The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #6) (10 page)

“Uncle, you don’t seem too concerned about our imminent death,” she said to Prometheus.

“For the final time, girl, I am not your uncle,” the red-haired Elder snapped.

“Not yet,” the Shadow snapped back. “But for the hundredth time, you will be. Now—are we going to crash and die?”

“Crash, yes. Die? Maybe. It depends on whether my calculations were correct.”

Scathach pushed herself from her seat and staggered to a cracked porthole.

They were racing directly toward a forest. Scathach shook her head. That was not possible. They had risen too high, and hadn’t fallen far enough or long enough—how could there be trees so close?

Not trees, she suddenly realized.
A
tree—just one. They were falling into the side of a single tree.

Scathach flung herself across the cabin, bouncing off the walls, to peer through another and then another porthole. The tree was massive. Huge and twisting, it loomed before them like a vast green wall. She craned her neck, looking up and down. The trunk disappeared into the forest canopy far below, and the top of the tree soared up through the clouds, reaching high into the heavens. She was only looking at a tiny section of it, but that portion was enormous.

“Yggdrasill,” she breathed.

“The One Tree,” Prometheus confirmed.

“The original Yggdrasill of Danu Talis,” Scathach said in awe.

“The original? It is the only one of its kind.”

Scathach opened her mouth to respond but then closed it again and said nothing. She had seen Yggdrasill before. But the tree she had seen in a Shadowrealm bordering Mill Valley—though it was massive—had been puny compared to this. And then Dee had destroyed it.

“You should sit,” Prometheus commanded. “Now!”

The Shadow fell back into her seat and held on to the damaged armrests. Everyone could see the tree approaching. The light filtering in through the portholes of the Rukma vimana had turned dark and green, and it looked as if the craft was falling into a forest, but they were actually descending at an angle into the side of the Yggdrasill.

“Brace yourselves!” Prometheus shouted as branches started to scrape and tear along the side of the craft.

And then they hit the massive trunk of the World Tree.

The vimana split in two.

A huge crack ripped through the craft, and the front half of the ship with Prometheus and Scathach pitched forward and lodged safely in a network of thick vines and enormous branches. Leaves rained down on top of them. The back half of the craft, holding Joan, Saint-Germain, Will and Palamedes caught on a series of branches, which bent beneath its weight, then broke and dropped the ship onto a street-sized branch twenty feet below. The ship tottered there for a moment; then the branch cracked and dipped. A second crack sent splinters shooting upward. Beneath the branch there was nothing but an endless fall into clouds far below.

Scathach crawled out of the craft, grabbed a length of vine and quickly fashioned a long rope. Tying the rope around the branch she was lying on, she lowered it into the body of the craft beneath her.

Prometheus tugged off his metal gloves with his teeth, wrapped a second length of the vine around his waist and dropped it into the back half of the craft directly below, almost into the Saracen Knight’s hands.

“Quickly, quickly!” Scathach screamed. She could see that the branch the vimana was balanced on was about to snap.

Bruised and bloodied from a cut high on his forehead, Saint-Germain lifted an unconscious Joan out of her seat and slipped her over his shoulder. Gripping Scathach’s vine in one hand, then entwining it around his feet, he hauled himself upward with a grunt. Scathach dug in her feet and pulled, teeth gritted, muscles straining.

Palamedes lifted a trembling Will Shakespeare and held him while he wrapped Prometheus’s vine around him, tying it off in a knot under his arms. He looked up at the red-haired Elder and nodded. “Haul away.”

Prometheus’s massive arms bulged and he started to pull Shakespeare up to safety.

The branch creaked again, then cracked. It broke.

Palamedes leaped, and just as the branch ripped away from the trunk of the tree, he caught hold of Will’s right foot and dangled, swaying slightly from side to side.

Prometheus grunted with the extra strain. The vine slipped in his hands, tearing his flesh, scraping it raw; then it began to unravel. The Elder roared his frustration.

“Will,” Palamedes said, looking upward. “I’ve got to let go….”

“No!” The Bard’s eyes brimmed with tears. “No, please …”

“Will, if I don’t, then we both die. And there is no need for that.”

