The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Read online

  Smiling at his father’s bubbling enthusiasm, Josh walked toward the window. “Which race are called the Ancient Ones in Navajo?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. “Fremont or Anasazi?” He wanted to keep his father talking, to give Sophie more time.

  “Anasazi,” Richard Newman said. “And actually, the proper translation is ‘Enemy Ancestors.’”

  The two words shocked Josh to a standstill. A couple of days ago, the name would have meant nothing to him, but that was before he’d learned of the existence of the Elders, the race who had ruled the world in the distant past. He had come to realize that there was more than a grain of truth to every myth and legend. “Enemy Ancestors,” he repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Richard Newman said, “but I prefer the term Ancient or Ancestral Pueblo or Hisatsinom.”

  “But it’s such a strange name,” Josh persisted. “Who do you think used it? They wouldn’t have referred to themselves that way.”

  “Probably another tribe. Strangers, outsiders.”

  “And who came before them, Dad?” Josh said quickly. “Who came before the Anasazi and the Fremont?”

  “We don’t know,” his father admitted. “That’s known as the Archaic period. Why the sudden interest in ancient America? I thought archaeology bored you.”

  “I guess I’ve started to be more interested in history and the ancient world,” Josh said truthfully. He headed toward the window again … and was just in time to see Scatty’s sister press her hand to Sophie’s forehead and his twin slump into the black-suited driver’s arms. He watched in horror as the vampire’s head snapped around to look at him and she bared her fangs in what might have been a grin. Then she jerked open the rear door of the car and held it as the driver dropped Sophie onto the backseat. Standing by the open door, Aoife waved a mocking salute at Josh.

  Josh felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He could not draw breath and his heart was pounding. “Dad—I’ll be back in a sec …,” he whispered hoarsely. He dropped the phone on the floor, then raced out of the room and down the hallway. Snatching up the two pieces of the walking stick the limo driver had broken, Josh jerked open the door and almost fell down the steps. He’d half expected to see the car driving away, but Aoife was waiting patiently for him. “Give me back my sister!” he shouted.

  “No,” Aoife said lightly.

  Josh ran toward the car, trying to remember everything Joan of Arc had taught him about sword fighting. He wished he had Clarent with him now. Even Scatty—who was frightened of nothing—had been terrified of the stone blade. But all he had were the two halves of the walking stick.

  The vampire tilted her head to one side, watching the boy run toward her, and smiled.

  As Josh raced across the street, terror alighted his aura and the faintest of golden glows surrounded his body. He could see his sister lying unmoving on the backseat of the car, and his fear turned to a raging anger. Abruptly, his aura blazed, steaming gold threads smoking off his skin, his eyes turning to molten coins. His aura hardened around his hands, sheathing them in metallic gloves, and then it flowed down the wooden sticks, turning them into golden rods. He tried to speak, but his throat was tight, and the voice that came from his mouth was deep and gravelly, more beast than human. “Give … me … back … my … sister.…”

  Aoife’s arrogant smile faded. She shouted a single word in Japanese, turned and flung herself into the limousine, slamming the door behind her. The engine immediately roared to life, the rear tires spinning and smoking on the street.

  “No!” Josh reached the car just as it took off. Lashing out with one golden rod, he shattered the rear window nearest him, the glass exploding into white powder, the stick leaving a long gouge in the shining black metal. Another blow left a deep impression in the trunk and cracked a rear light. The car squealed down the street, and in desperation Josh flung the two golden sticks after it, but the moment he released them, they returned to plain wood and bounced harmlessly off the fender.

  Josh raced after the car. He could feel his aura surging through him, lending him speed and strength as he pounded down the road. He was conscious that he was moving faster than he ever had before, but the limo kept accelerating. It shot through an intersection, then rounded a corner with a squeal of protesting tires and disappeared.

