The Magician | Page 9

like a
mummy with bandages of solidified air, she had imparted thousands of years of
knowledge into the girl in a matter of heartbeats. Sophie had imagined she d
felt her head swelling as her brain filled with the Witch s memories. Since
then, her skull had throbbed with a headache, the base of her neck felt stiff
and tight and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. Two days ago she had
been an ordinary American teenager, her head filled with normal everyday
things: homework and school projects, the latest songs and videos, boys she
liked, cell phone numbers and Web addresses, blogs and urls.
Now she knew things that no person should ever know.
Sophie Newman possessed the Witch of Endor s memories; she knew all that the
Witch had seen, everything she had done over millennia. It was all a jumble:
a mixture of thoughts and wishes, observations, fears and desires, a
confusing mess of bizarre sights, terrifying images and incomprehensible
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sounds. It was as if a thousand movies had been mixed up and edited together.
And scattered throughout the tangle of memories were countless incidences
when the Witch had actually used her special power, the Magic of Air. All
Sophie had to do was find a time when the Witch had used fog.
But when and where and how to find it?
Ignoring Flamel s voice calling down to Machiavelli, blanking out the sour
smell of her brother s fear and the jingle of Scathach s swords, Sophie
concentrated her thoughts on mist and fog.
San Francisco was often wrapped in fog, and she d seen the Golden Gate Bridge
rising out of a thick layer of cloud. And only last fall, when the family had
been in St. Paul s Cathedral in Boston, they d stepped out onto Tremont
Street to find that a damp fog had completely obscured the Common. Other
memories began to intrude: mist in Glasgow; swirling damp fog in Vienna;
thick foul-smelling yellow smog in London.
Sophie frowned; she had never been to Glasgow, Vienna or London. But the
Witch had and these were the Witch of Endor s memories.
Images, thoughts and memories like the strands of fog she was seeing in her
head shifted and twisted. And then they suddenly cleared. Sophie clearly
remembered standing alongside a figure dressed in the formal clothing of the
nineteenth century. She could see him in her mind s eye, a man with a long
nose and a high forehead topped with graying curly hair. He was sitting at a
high desk, a thick sheaf of cream-colored paper before him, dipping a simple
pen into a brimming inkwell. It took her a moment to realize that this was
not one of her own memories, nor was it something she had seen on TV or in a
movie. She was remembering something the Witch of Endor had done and seen. As
she turned to look closely at the figure, the Witch s memories flooded her:
the man was a famous English writer and was just about to begin work on a new
book. The writer glanced up and smiled at her; then his lips moved, but there
was no sound. Leaning over his shoulder, she saw him write the words Fog
everywhere. Fog up the river. Fog down the river in an elegant curling
script. Outside the writer s study window, fog, thick and opaque, rolled like
smoke against the dirty glass, blotting out the background in an impenetrable
blanket.
And beneath the portico of Sacr -Coeur in Paris, the air turned chill and
moist, rich with the odor of vanilla ice cream. A trickle of white dribbled
from each of Sophie s outstretched fingers. The wispy streams curled down to
puddle at her feet. Behind her closed eyes, she watched the writer dip his
pen into the inkwell and continue. Fog creeping fog lying fog drooping fog in
the eyes and throats
Thick white fog spilled from Sophie s fingers and spread across the stones,
shifting like heavy smoke, flowing in twisting ropes and gossamer threads.
Coiling and shifting, it flowed through Flamel s legs and tumbled down the
steps, growing, thickening, darkening.
Niccol watched the fog flow down the steps of Sacr -Coeur like dirty milk,
watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that
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Flamel was going to elude him. By the time the fog reached him it was chest
high, wet and vanilla scented. He breathed deeply, recognizing the odor of
magic.
Remarkable, he said, but the fog flattened his voice, dulling his carefully
cultivated French accent, revealing the harsher Italian beneath.
Leave us alone, Flamel s voice boomed out of the fog.
That sounds like another threat, Nicholas. Believe me when I tell you that
you have no idea of the forces gathered against you now. Your parlor tricks
will not save you. Machiavelli pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed
dial number. Attack. Attack now! He raced up the steps as he spoke, moving
silently on expensive leather-soled shoes, while far below, booted feet
thumped on stone as the gathered police charged up the steps.
I ve survived for a very