Nicholas looked at his wife. "Wasn't Dare once a.s.sociated with Dee?" he asked.

"A long time ago, but I don't believe they've seen one another in centuries. Still, it cannot be a coincidence that she is here."

"I agree," the Alchemyst answered grimly. "There are no such things as coincidences."

The images were flickering wildly now, fading in and out like a badly tuned television set. "I'm losing the connection," Sophie whispered. She turned her head to look up at Aoife. "Help me. Please."

The warrior's strong hands tightened on the girl's shoulders, holding her upright, pouring strength into her.

Josh followed the woman up to a smoked-gla.s.s door with the words Enoch Enterprises in fancy gold script on the gla.s.s. He saw her reach for the intercom b.u.t.ton, but the door swung open wide before she had a chance to press it. And because this was still a dream, he was unsurprised to find a smiling Dr. John Dee waiting for him.

"Josh Newman, it is good to see you again. You're looking well, and I understand you're a Master of Fire now." Dee stepped back. "Enter freely and of your own will."

Without hesitation, Josh stepped through the door.

Nearly seventy miles away, in the last flickering ghostlike images, the silent watchers heard Dee ask, "So, Josh, how would you like to learn one of the most powerful of all the magics-something not even the legendary Nicholas Flamel could teach you?"

"That would be cool," Josh said.

And then the door clicked shut and the image died.

Sophie drew in a deep shuddering breath and peeled her hands off the now-warm crystal skull. She slumped forward and would have fallen if Aoife had not been holding her. She looked at the Alchemyst. "What can Dee teach him that you can't?" she rasped hoa.r.s.ely, sick with worry.

Nicholas shook his head. "I've no idea. We studied very similar disciplines: alchemy, mathematics, astronomy, astrology, biology, medicine-" He stopped suddenly.

"Except?" Sophie asked.

"There is one." All the color had drained from Nicholas's face, and the dark rings under his eyes were p.r.o.nounced. "There was one art I refused to learn-but one which Dee mastered and excelled in."

"No!" Perenelle drew in a quick shocked breath.

"Necromancy," the Alchemyst said. "The art of raising the dead."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.

Standing at the prow of a speedboat bouncing across the icy waters of San Francis...o...b..y, Niccol Machiavelli closed his eyes and allowed the salt spray to hide the sudden tears on his face.

When Machiavelli had still been mortal, his wife, Marietta, had once accused him of being an uncaring inhuman monster. "You will die lonely and alone, because you don't care for anyone," she'd screamed at him, and thrown an antique Roman plate at his head. He'd long since forgotten what the argument was about, but he'd never forgotten the words. And whenever he thought of them, he remembered Marietta, whom he had loved dearly and still missed, and he wept for her. He never minded the tears: they reminded him that he was still human.

He'd once thought that being immortal was an extraordinary gift.

And in the beginning it was. He had all the time in the world to plot and scheme, to lay plans that would take generations to complete. Working behind the scenes, he had shaped the destinies of a dozen European and Russian nations, had organized wars and revolutions and arranged peace treaties. He had backed leaders, funded inventors, invested in artists and designers. Then he had sat back and watched his grand plans unfold. But somewhere amid all the scheming and plotting, he had stopped thinking about the individuals he was manipulating. He thought of the humani-the humans-merely as objects to be pushed about like pieces on a chessboard.

He had served his Elder master devotedly, doing as he was told even when he disagreed with his orders. Initially, he had believed-because it was the logical conclusion-that the earth would be a better place if the Dark Elders returned.

Now he was not so sure.

He hadn't been sure for the past two hundred years.

And today... today everything had changed. The turning point had come when he had sat facing Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent and listened while the arrogant Elder almost casually determined whether Machiavelli should live or die. Shockingly, the only reason he had been allowed to live was because Quetzalcoatl felt that he owed Machiavelli's master a favor. No consideration was given to the centuries of loyal service Machiavelli had performed for the Elders. His skills, his knowledge, his experience, were all dismissed.

His life had been spared by nothing more than chance.

And sitting in that chair, arguing for his life, it had struck him that on far too many occasions he had acted just like Quetzalcoatl. He had pa.s.sed judgment on the lives of countless men, women and children he had never met and would never know. He had made decisions that would shape their lives and the lives of their descendants for generations to come.

Marietta was right: he didn't care for anyone.

But she was also wrong. He had always cared for her and adored his children, especially his son Guido, who had been born a few short years before Machiavelli's "death."

What had happened? What had changed him?

It all came back to the same answer: immortality.

Immortality had transformed him utterly, had warped his thinking, had made him the uncaring inhuman monster Marietta had accused him of being long before he actually was. He had stopped thinking of humans as individuals-he thought of them as ma.s.ses of people, as either enemies or friends.

He had become blinded by his own ambition. In his arrogance he had thought that he was different from the humans, that he was, in some way, like the Elders. But today, he had realized that the Elders thought as much of him as he thought of the rest of the human population.

And now he was on another mission for the Elders, one that would affect the lives of millions of people all across the globe. He had tinkered with the destiny of nations; now he was about to reshape the future of the world.

"I'm not liking what I'm seeing," Billy the Kid drawled, taking up a position alongside the Italian.

Machiavelli looked toward the fast-approaching island. "Is something wrong?"

"Not over there. Here," Billy said. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pitched his voice just above the hum of the engine and the splashing of the waves so that only Machiavelli could hear it. "You've got a look on your face that I don't like."