“Wait …,” Shakespeare breathed. “Wait….”

“I have been honored by the centuries of our friendship….”

“No!”

“When all this is over, you might think about writing again. Write me a good part, make me truly immortal. Goodbye, Will.” The Saracen Knight’s fingers loosened.

There was a hiss, and suddenly a lasso of vine wrapped around Palamedes’s chest just as he let go. Abruptly, scores of threads and streamers of vines rained down and wound around Joan and Saint-Germain and Will and Palamedes like a vast spider’s web, catching them, holding them. The vines retracted, pulling them up to the safety of the broad branch, where they were unceremoniously deposited. The vines slithered away, disappearing back into the tree, leaving the group shaken but alive.

Two figures appeared at the end of the branch.

“Now we’re in trouble,” Prometheus murmured. “She’s not going to be happy.” He concentrated on his torn palms, picking splinters of wood from the hard flesh.

In the green light, it was hard to make out details, but one of the figures was tall and broad, completely clad in black glass and metal armor, bright blue eyes blazing beneath an ornate helmet. The second figure was a middle-aged woman with skin the color of jet and ice-white hair tumbling to her shoulders. She was wearing a shimmering robe that flickered green and gold with every step.

Marching up to Prometheus, she put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot in annoyance. “You crashed into my tree. Again.”

“I am sorry, mistress. We were in a lot of trouble.”

“You damaged my tree. It will take ages to heal.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You even broke some branches this time. It is not going to like that.”

“I will apologize. Profusely,” he added. “I’ll make an offering to the roots.”

“That might do. Make it a good offering. Something big. Make sure there are bones; it loves bones.” The woman looked around. “So, they’re here at last. Abraham was right, one more time. Though he didn’t mention anything about crashing into my tree.” She glared at each in turn. “They look a shifty lot. Especially this one.” She jerked a finger at Scathach. Then she leaned forward and sniffed. “Don’t I know you?”

“Not yet. But you will.”

The woman sniffed again. “I know your mother.” She sniffed again. “And your no-good brother.”

Joan stepped between the two women. “Prometheus, you are forgetting your manners. Why don’t you introduce us?” she suggested.

“Of course,” Prometheus said. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the Elder Hekate, the Goddess with Three Faces.” The woman bowed graciously, her dress flaring emerald. “And of course, the Champion, Huitzilopochtli.”

“Mars,” Scathach breathed in awe.

“I don’t know that name,” the warrior rumbled.

“You will,” she muttered.

N
icholas and Perenelle sat side by side on the metal seats outside the Hard Rock Cafe at the entrance to Pier 39. Although it was only a little after seven o’clock in the evening and the sun wouldn’t set for another hour and a half, the fog had ensured that night had arrived prematurely. A cold, damp gray gloom covered everything, and visibility was down to a few feet. Traffic was light, and already the streets were starting to empty. Some of the restaurants and shops along Pier 39 had even closed.

Nicholas breathed in. “Well, I never thought I’d be spending my last night alive sitting outside a restaurant on a foggy night in San Francisco. I always wanted to die in Paris.”

Perenelle reached out to squeeze his fingers. “Think of the alternatives,” she said, reverting to the ancient French of their youth.

“True,” he said gently. “I could be sitting here alone.”

“Or I could,” she said. “After all these years—I’m glad we are still together.”

“Only because of you,” the Alchemyst said. He turned to look at his wife, and his hand touched the antique scarab he wore around his neck under his shirt. So much had happened in the past few hours that it seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been earlier that day that Perenelle had used the power of Tsagaglalal’s and Sophie’s auras to transfer a little of her own aura into the scarab and then into Nicholas. She had given him an extra twenty-four hours of life. In return, she had shortened her own life by the same amount. Neither of them needed a watch to know that they had little more than nineteen hours left to live. They had no plans to sleep that night.

Perenelle reached out and rested the palm of her hand flat against Nicholas’s cheek. “I told you: I do not want to live in a world without you.”

“Nor I without you,” he said softly. Nicholas knew that the transfer of aura had been at a terrible cost to his wife. He could see it etched in the new lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth.

