The Necromancer.

By Michael Scott.

I am frightened.

Not for myself, but for those I will leave behind: Perenelle and the twins.

I am resigned that we will not recover the Codex in time to save my wife and me. I have perhaps a week, certainly no more than two, left before old age claims me; Perenelle will have a few days more. And now that death is almost upon me, I have discovered that I do not want to die.

I have lived upon this earth for six hundred and seventy-six years and there is still so much that I have not seen, so much that I wish I still had time to do.

I am grateful, though, that I have lived long enough to discover the twins of legend, and proud that I began their training in the Elemental Magics. Sophie has mastered three, Josh just the one, but he has demonstrated other skills and his courage is extraordinary.

We have returned to San Francisco, having left Dee for dead in England. I am hoping we have seen the last of him, and even if his encounter with the Archon did not destroy him, I know that his masters will not tolerate failure on this scale. I am disturbed, however, to learn that Machiavelli is here in this city. Perenelle trapped him and his companion on Alcatraz along with the other monsters, but I am not sure how long the Rock can hold someone like the Italian immortal.

Both Perenelle and I are in agreement that Alcatraz is a threat we must try to deal with while we still can. It chills me to know what the prison's cells hold. Legends tell of times in the past when the Dark Elders unleashed monsters into human cities-and I believe that Dee is insane, and desperate enough to do just that.

Even more disturbing is the news that Scathach and Joan of Arc are missing. The Notre Dame leygate should have brought them to Mount Tamalpais, but they never arrived. When I spoke with Saint-Germain earlier, he was frantic with worry, but I reminded him that Scathach is over two and a half thousand years old, and she is the ultimate warrior. Joan, too, is one of the greatest soldiers ever to walk this earth. Francis has examined Point Zero and found what he believes to be the remnants of the crushed bones of prehistoric animals. I suspect Machiavelli sabotaged the gate using the ancient alchemical spell of Attraction. Saint-Germain believes, and I agree with him, that Scathach and Joan have been pulled back in time... but to when?

My most pressing concern still lies with the twins. I am no longer sure how they view me. It was always clear that Josh harbored reservations about me, but now I am sensing that they are both fearful and mistrustful. It is true that they discovered portions of my history that I would have preferred be left uncovered. Perhaps I should have been more honest with them. I am not proud of some of the things I have done, but I regret nothing. I did what I had to do to ensure the survival of the human race. I would do it again.

The twins have returned to their aunt's house in Pacific Heights. I will give them a day or two to rest and recuperate-but no more, for Perenelle and I do not have the luxury of time. Then we will begin again.

Their training must be completed; they must be prepared for the day the Dark Elders return.

Because that day is almost upon us.

The time of Litha approaches.

From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst Writ this day, Tuesday, 5th June, in San Francisco, my adopted city

CHAPTER ONE.

Tuesday, 5thJune.

"Never thought we'd ever see this place again." Sophie Newman grinned and looked at her brother.

"Never thought I'd be so happy to see it," Josh said. "It looks... I don't know. Different."

"It looks the same," his twin answered. "We're the ones who've changed."

Sophie and Josh were walking down Scott Street in Pacific Heights, heading for their aunt Agnes's house on the corner of Sacramento Street. They had last seen the house six days earlier-Thursday, May 31-when they had left for work, Sophie at the coffee shop, Josh in the bookstore. It had started as just another ordinary day, but it had turned out to be the last ordinary day they would ever experience.

That day their world had changed forever; they too had changed, both physically and mentally.

"What do we tell her?" Josh asked nervously. Aunt Agnes was eighty-four, and although they called her aunt, she was not actually related to them by blood. Sophie thought she might have been their grandmother's sister... or cousin, or maybe just a friend, but she had never been quite sure. Aunt Agnes was a sweet but grumpy old lady who fussed and worried if they were even five minutes late. She drove both Sophie and Josh crazy and reported back to their parents about every single thing they did.

"We keep it simple," Sophie said. "We stick to the story we told Mom and Dad-first the bookshop closed because Perenelle wasn't feeling well, and then the Flamels..."

"The Flemings," Josh corrected her.

"The Flemings invited us to stay with them in their house in the desert."

"And why did the bookshop close?"

"Gas leak."

Josh nodded. "Gas leak. And where's the house in the desert?"

"Joshua Tree."

"OK, I got it."

"Are you sure? You're a terrible liar."

Josh shrugged. "I'll try. You know we're going to get grilled."

"I know. And that's even before we have to talk to Mom and Dad."

Josh nodded. He glanced over at Sophie. He'd been mulling something over for the past few days, and figured this would be the perfect time to bring it up. "I've been thinking," he said slowly. "Maybe we should just tell them the truth."

"The truth?" Sophie's expression remained unchanged and the twins continued walking, crossing Jackson Street. They could see their aunt's white wooden Victorian house three blocks away.

"What do you think?" Josh asked, when his sister said nothing more.