  And just as quickly as it had come, Josh’s strength left him. He collapsed on his hands and knees at the bottom of Scott Street, lungs heaving, heart thundering, every muscle in his body stressed and burning. Black spots danced before his eyes and he thought he was going to throw up. He watched the golden glow fade from his hands, his aura drifting off his flesh like yellow vapor, leaving him aching and exhausted. He started to tremble and a sudden cramp caught his calf muscle behind his knees. The pain was excruciating, and he quickly rolled over and dug his heel into the ground, pushing down hard, trying to ease it. Climbing to his feet, feeling sick and miserable, he started to hobble back to his aunt’s house. Sophie was gone. Kidnapped by Aoife. He had to find his twin.

  But that meant returning to Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Shadowrealm was called Xibalba.

  Even among the countless ancient Shadowrealms, it was old, and unlike so many of the others, which were beautiful and complex, it was crudely simple.

  Xibalba was a single cave, impossibly vast, unimaginably high, speckled with slowly bubbling pits of black-crusted lava. Occasionally, one of these would rupture, spitting thick globules of liquid rock high into the air, sending shadows dancing red and black on the walls. The air stank of sulfur, and the only illumination came from a gelatinous yellow-white fungus that coated the walls and the massive stalactites hanging from the distant and barely visible ceiling.

  Every Shadowrealm opened onto at least one other realm. Some connected with two. Xibalba was unique: it touched nine other Shadowrealms and was sometimes referred to as the Crossroads. Arranged at regular intervals around the cave were nine separate openings in the walls. The entrances to each of the cave mouths were carved and etched with crude and blocky glyphs, and although the sticky glowing fungus covered most of the dark walls, none of it even came close to any of the symbols. They were the gates to the Shadowrealms.

  Usually, nothing moved in Xibalba except the bubbling lava, but now a steady stream of messengers was flitting and scrabbling from one cave mouth to the other. Some were leathery and resembled bats, others were furred and looked like rats, but they were neither, and none were truly alive. They had been created for one purpose: to carry a message from the heart of the Dark Elders’ Shadowrealm out into every connected world. Once the messengers’ task was complete, they would melt back into mud, sticks and scraps of hair and skin.

  The messengers were carrying news of Dr. John Dee’s death sentence.

  And none of those who heard it—Elder, Next Generation or immortal human—were surprised. There was only one price for failure, and Dr. John Dee had failed spectacularly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “There have been worse days,” Dr. John Dee said, though he couldn’t remember when.

  Following the disaster at Stonehenge and the twins’ escape through the leygate, the Magician had spent the remainder of the night and the early part of the following day in the tumbled ruins of the barn where, only a few hours previously, Flamel and the twins had been hiding out. Helicopters buzzed overhead and police and ambulance sirens howled along the nearby A344. When all the police activity had finally died away in the early afternoon, Dee had left the barn and started walking toward London, keeping to the back roads. Beneath his coat, wrapped in a ragged cloth, he carried the single stone sword that had once been two, Clarent and Excalibur. It throbbed and pulsed against his skin like a beating heart.

  There was little or no traffic on the narrow country lanes, and he was just beginning to think that he would have to steal a car in the next town or village he came t
o, when an elderly vicar in an equally ancient Morris Minor stopped and offered him a lift.

  “You’re lucky I came along,” the old man said in a crackling Welsh accent. “Not many people use these side roads now, with the motorway so close.”

  “My car broke down, and I need to get back into London for a meeting,” Dee said. “I got a bit lost,” he added, consciously shifting his accent to match the vicar’s.

  “I can take you. I’m glad of the company,” the white-haired man admitted. “I’ve been listening to the radio—and all this talk about the security scare was making me nervous.”

  “What’s happened?” Dee asked, keeping his voice light and casual. “I thought there was a lot of police activity.”

  “Where have you been for the past twelve hours?” the vicar asked with a grin that shifted the false teeth in his mouth.

