The Warlock by Michael Scott
Machiavelli gazed across the bay to the city and frowned, deep lines appearing on his high forehead. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my wife, Marietta, recently. Were you ever married, Billy?”
The American shook his head. “Never had time before I became immortal; never wanted to afterward. Didn’t think it would be fair to my wife.”
“Very wise. I wish I’d been as considerate. I’ve come to the conclusion that immortals should only marry other immortals. Nicholas and Perenelle are very lucky to have lived so long with one another.” He laughed. “Maybe Dee should have married Dare. What a couple they would have made.”
Billy grinned. “She’d have killed him within the first year. Virginia has a terrible temper.”
“My wife, Marietta, had a temper. But she had every reason to. I was not a particularly good husband. I was away at court too often and for too long, and the politics of the time meant that I lived with the constant threat of assassination. My poor Marietta put up with a lot. She once accused me of being an inhuman monster. She told me I’d stopped thinking of people as individuals. They were masses—faceless and anonymous—either enemies or friends.”
“And was she right?”
“Yes, she was,” the Italian said sadly. “And then she held up my baby son, Guido, and asked me if he was an individual.”
Billy followed the direction of Machiavelli’s stare. “So is that a city of faceless masses, or is it filled with individuals?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m thinking that you would have no problem keeping your word to your Elder master and Quetzalcoatl and unleashing creatures on the faceless masses in the city.”
“You’re right. I’ve done it before.”
“But if you see it as a city of individuals …”
“That would be different,” Machiavelli agreed.
“Who was it who said, ‘The promise given was a necessity of the past: the word broken is a necessity of the present’?”
The Italian looked quickly at the American immortal and then he dipped his head in a bow. “I do believe I said that once … a long, long time ago.”
“You also wrote that a prince never lacks legitimate reasons to break his promise,” Billy said with a grin.
“Yes, I did say that. You’re full of surprises, Billy.”
Billy looked from the city to the Italian. “So what do you see—faceless masses or individuals?”
“Individuals,” Machiavelli whispered.
“Reason enough to break your promise to your Elder master and a bird-tailed monster?”
Machiavelli nodded. “Reason enough,” he said.
“I knew you were going to say that.” The American immortal reached out and squeezed the Italian’s arm. “You’re a good man, Niccolò Machiavelli.”
“I don’t think so. Right now, my thoughts make me waerloga—an oath breaker. A warlock.”
“Warlock.” Billy the Kid tilted his head. “I like it. Got a nice ring to it. I’m thinking I might become a warlock too.”
very problem had a solution, Scathach knew.
The only catch was that she’d never been particularly good at problem solving. That had always been her sister’s specialty. Aoife was the strategist; Scathach preferred the direct approach. Sometimes riding straight into the heart of the enemy worked. She’d rescued Joan that way. But some problems required a subtler approach. And Scatty had never been subtle.
The Warrior sat in the mouth of her cell, her feet dangling over the edge, and looked down into the bubbling lava far below. She wished her sister were with her now. Aoife would know what to do. The Shadow swung her legs back and forth, drumming her heels against the wall, and turned her face to the circle of sky visible high above her head. Before yesterday she hadn’t thought of her sister in a very long time, and now she’d thought of her two days in a row. Obviously, being on the island, only a few miles from where her parents and brother were living, had made her think of family. And though she would admit it to no one, Scathach was intensely lonely. She missed Aoife. Oh, she’d had humani friends, but they always aged and died; she’d had plenty of immortal friends—the Flamels were more parents to her than her birth parents had ever been—but even the oldest immortal had no idea of the things she’d done and the places she’d been. For millennia, she’d had no one to share her life with. Joan was as close as a sister to her, but Joan had been born in 1412—she was only five hundred and ninety-five years old. Scathach had spent two and a half thousand years in the earth Shadowrealm, and more than seven thousand years wandering the various other Shadowrealms. Only her twin sister knew what it was like to live for such a vast stretch of time.
