The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #6) (14 page)

“What is the point?”

“They’re usually accompanied by a guy in a red shirt. Always a crewman you’ve never seen before. And as soon as you see the red shirt, you know he’s going to die.”

“Where is this going?” Machiavelli asked.

Billy leaned forward. “Don’t you see …” The bobbing light threw his glittering eyes into shadows. “We’re the red shirts.” He jerked his thumb over his head. “The Elders up there will survive; they always have. Probably most of the monsters will survive too. Dee and Dare have hightailed it. We’re the ones who are going to end up getting eaten.”

The Italian sighed. “During the reign of Napoleon—whom I liked, by the way—the term
cannon fodder
was coined,” he said. “I fear you may be right.”

“I think I preferred the term
red shirt
,” Billy muttered.

“Boo!” A wicked curve of metal snaked around the American immortal’s throat and a copper-skinned, sharp-nosed
face loomed out of the darkness, teeth white against thin lips. “William Bonney, do you know how many times I could have killed you? You’re getting sloppy.”

“Black Hawk,” Billy breathed. “You scared the life out of me!”

“A herd of stampeding buffalo makes less noise that you. And more sense.”

Billy spun around and pushed Black Hawk’s tomahawk to one side. “Oh, it sure is good to see you, old friend.”

“And you.” Black Hawk nodded at Machiavelli. “You too, Italian.”

“We are relieved to find you alive,” Machiavelli said. “We feared the worst.”

“It was a close-run thing. The mermaids—”

“Nereids,” Billy interrupted.

Black Hawk glared. “Excuse me, the
Nereids
swamped my boat, and I barely scrambled ashore and into a cave before this huge thing with a man’s body and octopus legs attacked me.”

“Nereus,” Machiavelli said. “The Old Man of the Sea. I am surprised you got away.”

Black Hawk looked at him blankly, light glinting copper off his skin.

“Alive, I mean,” Machiavelli clarified. “Nereus is one of the deadliest of the Elders.”

“Well, now he’s just plain dead.” The immortal warrior tapped his tomahawk against the palm of his hand and winked at Billy. “Sometimes the red shirts survive to fight another day.”

W
ith a long razor-nailed claw, Bastet pushed what looked like small square white teeth into the soft verge where the road coming off the Golden Gate Bridge curved around to the right and into Vista Point. “Feed them,” she commanded.

Quetzalcoatl looked at her blankly. “What with?”

Bastet caught the Feathered Serpent’s right hand, pulled off his glove and drove her nail into the tip of his forefinger. Thick red-black blood welled in the wound. Bastet squeezed.

“Ouch. Hurts!”

“Don’t be such a baby. It’s just a drop. You’ve seen enough blood in your time, I’ll wager.”

“Yes, but little of it was mine.”

The blood fell hissing through the swirling fog and spattered into the hole, washing over the white tooth, which immediately started to sizzle and sputter like a firework.

“Feed them. One drop should be sufficient.”

“Why do you get to plant them and I have to feed them?”

“Because they’re my Drakon’s teeth,” Bastet snapped. She strode along the soft damp verge, creating more holes with her spiked high heels, then dropped a tooth in each.

“How many have you got?”

“Thirty-two. So I’m going to need thirty-two drops of blood.”

“That’s very nearly an armful!”

When she had planted all the teeth, Bastet returned to her car and watched Quetzalcoatl move reluctantly from tooth to tooth, feeding each one a single drop of blood from his index finger. Halfway down the line, he stopped and changed hands, puncturing a hole in his left index finger with his teeth. When he was finished, thirty-two sizzling, sparking fireworks buzzed in an almost straight line along the side of the road. He stood for a moment, sucking his index fingers, then shoved both hands in his pockets and hurried over to the gleaming black car.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Give it a few minutes. Let nature take its course.” She smiled. “These are Drakon’s teeth. They grow the Spartoi, the Drakon Warriors. They are earth warriors, and like many newborns, they are programmed to obey the first person they see when they emerge from the ground.” Bastet smiled, teeth white in the gloom. “Run along now. Make sure they see you. Then send them across the bridge into the city.”

