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 Sacre -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 Sacre -Coeur like dirty milk,
watched it condense and grow as it tumbled, and knew, in that moment, that
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 long time. Flamel s voice didn't come from where
Machiavelli expected it to, and he stopped, turning left and right, trying to
make out a shape in the fog.
The world moved on, Nicholas, Machiavelli said. You did not. You might
have escaped us in America, but here, in Europe, there are too many Elders,
too many immortal humans who know you. You will not be able to remain hidden
for long. We will find you.
Machiavelli dashed up the final few steps that brought him directly to the
entrance of the church. There was no mist here. The unnatural fog started on
the top step and flowed downward, leaving the church floating like an island
on a cloudy sea. Even before he ran into the church, Machiavelli knew he
would not find them in there: Flamel, Scathach and the twins had escaped.
For the moment.
But Paris was no longer Nicholas Flamel s city. The city that had once
honored Flamel and his wife as patrons of the sick and poor, the city that
named streets after them, was long gone. Paris now belonged to Machiavelli
and the Dark Elders he served. Looking out over the ancient city, Niccol
Machiavelli swore that he was going to turn Paris into a trap and maybe even
a tomb for the legendary Alchemyst.
CHAPTER FIVE
T he ghosts of Alcatraz awoke Perenelle Flamel.
The woman lay unmoving on the narrow cot in the cramped icy cell deep beneath
the abandoned prison and listened to them whisper and murmur in the shadows
around her. There were a dozen languages she could understand, many more she
could identify and a few that were completely incomprehensible.
Keeping her eyes closed, Perenelle concentrated on the languages, trying to
make out the individual voices, wondering if there were any she recognized.
And then a sudden thought struck her: how was she able to hear the ghosts?
Sitting outside the cell was a sphinx, a monster with a lion s body, an
eagle s wings and the head of a beautiful woman. One of its special powers
was the ability to absorb the magical energies of another living being. It
had drained Perenelle s, rendering her helpless, trapping her in this
terrible prison cell.
A tiny smile curled Perenelle s lips as she realized something: she was the
seventh daughter of a seventh daughter; she had been born with the ability to
hear and see ghosts. She had been doing so long before she had learned how to
train and concentrate her aura. Her gift had nothing to do with magic, and
therefore the sphinx had no power over it. Throughout the centuries of her
long life, she had used her skill with magic to protect herself from ghosts,
to coat and shield her aura with colors that rendered her invisible to the
apparitions. But as the sphinx had absorbed her energies, those shields had
been wiped away, revealing her to the spirit realm.
And now they were coming.
Perenelle Flamel had seen her first ghost that of her beloved grandmother
Mamom when she was seven years old. Perenelle knew that there was nothing to
fear from ghosts; they could be annoying, certainly, were often irritating
and sometimes downright rude, but they possessed no physical presence. There
were even a few she had learned to call friends. Over the centuries certain
spirits had returned to her again and again, drawn to her because they knew
she could hear, see or help them and often, Perenelle thought, simply because
they were lonely. Mamom turned up every decade or so just to check up on her.
But even though they had no presence in the real world, ghosts were not
powerless.
Opening her eyes, Perenelle concentrated on the chipped stone wall directly
in front of her face. The wall ran with green-tinged water that smelled of
rust and salt, the two elements that had ultimately destroyed Alcatraz the
prison. Dee had made a mistake, as she had known he would. If Dr. John Dee
had one great failing, it was arrogance. He obviously thought that if she was
imprisoned deep below Alcatraz and guarded by a sphinx, then she was
powerless. He could not be more wrong.
Alcatraz was a place of ghosts.
And Perenelle Flamel would show him just how powerful she was.
Closing her eyes, relaxing, Perenelle listened to the ghosts of Alcatraz, and
then slowly, her voice barely above a breathed whisper, she began to talk to
them, to call them and to gather them all to her.
CHAPTER SIX
I m OK, Sophie murmured sleepily, really I am.
You don't look OK, Josh muttered through gritted teeth. For the second time
in as many days, Josh was carrying his sister in his arms, one arm under her
back, the other beneath her legs. He moved cautiously down the steps of
Sacre -Coeur, terrified he was going to drop his twin. Flamel told us every
time you use magic it will steal a little of your energy, he added. You
look exhausted.
I m fine , she muttered. Let me down. But then her eyes flickered closed
once more.
The small group moved silently through the thick vanilla-scented fog,
Scathach in the lead with Flamel taking up the rear. All around them they
could hear the tramp of boots, the jingle of weapons, and the muted commands
of the French police and special forces as they climbed the steps. Some of