Centuries of watching him allowed her to read his expression as easily as if he had spoken. “Yes, I’ve grown old,” she said. “My hair gets grayer with every hour.” She touched her long hair, brushing it back off her face. “I always said you would give me gray hairs.” She ran her hand across his close-cropped skull. A thin fuzz of black hair covered his head, and the whiskers on his cheeks and chin were dark. “Whereas you … my aura obviously agreed with you. You look young.”

“Not that young,” he teased.

“Not that young,” she agreed. “But young enough. No one would ever guess you will be six hundred and seventy-seven years old in a few months’ time.”

He squeezed her hand. “That’s a birthday I am never going to have. But still,” he said with a smile, “six hundred and seventy-six isn’t too bad.”

“Remember, every time you use your aura, you are draining the little that remains in the scarab.” She touched the stone he wore around his neck. A white spark leapt from her fingers, sizzling through the cloth.

“I understand. I’ll try to hoard it until I need it.”

“You’re going to need it soon. That stunt with the parrot could have cost you a couple of hours of life.”

Nicholas shook his head. “Thirty minutes, maybe. And it was worth it. I had forgotten what a joy it was to fly. Besides, we learned a lot from my stunt. We discovered that Machiavelli and Billy are now our allies.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Which one?”

“Either of them. But especially Machiavelli. With Dee you always knew where you stood.”

“I always felt a little sorry for the English Magician,” Nicholas admitted. “And I’ve had a grudging admiration for the Italian. I think in different circumstances, we might have been friends.”

The Sorceress made a face. “Remember Mount Etna,” she said.

“You defeated him. You hurt him too.”

“He poisoned you. And made the volcano erupt!”

“In fairness, I don’t think that was entirely his fault. That was a by-product of your aura, which brought it to life. But look—these are strange times. There’s a lot happening that we’ve no idea about. Let’s take our allies wherever we can find them. Anyway,” he added with a grin, “we’ll be dead by morning and it won’t be our problem!”

“You’re impossible!” Perenelle pulled her hand away and folded her arms. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth.”

Perenelle turned in her seat to look down the street, peering into the fog. “Where are the boys?” she wondered.

“You’re deliberately changing the subject, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Even as she was speaking, two shapes—one large, the other slender—loomed out of the dense, swirling fog. It was Niten and Prometheus. The large Elder was carrying a cardboard tray with three big white paper cups. Niten was carrying a smaller cup and nibbling on a pastry sticking out the top of a brown paper bag.

The Elder crouched beside the couple and handed Nicholas and Perenelle steaming cups of coffee. “We decided that since you’re both French you’d prefer coffee to tea.” He glanced up at Niten. “Actually, it was Niten’s idea.”

“I got tea,” Niten said.

“And I left the coffee black. There’s some sugar in the bag”

“Thank you.” Perenelle wrapped her hands around the white cup and sipped cautiously, then dipped her head so he
would not see the look of disgust on her face. “Needs sugar,” she murmured.

“What did you find out?” Nicholas asked. He sipped. “Not bad. Needs sugar.” He lined up three brown packages and tore them open, spilling crystals into the coffee.

“The city is closing down,” Prometheus said. He ran his hand through his hair. Yesterday it had been red; now it was a dirty gray-white, speckled with water droplets. “Look around you: it’s June and we’re on Pier Thirty-Nine. This place should be bright with lights and teeming with people. It’s practically deserted. There was a TV on in the restaurant. There have been dozens of crashes on the roads, the airport is closed and all sea traffic has been halted. There’s talk of closing both the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridges. The news anchor was calling it the worst fog in a century.”

Nicholas breathed in. “And it is no ordinary sea fog. What—or should that be
who 
—are we smelling?” he asked.

Niten shook his head. “Something dead and rotten.”

Nicholas glanced at his wife. “Do you recognize it?”

She shook her head. She moved the cup away from her face so she could take a deep breath. “Rotting meat.” She quickly brought the cup back to her face to banish the scent with the clean odor of coffee. “That could be any one of half a dozen Elders. Some of them smell very odd indeed, and a lot of them seem to prefer a meat odor.” She smiled at Prometheus. “No offense.”