fog started on
the top step and flowed downward, leaving the church floating like an island
on a cloudy sea. Even before he ran into the church, Machiavelli knew he
would not find them in there: Flamel, Scathach and the twins had escaped.
For the moment.
But Paris was no longer Nicholas Flamel s city. The city that had once
honored Flamel and his wife as patrons of the sick and poor, the city that
named streets after them, was long gone. Paris now belonged to Machiavelli
and the Dark Elders he served. Looking out over the ancient city, Niccol
Machiavelli swore that he was going to turn Paris into a trap and maybe even
a tomb for the legendary Alchemyst.
CHAPTER FIVE
The woman lay unmoving on the narrow cot in the cramped icy cell deep beneath
the abandoned prison and listened to them whisper and murmur in the shadows
around her. There were a dozen languages she could understand, many more she
could identify and a few that were completely incomprehensible.
Keeping her eyes closed, Perenelle concentrated on the languages, trying to
make out the individual voices, wondering if there were any she recognized.
And then a sudden thought struck her: how was she able to hear the ghosts?
Sitting outside the cell was a sphinx, a monster with a lion s body, an
eagle s wings and the head of a beautiful woman. One of its special powers
was the ability to absorb the magical energies of another living being. It
had drained Perenelle s, rendering her helpless, trapping her in this
terrible prison cell.
A tiny smile curled Perenelle s lips as she realized something: she was the
seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; she had been
hear and see ghosts. She had been doing so long before she had learned how to
train and concentrate her aura. Her gift had nothing to do with magic, and
therefore the sphinx had no power over it. Throughout the centuries of her
long life, she had used her skill with magic to protect herself from ghosts,
to coat and shield her aura with colors that rendered her invisible to the
apparitions. But as the sphinx had absorbed her energies, those shields had
been wiped away, revealing her to the spirit realm.
And now they were coming.
Perenelle Flamel had seen her first ghost that of her beloved grandmother
Mamom when she was seven years old. Perenelle knew that there was nothing to
fear from ghosts; they could be annoying, certainly, were often irritating
and sometimes downright rude, but they possessed no physical presence. There
were even a few she had learned to call friends. Over the centuries certain
spirits had returned to her again and again, drawn to her because they knew
she could hear, see or help them and often, Perenelle thought, simply because
they were lonely. Mamom turned up every decade or so just to check up on her.
But even though they had no presence in the real world, ghosts were not
powerless.
Opening her eyes, Perenelle concentrated on the chipped stone wall directly
in front of her face. The wall ran with green-tinged water that smelled of
rust and salt, the two elements that had ultimately destroyed Alcatraz the
prison. Dee had made a mistake, as she had known he would. If Dr. John Dee
