“You’ll note how the lower third of the spear is dark and stained.”
Black Hawk spun one of the weapons and plunged it butt-first into the ground. The water came up to the mark on the wood.
“There would have been at least twelve spears,” Machiavelli said, “set out in a particular pattern in the mud.” His hand moved, describing an outline in the air. “The pattern would have formed a matrix of power.”
“A what?” Billy asked.
“Think of it as a sophisticated burglar alarm. The head of each spear would have been painted in woad, red ochre or perhaps blood.” He turned the flat head of a spear to the light. “These glyphs might look South American, but they’re older, far, far older. These are the Words of Power, ancient Symbols of Binding, drawn from a language that was little more than a memory even before Danu Talis rose from the waves. Legend has it that the Archons used these words to protect something incredibly valuable or guard against something extraordinarily dangerous.”
Billy grinned. “And we know which one it’s going to be in this case.”
Machiavelli spun the spear in his left hand. It hummed and vibrated and the square symbol glowed dully. The three immortals’ auras flickered. “Do you feel that?” he asked, something like awe in his voice.
Billy and Black Hawk both nodded: their mouths were suddenly numb and the air felt thick. Billy rubbed his hand over his left eyebrow at the abrupt pressure of a headache. The Italian stretched out his arm and the head of the spear brushed against the cobwebs, instantly shriveling them to nothing. “Gather as many spears as you can,” Machiavelli snapped. Then he brushed past the two Americans and disappeared into the gloom.
“Hey, when did we become your porters?” Billy called after him. He looked at Black Hawk. “Can you believe these European immortals?”
Machiavelli’s voice drifted back down the tunnel. “I would be quite happy to carry the spears, Billy. But then you’d have to investigate this interesting-looking cave.”
“I was going to mention the cave,” Black Hawk said before Billy could answer. “I saw it as I passed.”
“But you didn’t go in?” Machiavelli asked.
“Do I look stupid?”
The globe of light flared at Machiavelli’s fingers, revealing a black opening in the wall. The entrance to the cave was artificial—a large rectangular doorway had been cut into the solid rock. Machiavelli waved a hand and his globe rose to the lintel. The faintest outline of shifting, shimmering symbols bloomed under the gray light, and the immortal stood on his toes to look at the topmost row. “I am guessing that the lintels and doorposts would have been completely painted with Words of Power. They’ve been covered with mud or washed off. Recently, too,” he added, pointing to the dried streaks on the wall. “Quetzalcoatl went to a lot of trouble to trap whoever—whatever—was in the cave. This was a prison.” Machiavelli disappeared into the blackness, and the interior filled with wan light. “And remember, Billy …” His voice echoed. “The enemy of my enemy—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You need a new catchphrase,” Billy mumbled.
Machiavelli reappeared at the entrance a moment later. In the reflected light from his globe and Black Hawk’s green light, his skin looked pale and unhealthy, but his gray eyes glittered with excitement. “It’s empty.”
“That’s good,” Billy said. He looked at Black Hawk. “Isn’t it?”
Black Hawk smiled. “I think our European friend has a plan.”
“Grab the spears,” Machiavelli said. “I know what was in the cave … and I know why it was there. And I think I know how to defeat the monsters. We need to get topside.”
And then the entire island trembled.
The ground shifted, water sloshing up the tunnel walls. Dust and grit cascaded from the ceiling in a gritty rain. Bricks cracked; one exploded under the pressure, spraying powder into the air, and ice water suddenly rushed into the tunnel, rising quickly to knee level.
“What manner of beast is this?” Machiavelli demanded.
“No beast!” Billy shouted. He caught one of Machiavelli’s arms, and Black Hawk grabbed the other. They dragged him down the tunnel.
“Worse,” Black Hawk shouted.
“What, then?”
“It’s an earthquake,” Billy and Black Hawk said together. Behind them the roof of the tunnel cracked. Then it collapsed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Golden Gate Bridge swayed.