  “Busy,” Dee said. “Met up with some old friends; we’d a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Then you missed all the excitement.…”

  Dee kept his face expressionless.

  “A major security operation closed down the city yesterday. The BBC were reporting that the same terrorist cell that had been operating in Paris were now in London.” Gripping the big steering wheel tightly, he glanced at his passenger. “You did hear about what happened in Paris?”

  “I read all about it,” the Magician murmured, unconsciously shaking his head. Machiavelli controlled Paris—how could he have let Flamel and the twins slip through the net?

  “These are dangerous times.”

  “They are indeed,” Dee said. “But you would not want to believe everything you read in the press,” he added.

  There were roadblocks in place on all the major roads leading into the capital, but the police barely glanced at the battered car carrying the two older men before waving it through.

  The vicar dropped Dee in Mayfair in the heart of the city, and the doctor walked down to Green Park Station. He caught the tube on the Jubilee Line, and took it right into the heart of Canary Wharf, where Enoch Enterprises had its UK headquarters. The doctor was taking a calculated gamble. His Dark Elder master might have the building under observation, but Dee was hoping everyone would think he had run away and wouldn’t be so foolish as to return to his own headquarters.

  Entering unseen through the underground parking garage, he made his way up to his offices at the top of the building, where he took a long luxurious shower in his private bathroom, washing away the grime and filth of the past few hours. The hot water eased the pain in his right shoulder, which he rotated carefully. Josh had flung Clarent at him during the battle at the barn, and although Dee had managed to turn his aura into a shield before the stone sword hit him, the force of the blow had driven him to the ground. He’d been sure he had dislocated it; only later had he realized that his shoulder was badly bruised but not broken, and for that he was grateful. A break wasn’t serious—his enhanced metabolism would work quickly to repair any damage, or he could use a little of his aura to repair it instantly, but that would draw the Dark Elders and their minions to him.

  The Magician changed into fresh clothes, a nondescript dark blue two-piece suit, a dark blue shirt and a tie with the discreet gold pattern of the fleur-de-lis of St. John’s College, Cambridge. While the kettle in the tiny kitchen boiled water for tea, Dee emptied his safe, stuffing wads of sterling, euros and dollars into a money belt he wore around his waist, hidden under his shirt. There were a dozen passports in as many names at the back of the safe. Dee shoved them into his suit coat pockets. He had been collecting these passports for years and wasn’t about to abandon them now.

  The kettle boiled and the Magician made himself a cup of Earl Gray. Sipping the perfumed tea, he finally turned to look at the rag-wrapped bundle on his desk. A rare smile curled his lips. He might have lost the battle, but he had certainly come away with the greatest prize.

  Clarent and Excalibur. Together. Yesterday, he had held them in his hands and watched as the two swords had fused together to create a single stone sword.

  Even from across the room, Dee could feel the power radiating from the object in long slow waves. If he lowered his guard, he caught the vaguest hints of whispered thoughts in countless languages, only some of which he recognized.

  He suddenly realized—almost with surprise—that finally, after a lifetime of searching, he finally had the four ancient Swords of Power. Two—Durendal and Joyeuse—were hidden in his private apartments in San Francisco, and the remaining two were here on the table before him … or was it now one? And what would happen, he wondered, if he brought this sword in contact with the other two stone swords? And why had they never fused together? They’d been side by side for centuries.

  The doctor took his time finishing the tea, calming his thoughts and putting protective barriers in place before he approached the bundle and unwrapped it. Some magicians used combinations of words—spells and cantrips—to shield their thoughts, but Dee used the oldest of all magical sounds: music. Staring at the desk, he started to hum “Greensleeves,” Queen Elizabeth I’s favorite song. The Queen believed that it had been written by her father, Henry VIII, for her mother, Anne Boleyn. It was a tale Dee knew wasn’t true, but he’d never had the heart to tell her. Regardless, its simple tune and ancient rhythm created a perfect protective spell. Murmuring the words aloud, he approached the desk.