Finally Sophie nodded. "Sure, we could." She brushed a few strands of blond hair out of her eyes and looked at her brother. "But just let me get this straight first. We're going to tell Mom and Dad that their entire life's work has been for nothing. That everything they have ever studied-history, archaeology and paleontology-is wrong." Her eyes sparkled. "I think it's a great idea. But I'll let you go ahead and do it, and I'll watch."

Josh shrugged uncomfortably. "OK, OK, so we don't tell them."

"Not yet, in any case."

"Agreed, but it'll come out sooner or later. You know how impossible it is to keep secrets from them. They always know everything."

"That's because Aunt Agnes tells them," Sophie muttered.

A sleek black stretch limousine with tinted windows drove slowly past them, the driver leaning forward, checking addresses on the tree-lined street. The car signaled and pulled in farther down the block.

Josh indicated the limo with a jerk of his chin. "That's weird. It looks like it's stopping outside Aunt Agnes's."

Sophie looked up disinterestedly. "I just wish there was someone we could talk to," she murmured. "Someone like Gilgamesh." Her blue eyes magnified with sudden tears. "I hope he's OK." The last time she had seen the immortal, he'd just been wounded by an arrow fired by the Horned G.o.d. She looked at her brother, irritated. "You're not even listening to me."

"That car is stopping outside Agnes's house," Josh said slowly. A vague warning tingled at the back of his skull. "Soph?"

"What is it?"

"When was the last time Aunt Agnes had a visitor?"

"She never has visitors."

The twins watched a slender black-suited driver get out of the car and climb the steps, his black-gloved hand trailing lightly on the metal rail. Their Awakened hearing clearly heard the knock on the door, and unconsciously they increased their pace. They saw their aunt Agnes open the door. She was a slight, bony woman, all angles and planes, with k.n.o.bby knees and swollen arthritic fingers. Josh knew that in her youth she had been considered a great beauty-but her youth had been a long time ago. She had never married, and there was a family story that the love of her life had been killed in the war. Josh wasn't sure which one.

"Josh?" Sophie asked.

"Something's not right," Josh muttered. He broke into a jog; Sophie fell into step beside him, easily keeping up.

The twins saw the driver's hand move and Aunt Agnes take something from him. She leaned forward, squinting at what looked like a photograph. But when she bent closer to get a better look, the driver immediately slipped around behind her and darted into the house.

Josh took off at a sprint. "Don't let the car leave!" he shouted at Sophie. He raced across the street and up the steps into the house. "Hi, Aunt Agnes, we're home," he called as he ran past her.

The old woman turned in a complete circle, the photograph fluttering from her fingertips.

Sophie followed her brother across the street but stopped behind the car. She stooped and pressed her fingertips against the rear pa.s.senger tire. Her thumb brushed the circle on the back of her wrist and her fingers glowed white-hot. She pushed; there was the stink of burning rubber, and then, with five distinct popping sounds, the rubber tire was punctured. Air hissed out and the tire quickly settled onto its metal rim.

"Sophie!" the old woman shrieked as the girl ran up the steps and grabbed her confused aunt. "What's going on? Where have you been? Who was that nice young man? Was that Josh I just saw?"

"Aunt Agnes, come with me." Sophie drew her aunt away from the door, just in case Josh or the driver came rushing out and the old woman was accidentally knocked down. She knelt and picked up the picture her aunt had dropped, then helped the older woman a safe distance away from the house. Sophie looked at the photograph: it was a sepia image of a young woman dressed in what looked like a nurse's uniform. The word Ypres and the date 1914 had been written in white ink in the bottom right-hand corner. Sophie caught her breath-there was no doubt who the person was. The woman in the photograph was Scathach.

Josh stepped into the darkened hallway and pressed flat against the wall, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Last week he wouldn't have known to do that, but then, last week he wouldn't have run into a house after an intruder. He would have done the sensible thing and dialed 911. He reached into the umbrella stand behind the door and lifted out one of his aunt's thick walking sticks. It wasn't Clarent, but it would have to do.

Josh remained still, head tilted to one side, listening. Where was the stranger?

There was a creak on the landing and a young-looking man in a simple black suit, white shirt and narrow black tie came hurrying down the stairs. He slowed when he spotted Josh, but didn't stop. He smiled, yet it seemed more of a reflex than a voluntary gesture-it didn't move past his lips. Now that the man was closer, Josh saw that he was Asian; j.a.panese, maybe?

Josh stepped forward, the walking stick stretched out in front of him like a sword. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Past you or through you, makes no difference to me," the man said in English tinged with a strong j.a.panese accent.

"What are you doing here?" Josh demanded.

"Looking for someone," the man answered simply.

The intruder came off the bottom step into the hall and moved to walk out the front door, but Josh barred his route with the stick. "Not so fast. You owe me an answer."

The black-suited man grabbed the stick, yanked it from Josh's grip and snapped it across his knee. Josh grimaced; that had to hurt. The man tossed the two pieces on the floor. "I owe you nothing, but you should be thankful that I am in a good mood today."