“Earthquake,” Prometheus said. “I wonder if that means Ruaumoko has finally sided with the Dark Elders.”
“No, I’m afraid our fiery friend is trapped in a Shadowrealm,” Niten said with a shy smile. “He had a little disagreement with Aoife and lost.”
A second aftershock rumbled and the metal bridge hummed.
The cold salty air was touched with the bittersweet odor of anise, and in the space of a single step Prometheus flickered into gleaming red armor. An enormous broadsword was strapped across his back, and he carried a war hammer in one hand and a battle-ax in the other.
Niten was still dressed in his black suit, but now he openly carried his two swords—katana and wakizashi—strapped to his back.
Scores of cars had been abandoned on the bridge when the fog closed down the city and made it too dangerous to drive. They loomed in indistinct shapes in the fog, like slumbering animals. Prometheus and Niten checked each one as they passed, but they were all empty. One car’s lights were still on. The beams bounced back off a shifting impenetrable wall.
“Two against thirty-two,” Niten said. “Good odds.”
“I’ve never fought the Spartoi before,” Prometheus admitted. “I only know of them by their reputation—and it is fearsome.”
“We have an equal reputation,” Niten said.
“Well, you do,” the Elder said. “I was never that much of a fighter. And after the fall of the island, I rarely took up weapons again.”
“Fighting is a skill you never forget,” Niten said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “I fought my first duel when I was thirteen. I’ve been fighting ever since.”
“But you are more than just a swordsman,” Prometheus said. “You are an artist, a sculptor and a writer.”
“No man is ever just one thing,” Niten answered. His shoulder dropped and his short sword appeared in his left hand, water droplets sparkling from the blade. “But first and foremost, I was always a warrior.” He jabbed his sword into the fog and stirred it like liquid.
“It’s getting thicker,” Prometheus said.
“Which is good. We can use this to our advantage.”
“We won’t be able to see them,” Prometheus pointed out.
“Nor will they be able to see us,” the Swordsman reminded him. “We have the advantage of knowing exactly who and what we are facing. They have no idea what they’re up against. Or how many.”
“A good point.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” Niten said, almost shyly.
“Oh course. You are the master warrior. Here, you are the expert.”
“Lose the armor.”
Prometheus’s green eyes blinked in surprise.
Niten breathed in. “I can smell your aura. And if I can, then so can they. Also, there is just the faintest hint of crimson around you, a smudge of red light. Against this gloom, you’ll stand out like a beacon.”
“Can I keep the swords?” Prometheus asked.
“One sword should be enough.”
“You have two,” the Elder reminded him.
“I’m fast,” Niten said. “But you are strong. Keep the claymore.”
The Elder nodded and his armor winked out of existence, leaving him in a shirt and jeans, with just the broadsword in his hand.
“Which side of the bridge do you want?” Niten asked.
“I’ll take the right,” Prometheus said.
“I thought you might.” Niten nodded, moving to the left side. “We cannot let the Spartoi into the city.”
“Remem
ber, warrior, we don’t even have to kill them, we simply have to hold them until sunrise,” Prometheus answered. “The energy that animates them will dissipate then. I am concerned that one or two will engage us here and the rest will simply flow past. We can’t fight them all at the same time.”
Niten nodded. “What we need is a barrier of sorts …,” he began.
Simultaneously the Elder and immortal looked around at the vague shapes of the abandoned cars. “So how strong are you?” Niten asked.
“Very. You’re thinking of a wall of cars?”
The fog turned Niten’s dark hair into a silver cap. He held up two fingers in a V. “We could create a funnel. It would close the Spartoi up, push them together, channel them in toward us and rob them of the advantage of numbers. They could only come at us one or two at a time….” His voice trailed off. “Or they could climb over the cars, I suppose.”
The Elder grunted a laugh. “Have you ever seen one of the Spartoi?”
Niten shook his head.
