The Elders have been doing it for millennia, Saint-Germain said, tilting
the rearview mirror so that he could look at Sophie. In the dark interior of
the car, she thought his bright blue eyes were glowing slightly. And you
have to remember that humankind really does not want to believe in magic.
They don't want to know that myths and legends were almost always based on
the truth.
Joan reached over and laid her hand gently on her husband s arm. But I do
not agree; humans have always believed in magic. It is only in these last few
centuries that the belief has fallen away. I think that they really want to
believe, because in their hearts they know it to be true. They know that
magic really exists.
I used to believe in magic, Sophie said very quietly. She had turned to
look out at the city again, but reflected in the glass, she saw a brightly
painted child s bedroom: her bedroom, five, perhaps six years ago. She had no
idea where it was the house in Scottsdale, maybe, or it might have been
Raleigh; they d moved around so much then. She was sitting in the middle of
her bed, surrounded by her favorite books. When I was younger, I read about
princesses and wizards and knights and magicians. Even though I knew they
were just stories, I wanted the magic to be real. Until now, she added
bitterly. She moved her head to glance at the Alchemyst. Are all the fairy
tales true?
Flamel nodded. Not every fairy tale, but just about every legend is based on
a truth; every myth has a basis in reality.
Even the scary ones? she whispered.
Especially the scary ones.
A trio of news helicopters buzzed low overhead, the noise of their rotors
vibrating the interior of the car. Flamel waited until they had passed and
then leaned forward. Where are we going?
Saint-Germain pointed straight ahead and to the right. There s a secret
entrance to the catacombs in the Trocad ro Gardens. It leads straight down
into the forbidden tunnels. I ve checked the old maps; I think Dee s route
will take them through the sewers first and then down into the lower tunnels.
We ll make up some time this way.
Nicholas Flamel sat back in the seat and then reached over and squeezed
Sophie s hand. It s going to be all right, he said.
But Sophie didn't believe him.
The entrance to the catacombs was through a rather ordinary-looking metal
grate set into the ground. Partially covered in moss and grass, it was hidden
in a stand of trees behind a richly carved and beautifully painted carousel
at one end of the Trocad ro Gardens. Usually, the stunning gardens would have
been overrun with tourists, but this morning they were deserted, and the
carousel s empty wooden horses bobbed up and down below their blue and white
striped awning.
Saint-Germain cut across a narrow path and led them into a patch of grass
burned brown by the summer sun. He stopped over an unmarked rectangular metal
grate. I haven t used this since 1941. He knelt down, grabbed the bars and
tugged. It didn't move.
Joan glanced sidelong at Sophie. When Francis and I fought with the French
Resistance against the Germans, we used the catacombs as a base. We could pop
up anywhere in the city. She tapped the metal grate with the toe of her
shoe. This was one of our favorite spots. Even during the war the gardens
were always full of people, and we could mingle easily with the crowds.
The air was suddenly touched with the rich autumnal scent of burnt leaves,
and then the metal bars in Francis s hands began to glow with a rich red-hot,
then white-hot, heat. The metal turned to liquid and melted away, thick blobs
disappearing down into the shaft. Saint-Germain wrenched the remainder of the
grating out of the hole and tossed it to one side, then swung himself into
the opening. There s a ladder here.
Sophie, you go next, Nicholas said. I ll come after you. Joan, will you
take up the rear?
Joan nodded. She caught the edge of a nearby wooden park bench and dragged it
across the grass. I ll pull it over the opening before I climb down. We
don't want any unexpected visitors dropping in, do we? She smiled.
Sophie gingerly climbed into the opening, her feet finding the rungs of the
ladder. She carefully lowered herself. She d been expecting it to be foul and
horrible, but it just smelled dry and musty. She started counting the steps
but lost count somewhere around seventy-two, though she could tell by the
rapidly diminishing square of sky above their heads that they were climbing
deep underground. She wasn't scared not for herself. Tunnels and narrow
spaces held no fears for her, but her brother was terrified of small spaces:
how was he feeling now? Butterflies shifted in her stomach; she felt queasy.
Her mouth went dry and she knew instinctively, unquestioningly that this was
how her brother was feeling right at that moment. She knew that Josh was
terrified.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The wall directly before him was created from hundreds of stained-yellow and
bleached-white skulls. Dee strode down the corridor and his sphere of light
sent shadows dancing and twitching, making it appear as if the empty eye
sockets were moving, following him.
Josh had grown up with bones; he knew they were nothing to be frightened of.
His father s study was full of skeletons. As children, both he and Sophie had
played in museum storerooms full of skeletal remains, but they had all been
animal and dinosaur bones. Josh had even helped piece together the tailbone
of a raptor that had gone on display in the American Museum of Natural
History. But these bones these were these were
Are these all human bones? he whispered.
Yes, Machiavelli said softly, his voice now touched with a trace of his
Italian accent. There are the remains of at least six million bodies down
here. Maybe more. The catacombs were originally huge limestone quarries. He
jerked his thumb upward. The same limestone used to build the city. Paris is
built over a warren of tunnels.
How did they get down here? Josh s voice trembled. He coughed, wrapped his
arms tightly around his body and tried to look nonchalant, as if he weren t
completely terrified. They look ancient; how long have they been here?