There was something in the man's voice that made Josh step back. Something cold and calculating that made him suddenly wonder if the man was entirely human. Josh stood in the doorway and watched the man move lightly down the steps. He was reaching for the car door when he spotted the back tire.

Sophie smiled and waggled her fingers at him. "Looks like you have a puncture."

Josh hurried down the steps and joined his sister and their aunt. "Josh," Agnes said querulously, "what is going on?" Her gray eyes were huge behind thick gla.s.ses.

The rear pa.s.senger window eased down a fraction and the j.a.panese man spoke urgently into it, gesturing toward the tire.

Abruptly the door opened and a young woman climbed out. She was dressed in a beautifully tailored black suit over a white silk shirt. There were black leather gloves on her hands and a pair of tiny round black sungla.s.ses perched on her nose. But it was her spiky red hair and pale freckled skin that gave her away.

"Scathach!" both Sophie and Josh cried in delight.

The woman smiled, revealing a mouthful of vampire teeth. She pushed down the gla.s.ses to reveal brilliant green eyes. "Hardly," she snapped. "I am Aoife of the Shadows. And I want to know what has happened to my twin sister."

CHAPTER TWO.

"Never thought I'd see this place again," Nicholas Flamel said, pushing open the rear door to the Small Bookshop.

"Nor I," Perenelle agreed.

The bottom of the door stuck and Nicholas pressed his shoulder against it and shoved hard. The door sc.r.a.ped on the stone floor and the stench hit them immediately: the slightly sweet stink of rotten wood and moldering paper mixed with the cloying rancid odor of decay. Perenelle coughed and pressed her hand to her mouth, blinking sudden tears from her eyes. "That's foul!"

Nicholas inhaled cautiously. He could still smell traces of Dee's brimstone odor on the dry air, the rotten-egg smell of sulfur. The couple moved down a dark corridor piled high on both sides with boxes of secondhand books. The cardboard boxes were streaked with black rot and the tops had started to curl. Some had burst apart, spilling their contents onto the floor.

Perenelle brushed a fingertip against one and it came away black with mold. She held it up for her husband to see and said, "Tell me?"

"The doctor and I fought," he said softly.

"I can see that," Perenelle said with a smile. "And you won."

"Well, winning is a relative term..." Nicholas opened the door at the end of the corridor and stepped into the bookshop. "I'm afraid the shop did not fare too well." Reaching back, he took his wife's hand and led her into the large book-filled room.

"Oh, Nicholas...," Perenelle breathed.

The bookshop was ruined.

A thick layer of furry green-black mold covered everything, and the smell of sulfur was overwhelming. Books lay everywhere-pages torn, covers shredded, spines broken-among the crushed and splintered tables and shelves that had held them. A huge swath of the ceiling was missing, the plaster hanging like tattered cloth, revealing wooden joists and trailing wires, and where the entrance to the cellar had been was now a gaping hole, the wood around it rotted to a foul black mess speckled with mushrooms. Tiny wriggling white maggots crawled through the muck. The brightly colored rug that had once covered the center of the floor had shriveled to an ugly gray threadbare cloth.

"Destruction and decay," Perenelle murmured, "Dee's calling card." The tall elegant woman picked her way carefully into the room. Everything she touched either crumbled to dust or dissolved into a powder that gave off spores. The floorboards were spongy and sticky and creaked ominously with each step, threatening to send her into the bas.e.m.e.nt below. Standing in the middle of the room, she put her hands on her hips and turned slowly. Her huge green eyes filled with tears. She had loved this bookshop; it had been their home and their life for a decade. They had worked at many careers through the centuries, but this bookshop more than any other reminded her of her early life with Nicholas, when he had been a scrivener and bookseller in Paris in the fourteenth century. Then, they had been simple, ordinary people, living unremarkable lives, until that fateful day when Nicholas had bought the Codex, the Book of Abraham the Mage, from the hooded man with astonishingly blue eyes. That was the day their mundane lives ended and they entered the world of the extraordinary, where nothing was as it seemed and no one could be trusted.

She turned to look at her husband. He hadn't moved from the door and was staring around the shop with a stricken expression on his face. "Nicholas," she said softly, and when he looked up, she realized just how much the last week had aged him. For centuries, his appearance had changed very little. With his close-cropped hair, unlined face and pale eyes, he'd always looked around fifty years old, which was the age he'd been when they started to make the immortality potion. Today, he looked at least seventy. Much of his hair was gone, and there were deep wrinkles on his forehead; more lines were etched into the corners of his sunken eyes, and there were dark spots on the back of his hands.

The Alchemyst caught her looking at him and smiled ruefully. "I know. I look old-but still, not too bad for someone who's lived for six hundred and seventy-seven years."

"Seventy-six," Perenelle corrected him gently. "You're not seventy-seven for another three months."