“But how do we let Flamel and his companions know they’re coming?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Bastet shook her head. “You really
didn’t think this through, did you? What would you have done without me?”

“Sent in a messenger?” he suggested.

“Exactly. What sort of messenger? I imagine you still use snakes and birds as your couriers.”

Quetzalcoatl reached into his pocket and handed over a cell phone. “There are some Sack Men in the city watching them right now,” he said, his face expressionless. “You’ll find the number on speed dial. You do know how to use a cell, don’t you?”

Bastet’s long nails scraped grooves in the back of the plastic phone as she scrolled through the menu and found the speed dial. Her call was answered on the first ring, and she recognized the peculiar liquid breathing of the creatures known as the
Torbalan
, the Sack Men.

“You are keeping four people under observation. Here is what I want you to do….”

Two swords appeared in Niten’s hands even before the shape loomed silently out of the fog. Prometheus moved to stand before Nicholas and Perenelle, while the Japanese immortal faded into the night.

The fog-wrapped figure looked like a young man. He was wearing shabby green combat trousers, thick-soled biker boots without laces and a coat that might once have been green but which was now streaked and indescribably filthy. The youth’s head was shaven except for an inch-thick strip that stretched from ear to ear. His skin was poor, and his eyes were hidden behind badly scratched mirrored sunglasses. He
carried an ornately stitched leather knapsack flung over his right shoulder. The bag slowly rippled and pulsed, as if a nest of snakes moved within it.

“What do you want, Torbalan?” Perenelle asked.

The figure reached for his coat pocket and Niten’s katana appeared out of the gloom to lie flat across the knapsack. “Move very slowly,” the Japanese immortal instructed. “If I see anything that even vaguely resembles a weapon, I will slice this bag open.” His second short sword came to rest on the youth’s shoulder. “Then I’ll take your head. And you do not want that—do you?”

With infinite care, the Torbalan lifted a cell phone from his coat and tossed it to Prometheus. The big man snatched it out of the air, glanced at the screen and then handed it back to Perenelle.

“And what are we supposed to do with this?” she asked, looking from the Torbalan to Nicholas.

The phone began to chirp the theme to Looney Tunes.

“Answer it?” Nicholas suggested.

Perenelle hit Answer and put the phone to her ear. She did not speak.

The voice on the other end of the phone was female. It was low and husky, touched by an indefinable accent, and spoke in a language that had been ancient long before the rise of Egypt. “I think it unlikely that either of the warriors would have taken this phone. They would have wanted to keep their hands free for their weapons. I know the Alchemyst is uncomfortable with technology, so I would imagine I am speaking to the Sorceress, Perenelle Delamere Flamel.”

“Very impressive,” Perenelle said.

“I am Bastet.”

Perenelle turned to Nicholas and mouthed the creature’s name, then spoke into the phone. “You have returned.”

“I never really went away.” The Elder’s chuckle turned into a deep rumbling purr. “The end is here. You fought well, some would say bravely, but now there is little left to do … except die, of course.”

“We will not go down without a fight.”

“I would expect no less. But the outcome will be the same: you will still die.”

“Sooner or later we all die, Elder. Even you.”

“I do not think so.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to talk to me,” Perenelle said. “Say your piece, so I can dismiss your …” Her eyes flickered over the Sack Man. “… your messenger. This one looks almost human. The sunglasses are a nice touch.”

“I assure you they are not my creatures. I have better taste. However, I’ve just fed some Drakon’s teeth into the ground, Sorceress—and you know what that means. Even now they are gathering on the Golden Gate Bridge. The Spartoi are coming.” Bastet started to laugh, and then the line clicked and went dead.

Perenelle instantly hit Call and the phone dialed the last number received. The call was answered on the first ring by a slightly surprised Bastet. “Hello?”

“When all this is over, Elder, I will come for you. And if I am not able to do it in person, I will send something to hunt you down. I am the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,
and I was trained by Medea herself….” The Sorceress’s ice-white aura formed in a silken glove around her hand and flowed over the phone.

“You don’t frighten me,” Bastet began, and then a scream of pain sounded over the connection and the conversation was cut short.

“What did you do?” Nicholas asked.