She found herself idly wondering if Aoife ever paused to think of her. Somehow she doubted it; Aoife of the Shadows was interested only in herself.
Where was Aoife? Was she still in the earth Shadowrealm? Closing her eyes, Scathach focused on her sister. On those rare occasions in the past when she’d done this, she’d caught glimpses of places and people and wondered if she was connecting with her twin. But now there was nothing … only a blackness, an emptiness. The Warrior frowned. Had she connected with her sister, was this what Aoife was seeing? Scathach had a strong sense that she was standing in a vast dark space … except that she wasn’t alone. There was something else here. Something that moved in the emptiness. Something big, that slithered and hissed and chuckled. Something old and evil.
And even though it was unbearably hot in the volcano, Scathach shivered.
Was her sister in trouble? It was an almost inconceivable thought. Aoife was at least as deadly as the Shadow. She was fast and ruthless, and lacked any feeling for the humani … except one: Niten—Miyamoto Musashi. Unconsciously, the Shadow nodded. The Swordsman would know her sister’s whereabouts. Maybe, just maybe, when all this was over—and if she survived—she’d go to see Niten and ask him to get a message to Aoife. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to try to make amends.
Scathach leaned back on her elbows and looked up again into the circle of darkening sky. The pale blue had deepened to purple, and the first of the night stars had started to twinkle. They were in configurations that she almost recognized.
A flash of crimson streaking across the sky startled her.
At first she thought it was a shooting star; then she realized it was a vimana moving silently through the heavens, lit up by the red glow of the lava below. It was followed by another and then another. Instinct and her finely honed sense of survival brought her to her feet, and on the other side of the volcano she saw Saint-Germain also stand. He too knew that something was wrong. Scathach had watched a single vimana fly in and out of the volcano for the past few hours, delivering prisoners and then, more recently, tossing loaves of stale bread and gourds of sour water into the cell mouths. Some of the bread and water never made it and sailed down into the lava, but the anpu piloting the craft didn’t seem to care if the prisoners went hungry or thirsty.
“Joan!” Scathach shouted.
“I see them,” Joan of Arc called down. Her face appeared over the edge of a cave mouth high above Scathach’s head. “I see ten or twelve.…”
Scatty squinted against the night sky. “Eight … ten … twelve—no, thirteen. Fourteen,” she said finally. “I think there are fourteen.”
Across the volcano, Palamedes waved at her. When he knew he had her attention, the Saracen Knight opened and closed his right hand three times.
“Fifteen,” Scathach shouted up at Joan. “Palamedes has counted fifteen.”
“So what’s the plan?” Joan shouted.
“That depends.…”
“On what?”
“On who they come to first. I’m thinking they’ll come to either Palamedes or me.”
“Then what?”
Scathach’s grin exposed her vampire teeth. “Well, the only way in or out of these cells is by these vimana. So we have to take control of one of them.”
“Good plan,” Joan said
“I said it was a plan. I never said it was a perfect plan.”
“I think your plan is just about to change,” Joan called.
A new vimana had appeared. It was larger than the rest, and from below it looked like a long and sleek flattened triangle. Its surface reflected the night sky on one side and the glowing red lava on the other, making details difficult to distinguish. It hovered above the smaller circular craft, a vague menacing shape in the darkness. Abruptly it lit up, red, green and blue lights blazing to life on the three points of the triangle.
“Rukma vimana,” Scathach shouted, reverting to the language of her youth. “Battleship. Get back, back into the cell!”
And then the triangular vimana dropped straight into the mouth of the volcano.
ars Ultor lunged toward Prometheus with the razor-sharp short sword. Faster than the eye could see, Niten’s hands moved, catching the underside of Mars’s wrist with a stiff-fingered blow. The Elder’s hand spasmed and automatically opened, and Niten caught the falling blade and deftly reversed it. And suddenly it was pointed at Mars’s throat.