“They are grown from the Drakon’s teeth. You know what a Nile crocodile looks like? Of course you do,” Prometheus said, answering his own question. “The Spartoi share a lot of that reptilian DNA. They are about your height but have short, short legs, long bodies, narrow heads. They can run on two or four legs, and they are fast, fast, fast. But they’re not great at climbing.” He squinted into the fog. “If I turn the cars on their sides, that would make it even more difficult.” He peered unsuccessfully into the gloom. “I’m not sure how many cars I’m going to need, or if there’s even enough on the bridge. And it’s going to take me a little while to organize them.”
“Then I’ll go keep our crocodile friends busy.” Niten’s teeth flashed in a smile. “I’ll try to leave a few for you.” He stepped away and faded into the night.
“Be careful,” Prometheus called.
A disembodied voice drifted out of the fog. “I was born for this. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could be killed and eaten by the Spartoi.”
“Doesn’t frighten me.”
“It should,” Prometheus warned. “They won’t necessarily wait till you’re dead before they start to eat you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Suddenly the still night was broken by an odd barking—a sound that almost resembled coughing.
“Dogs?” Perenelle answered.
“Not dogs, seals,” Nicholas suggested.
Abruptly, gulls wheeled overhead, ghost flashes in the fog, calling and cawing.
“Something’s wrong. Gulls shouldn’t cry at night,” Nicholas said. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and breathed deeply. “Odd. I don’t smell anything new.”
More barking—this time it was dogs. The sounds were muted by the thickening fog.
“Oh no!” Nicholas suddenly reached out and caught Perenelle’s hand just as the pier started to roll and vibrate. The metal chairs they were sitting on trembled and rattled against the stones.
“What was that?” Perenelle asked, when the rumbling vibration had finally subsided. “Elder? Archon?”
“Earthquake,” Nicholas said, a little breathlessly. “Maybe a four on the Richter scale. And close, very, very close.”
“Who do you think caused it?” Perenelle wondered. “If the Dark Elders can access that sort of power, then we’re in trouble. They can destroy this city without bringing a single creature ashore.” She frowned. “Why wouldn’t they have used it before this?”
The Alchemyst shook his head. “It’s probably natural,” he said. “Remember what happened when you and Machiavelli fought on Mount Etna? I’m sure the earthquake has been triggered by all the raw energies concentrated in the city.” He rubbed his hands together and green sparks shimmered in the air. “Look at that. The air is alive with auras. We know Bastet is out there somewhere. Quetzalcoatl, too. Prometheus and Niten are on their way to face the Spartoi warriors—and I’m not sure if the Drakon have auras. Mars, Odin, Hel, Billy, Machiavelli—and maybe Black Hawk—are on the island.” He ran his hand across his head, rubbing his cropped hair as he thought. Static fizzled across his scalp, dripping sparks like fireworks onto his shoulders. “Another reason why the Elders never congregate in any great numbers in modern times.”
Perenelle licked her lips and nodded. “I can taste the power on the air.”
A ten-second shudder vibrated up through the streets. “Aftershock,” Nicholas breathed. “I would imagine the last time so many auras were gathered in such close proximity was on Danu Talis.”
“If anyone does arrive to support us, then their auras, added to everything else here, might bring on an even bigger earthquake. We need to get over to the island and finish this.” She caught her husband’s hand and pulled him along the quayside, toward the water. “As soon as we start to use our auras,” she said, “we reveal our location to whoever—whatever—is out there. And we start to age. If anything delays us as we make our away across the bay, we run the risk of dying of old age before we reach it.”
Perenelle and Nicholas ran past the Aquarium of the Bay. They could hear the water on their left, slapping against wooden pilings. They both knew there were scores of boats, invisible because of the fog, in the berths. They could hear hulls banging and scraping against the wood, stays pinging off metal. A mast loomed directly in front of them and they suddenly found themselves right at the edge of the pier. Fog curled off the water like steam.
