The Magician | Page 8

glanced quickly at one another. American Sign Language? Josh
asked. He knows sign language? How?
You seem to keep forgetting that he s lived a long time, Scathach said with
a grin that showed her vampire teeth. And he did help create French sign
language in the eighteenth century, she added casually.
What s he saying? Sophie asked impatiently. Nowhere in the witch s memory
could she find the knowledge necessary to translate the older man s gestures.
Scathach frowned, her lips moving as she spelled out a word.
Sophie brouillard fog, she translated. She shook her head. Sophie, he s
asking you for fog. That doesn t make sense.
It does to me, Sophie said as a dozen images of fog, clouds and smoke
flashed through her brain.
Niccol Machiavelli paused on the steps and drew in a deep breath. My people
have the entire area surrounded, he said, moving slowly toward the
Alchemyst. He was slightly out of breath and his heart was hammering; he
really needed to get back to the gym.
Creating the wax tulpa had exhausted him. He had never made one so big
before, and never from the back of a car roaring through Montmartre s narrow
and winding streets. It wasn t an elegant solution, but all he had needed to
do was to keep Flamel and his companions trapped in the church until he got
there, and he had succeeded. Now the church was surrounded, more gendarmes
were en route and he had called in all available agents. As the head of the
DGSE, his powers were almost limitless, and he d issued an order to impose a
press blackout. He prided himself on having complete control of his emotions,
but he had to admit that right now he was feeling quite excited: soon he
would have Nicholas Flamel, Scathach and the children in custody. He would
have triumphed where Dee had failed.
Later he would have someone in his department leak a story to the press that
thieves had been apprehended breaking into the national monument. Close to
dawn just in time for the early-morning news a second report would be leaked,
revealing how the desperate prisoners had overpowered their guards and
escaped on their way to the police station. They would never be seen again.
I have you now, Nicholas Flamel.
Flamel came to stand at the edge of the steps and pushed his hands into the
back pockets of his worn black jeans. I believe the last time you made that
statement, you were just about to break into my tomb.
Machiavelli stopped in shock. How do you know that?
More than three hundred years ago, in the dead of night, Machiavelli had
cracked open Nicholas and Perenelle s tomb, looking for proof that the
Alchemyst and his wife were indeed dead and trying to determine whether they
had been buried with the Book of Abraham the Mage. The Italian hadn t been
entirely surprised to find that both coffins were filled with stones.
TheMagician
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Perry and I were right there behind you, standing in the shadows, close
enough to touch you when you lifted the top off our tomb. I knew someone
would come I just never imagined it would be you. I ll admit I was
disappointed, Niccol , he added.
The white-haired man continued up the steps to Sacr -Coeur. You always
thought I was a better person than I was, Nicholas.
I believe there is good in everyone, Flamel whispered, even you.
Not me, Alchemyst, not anymore, and not for a very long time. Machiavelli
stopped and indicated the police and heavily armed black-clad French special
forces gathering at the bottom of the steps. Come now. Surrender. No harm
will come to you.
I cannot tell you how many people have said that to me, Nicholas said
sadly. And they were always lying, he added.
Machiavelli s voice hardened. You can deal with me or with Dr. Dee. And you
know the English Magician never had any patience.
There is one other option, Flamel said with a shrug. His thin lips curled
in a smile. I could deal with neither of you. He half turned, but when he
looked back at Machiavelli, the expression on the Alchemyst s face made the
immortal Italian take a step back in shock. For an instant something ancient
and implacable shone through Flamel s pale eyes, which flickered a brilliant
emerald green. Now it was Flamel s voice that dropped to a whisper, still
clearly audible to Machiavelli. It would be better if you and I were never
to meet again.
Machiavelli attempted a laugh, but it came out sounding shaky. That sounds
like a threat and believe me, you are in no position to issue threats.
Not a threat, Flamel said, and stepped back from the top steps. A
promise.
The cool damp Parisian night air was abruptly touched with the rich odor of
vanilla, and Niccol Machiavelli knew then that something was very wrong.
Standing straight, eyes closed, arms at her sides, palms facing outward,
Sophie Newman took a deep breath, attempting to calm her thundering heart and
allow her mind to wander. When the Witch of Endor had wrapped her