Niten cocked his head to one side. “There was a time when I would not have been able to even get close to you. You’re getting old.”
Mars bared his teeth in a savage grin. “Fast. As fast as I’ve ever seen.” Then he grunted as a cramp bit at the back of his legs, sending him sprawling on the steps.
Niten tossed the short sword to Prometheus and reached down to offer the Elder his hand. “It is an honor to fight you.”
“We didn’t fight!” Mars came up quickly, the top of his head catching Niten in the stomach, doubling him over, sending him sprawling backward. The Swordsman rolled to his feet and dropped into a fighting stance.
“Stop that. Right this minute!” Tsagaglalal clipped Niten on the back of the head as she pushed past Prometheus and reached over to catch Mars Ultor by the ear. She twisted and he yelped. “And as for you—what have I told you about fighting?”
Mars Ultor turned as red as his aura. “Sorry, Mistress Tsagaglalal,” he muttered.
The old woman looked at Niten and then pointed indoors. “Get inside now.”
“He started it,” he began.
“I don’t care who started it. Get inside and wash your hands. They’re filthy. You too,” she snapped at Prometheus. “And you can give that to me,” she said, reaching out her hand for the sword.
Struggling to keep a straight face, Prometheus flipped over the sword and presented it to her, hilt first. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head.
“And lay the table in the garden. We’ve got guests for tea.” She turned and smiled at Odin, Hel and Black Hawk, who were standing at the bottom of the steps. “You will stay for tea.”
No one said a word.
“It was not a request,” she added, sudden steel in her voice.
erenelle Flamel turned away from the bedroom window and looked at her husband. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I just witnessed,” she said in archaic French.
Nicholas Flamel was standing by the mirror, carefully shaving a three-day growth of stubble off his cheeks. He looked at his wife in the glass. “You’ve just brought me back from the dead. I’ll believe anything you tell me.”
Perenelle sat on the end of a bed that was so high that her feet dangled above the floor. “Three Elders and an immortal have just turned up. One of them had an eye patch,” she added significantly.
Nicholas grinned. “Odin. Come hunting Dee. Who else?”
“An odd-looking girl. It was hard to see her face, but it looked diseased, with black and white blotches.…”
“That sounds like Hel,” Nicholas breathed. “Odin and Hel together. Dee is in so much trouble. Who else?”
“A big Elder in a leather jacket. I’ve never seen him before in my life. But the moment he saw Prometheus, he lunged at him with a short sword.”
Nicholas smiled. “That could be anyone—Prometheus has many enemies, though very few of them are still alive,” he added. “And the immortal?”
“I’m not sure, but his face was vaguely familiar to me.” Perenelle frowned, trying to remember. “Native American. Not your friend Geronimo, though,” she said quickly.
“Didn’t think so,” Nicholas said, wiping shaving foam off his chin. “He would never turn up in the company of Dark Elders.” He turned to his wife and spread his arms wide. “How do I look?”
“Old.” Perenelle jumped off the bed and wrapped her arms around her husband, holding him tightly. Her fingers traced the lines on his forehead. “Even your wrinkles have wrinkles.”
“Well, I am six hundred and seventy-seven years old …”
“Six hundred and seventy-six,” she corrected him. “It’s still three months till your birth—” she started to say, and then stopped. They both knew they would not live to see his next birthday. Perenelle turned away quickly so that Nicholas would not see the tears in her eyes and pointed to a pile of clothes on the end of the bed. “This room is used by the twins’ parents when they’re in town. These clothes belong to their father. They might be a bit big on you, but at least they’re clean.”
“What happened to my jeans and T-shirt?” Nicholas asked.
“Beyond saving.” Perenelle sat on the edge of the bed and watched her husband dress. “A day, Nicholas, I have you for a single day.”