Perenelle shrugged. “Perhaps the phone melted into her hand.” She tossed the cell back to the Sack Man, who instantly retreated into the night. The Sorceress turned to Prometheus and Niten. “The Spartoi are coming across the Golden Gate Bridge, heading this way.”

“The Swordsman and I will go and hold the bridge,” Prometheus said. “We will buy you as much time as we can … but hurry. You know what the Spartoi are like.”

Tears sparkling in her eyes, Perenelle nodded.

“How many are coming?” Niten asked.

“Thirty-two of the deadliest warriors in the known world.” She looked at Niten. “And you don’t have to look quite so happy about it!”

T
he size of the Yggdrasill was almost beyond comprehension.

Impossibly wide, incalculably high, it stretched from ground to sky in a single massive column. Its roots plunged underground, deep into the core of the earth. Entire ecosystems thrived on the exterior of the vast tree; birds and insects, small mammals and lizards swarmed through the branches and leaves. Those living at the top of the tree in the ever-present clouds never saw those who lived close to the roots, and none of those knew about the world in the dark earth beneath the tree, where another environment flourished, pale blind creatures winding through enormous tunnels left by the roots. Endless generations lived and died on—and in—the Yggdrasill.

The tree was hollow, and within the trunk flourished the city of Wakah-Chan, one of the hidden wonders of Danu Talis.

Joan of Arc left Saint-Germain talking to Shakespeare and Palamedes and fell into step alongside Scathach. She linked her arm with her friend’s. The French immortal’s slate-gray eyes danced with excitement, and the faintest miasma of her lavender aura leaked from her body in a visible cloud. “We’ve had a lot of great adventures over the centuries,” she said in English.

“We have,” the Shadow agreed.

“And we have seen wonders.”

Scathach nodded again.

“But in all your travels, have you ever seen anything like this before?” Joan asked.

“I have, actually. This is the second Yggdrasill I’ve been in this week. There is—there was—a distant relative of the original tree just north of San Francisco. It was huge, but nothing like this. Dee destroyed it,” she added bitterly.

The two women were walking along a branch at least sixty feet wide. The branch was both road and bridge and stretched, unsupported, from one side of the Yggdrasill to the other, which was so far away it was lost in a swirling green mist that curled throughout the interior of the tree. Small one- and two-story buildings were scattered along the length of the branch. Slender dark-skinned men and women offered fruit and colored drinks from brightly canopied stalls in front of the buildings.

“Do you think they live here, on the bridge?” Joan asked.

“It sure looks that way,” the Shadow said. “I wonder how many have rolled out of bed in the morning, stepped out their back door and gone off the side.” She nodded to where
the rears of the little homes were built right up against the edge of the branch. Beyond, there was nothing but a sheer drop.

“Trust you to think of that.” Joan stopped then and suddenly grinned, realizing Scatty was making one of her very rare jokes. The houses had no back doors. “Very funny.”

“Thank you.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know.”

The immortal craned her neck and looked upward. The vast hollow trunk disappeared into emerald-tinged clouds far above. The air over her head was crisscrossed with branches linking one side of the tree to the other, and the trunk was speckled with countless bulbous protrusions. Lights sparkled around these growths, but it was only when she walked to the edge of the branch, looked down and saw one up close that she realized she was looking at more dwellings set onto the sides of the Yggdrasill. Far below, where it was gloomy with early night, the trunk sparkled with thousands of lights.

“Careful!” Scathach caught Joan’s belt as she leaned out farther. “We didn’t come all this way to have you fall off the edge.”

Joan pointed. “There are people flying.”

The Shadow nodded. “I noticed that. They’re strapped into gliders. I imagine this is the perfect environment for gliding, with thermals rising up from below.”

“And did you notice also that they all look human?” Joan added. She lowered her voice and slipped into the provincial accent of eastern France, the first language she and the
Shadow had spoken together. “There are no dog-headed monsters here.”

“I noticed,” Scathach replied in the same language. “I’m not surprised, though; Hekate was always considered one of the great benefactors of humankind.”

Still smiling, pointing at the gliders, Joan continued. “You also noticed that Huitzilopochtli was dressed in full armor.”