“Do you remember how to do this?” Nicholas asked with a cautious grin.
“Of course.” Perenelle smiled. “It’s a simple transmutation spell. We used to do it for the …” The words died on her lips and her smile faded away.
“We used to do it to amuse the children,” Nicholas finished. He wrapped his arms around his wife and held her close, her hair damp against his face. “We did what we believed was the right thing,” he said quickly, “and I will never accept that what we did was wrong.”
“We protected the Book,” she murmured.
For centuries, Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel had sought out the twins of legend. When they found a Gold and Silver pair, they attempted to Awaken them, but none of the few who survived had ever been truly sane afterward. Until Sophie and Josh.
“So many lives lost,” she whispered.
“So many saved,” he said quickly. “We protected the Book from Dee. Can you imagine what he would have done if he’d found it? And ultimately, we did find the twins of legend and Awakened them successfully. We were doing the right thing, I am convinced of that.”
“I think Dr. Dee probably says exactly the same thing to justify his actions,” Perenelle said bitterly.
“Perenelle.” Nicholas Flamel looked deep into his wife’s green eyes. “Our journey has brought us here, to this place, in this time, where we can make a difference. Together, we can save this city and prevent the Dark Elders from destroying this Shadowrealm.”
The Sorceress nodded and stepped away from her husband. Standing on the very edge of the pier, she stretched out her left hand, palm upward, fingers curled. Perenelle’s ice-white aura formed in a liquid puddle in the palm of her hand. Slow bubbles rose and burst, and then the liquid spilled out of her hand and dropped in long, gelatinous streamers into the sea. Nicholas reached over, and in the moment before he took his wife’s hand, his own aura flowed in a green glove over his fingers and the strong odor of mint filled the air. The auras mixed—white and green—to become a sticky emerald mass that dripped through their grip, hardening the wet fog to shards of green ice where it touched, before splashing onto the waves below.
“Transmutation,” Nicholas said. “One of the simplest principles of alchemy.”
“Simple for you, perhaps.” Perenelle smiled.
“My specialty,” he agreed. “All we have to do is to change the state of water from liquid to solid.”
Where the Flamels’ auras touched the waves, an irregular circle turned to ice. Crackling, snapping, cracking, waves hardened,
caught as they rose and broke against the side of the pier in a sheet of ice.
Nicholas helped Perenelle climb down onto the frozen circle of sea. She stamped her foot. The ice creaked but held firm. Then she jumped up and down.
“Please don’t do that,” Nicholas whispered.
“Come on in,” she called up, “the water’s frozen.”
“Yes. And we need to hurry,” the Alchemyst said, climbing over the side of the pier. “It’s not going to stay that way for long. The sea salt will eat away at it.” When he dropped onto the circle of ice, it tipped and rocked. Perenelle immediately stepped over to the other side, balancing it.
The couple stood together, side by side on the frozen patch of sea. All around them the water was still liquid. The Alchemyst rubbed his hands together, as if he was rolling a ball. The smell of mint was almost overpowering. He threw out his arm, casting his green aura in a ribbon that stretched about four feet ahead of them. The aura splashed onto the water and immediately hardened into a narrow ice bridge on the surface of the sea. Hand in hand, the Alchemyst and the Sorceress stepped onto the crackling bridge.
When they reached the end of the bridge, Perenelle flung out her arm, and a shimmering six-foot length of white smoke formed on the surface of the sea, freezing it.
The couple pushed on in silence, creating stretches of the ice bridge bit by bit before them. Behind them, the salt seawater quickly reclaimed the frozen pathway. This close to the water, wrapped in the ever-thickening fog, they couldn’t see anything, and they had no idea how close they were to the shore. They knew they had moved out into the bay, because the waves were higher, solidifying into beautiful S-shaped patterns. But the surrounding seas were rougher and the ice paths survived for only seconds, barely enough time to allow them to race from one to the next.