“A lot can happen in a day,” he said softly. He pulled on a khaki button-down shirt. The neck was too big and the sleeves came to the end of his hands. Perenelle rolled up the sleeves while he buttoned the shirt, and then she picked up the jade scarab from the bedside table. She’d woven a leather cord around it, and Nicholas ducked his head as she placed it around his neck. Resting her hand on the scarab, she pressed it to Nicholas’s flesh. He placed his hand on top of hers. Their auras crackled green and white, and the room filled with the sharp odor of mint.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“For what?” she asked.
“For giving me the extra day.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” she said with a smile. “I did it for purely selfish reasons.”
He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“I did it for me. I did not want to live a day without you.”
“We’re not dead yet,” he reminded her. Then he slipped his hands into hers. “Come, let’s go see what the Elders are up to. It is suspiciously quiet downstairs.”
“That’s because they’re all terrified of Tsagaglalal. They all know who she is.” Perenelle paused a moment, then corrected herself. “What she is.”
howtime,” Billy the Kid muttered. He tapped Josh on the shoulder and pointed toward the Golden Gate Bridge.
Josh crouched on a low rock on the west shore of Alcatraz and watched a long V on the surface of the water sweeping in toward the island. The bow wave broke against the rocks on the beach and white spume flew high into the air. A greenish-black snakelike tentacle burst through the surface of the water and waved about for a moment before it dropped onto the rocks. It twitched, moving delicately across the sand and stone, and then the hundreds of little suckers on the pale underside of the tentacle attached themselves to a boulder. A second tentacle appeared, then a third and a fourth. Josh swallowed hard and shivered. “Snakes.”
“You’re looking a little green,” Billy the Kid said, dropping into a crouch alongside Josh.
The young man nodded toward the tentacles. “They look like snakes. And I really hate snakes.”
“Never been partial to snakes myself,” Billy admitted. “Got myself bit by a rattler when I was younger. Swelled up, I did, and would have died if Black Hawk hadn’t tended to me.”
“If it was up to me,” Josh said quickly, “I’d have no snakes in the world.”
“I hear you.
Josh shivered. Although it was June, the wind coming in off the bay was brisk and the water droplets splashing up onto his face felt icy, but he knew that it was more than the weather that had him feeling cold. There was an almost palpable evil in the air. Ancient evil. “Have you ever met this Ner … Nere …”
“Nereus,” Billy pronounced.
“Have you ever met him before?”
“I’ve heard of him, but I never met him before today. I’ve really never had a whole lot to do with any of the Elders or the Next Generation in the West. Dee and Machiavelli are the first of the truly old European immortals I’ve met.” He pushed strands of his long hair back off his face. “I keep myself to myself and do odd jobs for my master, Quetzalcoatl. I run some errands, that sort of thing, act as bodyguard on his rare trips into the city. I’ve gone adventuring with Virginia into some of the nearby Shadowrealms, but most of them were close copies of this Shadowrealm, and we rarely came across monsters.” He jerked his thumb back toward the cellblock above and behind them. “I never saw anything like those things before.”
“Here he comes,” Josh breathed. The surface of the water rippled and he braced himself, expecting some sort of tentacled serpentine monster. Instead, a surprisingly normal-looking man’s head appeared above the waves, a mop of thickly curled hair plastered to his skull. His face was broad, with prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw covered with a thick beard that had been twisted into two tight curls, woven through with strips of seaweed.
“The Old Man of the Sea,” Billy whispered. “An Elder.”
“He looks normal to me,” Josh began, and then Nereus heaved himself upward and the young man could see that the lower half of the Elder’s body had been replaced with eight octopus legs. Only, something didn’t look right. Three of the enormous legs ended as ragged stumps, and there was an ugly burnt patch of blistered skin in the center of the creature’s forehead. The Elder was wearing a sleeveless jerkin of overlapping kelp leaves stitched together with strands of seaweed, and there was a spiked stone trident strapped to his back. Josh coughed and Billy wiped his watering eyes—the clean salt air had been tainted with the stench of long-dead rotting fish and rancid blubber.