  “Alas, my love, ye do me wrong to cast me off discourteously …”

  There was a definite tremble in his fingers as he carefully peeled away the filthy gray cloth he’d found in the ruined barn, revealing the object it concealed.

  “And I have loved you so long, delighting in your companie …”

  Lying on the polished black marble desk was one of the oldest objects on the planet. It looked like a simple stone sword, but it was more, much, much more. These twin weapons melded together were said to predate the Elders and even the Archons, belonging to the mythical Time Before Time. Famously, Arthur had carried Excalibur, and Mordred, his son, had slain him with Clarent, but the King and the Coward had been merely two of the generations of heroes and villains who had wielded these blades, which had been present, either individually or collectively, at every major event in the history of the earth.

  “Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold …”

  It was hard to believe that he had finally found Excalibur’s match. Half a millennium ago, when Henry VIII had ruled England, Dee had begun his quest to find the legendary Sword of Fire.

  “I have been readie at your hand, to grant what ever you would crave …”

  Taking a deep breath, the doctor lifted the sword. Although it was little more than twenty inches in length, it was remarkably heavy. The blade and the plain hilt looked like they had been carved from a single piece of sparkling granite. The moment his fingers touched the warm stone, the power from the sword washed over him.…

  Voices raised in anger.

  Shouts of terror.

  Cries of pain.

  Dee shuddered as sounds filled his head, threatening to overwhelm him. His singing faltered. “I … I have waged life and … and land, your love and … and good will for to have …”

  The sword was powerful, incredibly powerful, wrapped in mystery and legend. Yesterday, when Gilgamesh had seen the sword, he had used the words of the ancient prophecy—the two that are one, the one that is all—to describe it. Dee had always thought that the prophecy referred to the twins, but now he was not so sure.

  “Greensleeves, now farewell adieu …”

  In fact, he was sure of nothing anymore. In the last few days, his entire way of life, his whole world, had shifted. And it was all because of Flamel and the twins. They had made him look a fool and put him in terrible danger. Dee’s short fingers brushed the length of the flesh-warm stone.

  Whispered secrets …

  Vague promises …

  Hints of ancient knowledge, of hidden lore …r />
  Dee jerked his hand away and the voices faded from his consciousness. His thin lips curled in a cruel smile: this sword might well prove his salvation. The Dark Elders would pay dearly for a weapon like this. He wondered if it might even be worth his immortal life.

  The doctor’s phone suddenly buzzed and vibrated in his pocket, startling him. Stepping away from the sword lying on the table, he slipped the phone out of his pocket and looked at the fingerprint-smudged screen. He’d been expecting to see his Elder master’s impossibly long number on the screen, but it read Restricted. For a single instant he thought about not answering it, but then curiosity—always both his greatest strength and his worst failing—got the better of him and he pressed Answer.

  “You recognize my voice?”

  Dr. John Dee blinked in surprise. The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Niccolò Machiavelli, who had gone to San Francisco. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “This is supposed to be a secure line, but you know my motto … trust no one.”

  “A good motto,” Dee murmured.

  “I understand you survived.”

  “Barely.” The doctor hurried over to the security monitor and turned it on, quickly flipping through the channels. His suspicious mind wondered if this was a trap: was Machiavelli talking to him, distracting him, while the building was being surrounded? But the offices and its corridors were empty and the parking lot deserted. “Why are you calling me?” he asked.

  “To warn you.”

  “Warn me!” Even though he had centuries of practice, he was still unable to keep the note of surprise from his voice.

  “A few minutes ago, messengers flowed through Xibalba and out into the Shadowrealms. You know what that means?”

  Almost unconsciously, Dee nodded. “Xibalba?” he asked aloud.

  On the other side of the world, a note of impatience crept into Machiavelli’s voice. “Yes, the Crossroads, the Place of Fright. It’s one of the ancient Shadowrealms.”