The Magician | Page 4

step.
The door opened onto a short narrow stone corridor that led to another wooden
door. Without pausing, Flamel pushed through the second door and immediately
a new alarm began to shriek. He turned left into a huge open space that
smelled of old incense, floor polish and wax. Banks of lit candles shed a
golden yellow light over walls and floor and, combined with the security
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lights, revealed a pair of enormous doors with the word EXIT above them.
Flamel raced toward it, his footsteps echoing.
Don t touch Josh began, but Nicholas Flamel grasped the door handles and
pulled hard.
A third alarm much louder than the others went off, and a red light above the
door began to wink on and off.
Told you not to touch, Josh muttered.
I can t understand it why is it not open? Flamel asked, shouting to be
heard above the din. This church is always open. He turned and looked
around. Where is everyone? What time is it? he asked, as a thought struck
him.
How long does it take to travel from one place to another through the
leygate? Sophie asked.
It s instantaneous.
And you re sure we re in Paris, France?
Positive.
Sophie looked at her watch and did a quick calculation. Paris is nine hours
ahead of Ojai? she asked.
Flamel nodded, suddenly understanding.
It s about four o clock in the morning; that s why the church is closed,
Sophie said.
The police will be on their way, Scatty said glumly. She reached for her
nunchaku. I hate fighting when I m not feeling well, she muttered.
What do we do now? Josh demanded, panic rising in his voice.
I could try and blast the doors apart with wind, Sophie suggested
hesitantly. She wasn t sure she had the energy to raise the wind again so
soon. She had used her new magical powers to battle the undead in Ojai, but
the effort had completely exhausted her.
I forbid it, Flamel shouted, his face painted in shades of crimson and
shadow. He turned and pointed across rows of wooden pews toward an ornate
altar picked out in a tracery of white marble. Candlelight hinted at an
intricate mosaic in glittering blues and golds in the dome over the altar.
This is a national monument; I ll not let you destroy it.
Where are we? the twins asked together, looking around the building. Now
that their eyes had adjusted to the gloom, they realized that the building
was huge. They could distinguish columns soaring high into the shadows
overhead and were able to make out the shapes of small side altars, statues
in nooks and countless banks of candles.
This, Flamel announced proudly, is the church of Sacr -Coeur.
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13
Sitting in the back of his limousine, Niccol Machiavelli tapped coordinates
into his laptop and watched a high-resolution map of Paris wink into
existence on the screen. Paris was an incredibly ancient city. The first
settlement went back more than two thousand years, though there had been
humans living on the island in the Seine for generations before that. And
like many of the earth s oldest cities, it had been sited where groups of ley
lines met.
Machiavelli hit a keystroke, which laid down a complicated pattern of ley
lines over the map of the city. He was looking for a line that connected with
the United States. He finally managed to reduce the number of possibilities
to six. With a perfectly manicured fingernail, he traced two lines that
directly linked the West Coast of America to Paris. One finished at the great
cathedral of Notre Dame, the other in the more modern but equally famous
Sacr -Coeur basilica in Montmartre.
But which one?
Suddenly, the Parisian night was broken by a series of howling alarms.
Machiavelli hit the control for the electric window and the darkened glass
whispered down. Cool night air swirled into the car. In the distance, rising
high above the rooftops on the opposite side of the Place du Tertre, was
Sacr -Coeur. The imposing domed building was always lit up at night in stark
white light. Tonight, however, red alarm lights pulsed around the building
That one. Machiavelli s smile was terrifying. He called up a program on the
laptop and waited while the hard drive spun.
Enter password.
His fingers flew over the keyboard as he typed: Discorsi sopra la prima deca
di Tito Livio. No one was going to break that password. It wasn t one of his
better-known books.
A rather ordinary-looking text document appeared, written in a combination of
Latin, Greek and Italian. Once, magicians had had to keep their spells and
incantations in handwritten books called grimoires, but Machiavelli had
always used the latest technology. He preferred to keep his spells on his
hard drive. Now he just needed a little something to keep Flamel and his
friends busy while he gathered his forces.
Josh s head snapped up. I hear police sirens.
There are twelve police cars headed this way, Sophie said, her head tilted
to one side, eyes closed as she listened intently.
Twelve? How can you tell?
Sophie looked at her twin. I can distinguish the different locations of the
sirens.
You can tell them apart? he