Machiavelli composed himself. "A look?"

"Yep. The look of someone who is thinking deep thoughts. Dark thoughts. Stupid thoughts."

"And you would be an expert on facial expressions?" Machiavelli said sarcastically.

"Sure am," Billy said, blue eyes twinkling. "Kept me alive long enough."

"And what do you think my face reveals?" Machiavelli asked. He'd always been able to keep his face expressionless and was irritated that this uneducated young immortal had managed to read him so easily. Perhaps he had underestimated the American.

Billy took a hand out of his back pocket and rubbed it across his chin, stubble rasping. "You've never been in a gunfight?" he asked.

Machiavelli blinked in surprise. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

"What about a duel? Didn't you have duels in Europe-swords and pistols at dawn, that sort of thing?"

The Italian nodded. "I've attended some."

"I bet you always knew who was going to lose."

Machiavelli considered, then nodded. "Yes. I suppose I did."

"How could you tell?" Billy asked.

"From the expression on their face, the way they stood, the set of their shoulders..."

"Exactly. They expected to lose. And therefore, they lost. Now, I was never a great shot, and never very fast. All that quick-draw nonsense comes from books written about me, and most of those are lies. But I always expected to win. Always. And I made sure to a.s.sociate with others who expected to win." He paused and added, "People who start thinking deep dark thoughts in the middle of a war start expecting to lose. And they end up dead because they're not thinking straight, they're not focused."

Machiavelli's head tilted in a slight bow. "That is a very astute observation. And do you have a suggestion?"

Billy nodded toward the island. "Let's stay focused on the task at hand. Let's do what our Elder masters have commanded and awaken these sleeping beasts, before we start thinking deep dark thoughts."

"We?"

"We." Billy smiled. "I bet you could teach me a lot."

Machiavelli nodded, surprised. "And I believe I could learn a lot from you."

The boat b.u.mped against the dock and Black Hawk pulled them in against the wooden pilings. "All ash.o.r.e," he called.

Billy the Kid leapt onto the wooden gangway and then stooped to offer his hand to the Italian. Machiavelli hesitated a moment, then took it, and Billy hauled him up. Black Hawk immediately revved the engine, water churning white as he backed away.

"Are you not joining us?" Billy asked.

"You must be joking! I wouldn't set foot on this island. It is a cursed place." Even as he was speaking, dozens of women's faces appeared just below the surface of the water. Iridescent fishtails flickered. "Call me when you're done. Will you be long?"

Billy looked at Machiavelli and raised his eyebrows.

"A couple of hours."

Billy the Kid grinned. "Time enough to change the world."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table with the crystal skull between them, Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel looked at one another. The Alchemyst's shoulders slumped, exhaustion clear on his face and in his sunken eyes. Taking a deep breath, he looked at his wife and said, "So what do we do now?"

Perenelle absently reached out to stroke the skull. She could actually feel the vague tingling residue of Sophie's and Aoife's auras on the crystal. "This changes nothing," she said finally. "We fight."

Nicholas wheezed a laugh. "Look at us... well, look at me. I can't help you."

"Between us we have more than a millennium of knowledge," Perenelle reminded him gently. "We use our brains; that's all we need."

The door opened and Prometheus stepped back into the room. "Niten and Aoife have gone with Sophie. I've given them a car," he said. "But it'll take them two and a half, maybe three hours to get into the city."

"Three hours?" Perenelle looked at Nicholas. "Could Dee teach Josh anything about necromancy in that time?"

"Last night, Josh learned Fire magic in a couple of hours..."

"He learned the basics. But it will take him a lifetime to master it," Prometheus said.

"And who knows what Dee can do," Nicholas added. "How he got here from London is beyond me."

"He's been declared utlaga," the Elder said. "The message rippled through the Shadowrealms yesterday. His own masters have put an enormous price on his head."

"They want him dead?" Nicholas was shocked.

There was only pity in Prometheus's laugh. "They want him alive first."

The Alchemyst sat back into the creaking kitchen chair and rubbed his face with his hands. "But this changes everything," he said. "If Dee is no longer working for the Dark Elders, why does he need Josh? Why would he want to teach him necromancy?"

Prometheus moved away from the door. "Dee obviously has his own plans," he said.

"Dee and Dare," Perenelle reminded them. "A dangerous combination."

"And now Josh, too," Nicholas whispered. "A gold twin, trained in Water and Fire magics."

Prometheus pulled out a chair and spun it around so that he could straddle it. It creaked ominously under his weight.

Nicholas squinted into the Elder's face. "What happens if a pure gold twin, knowledgeable in the Magics of Water and Fire, is trained in necromancy?"

Prometheus shook his head. "It has never happened before, to the best of my knowledge. It is a powerful combination, but the real potential lies in the strength of his aura. The boy is extraordinarily powerful... he simply does not realize that yet."

"Dee does," Nicholas muttered.

"So Josh is more powerful than Dee?" Perenelle asked.

"Yes, I believe so. Much more powerful," Prometheus agreed. "Just untrained."

"And necromancy raises the dead, and with Josh's power..." Perenelle began slowly.

Nicholas finished the thought. "So whom-or what-does Dee want to raise from the dead?" He placed his hand flat on top of the crystal skull. "If we could only see what's happening..." A pale green light pulsed once deep within the skull and then faded. Perenelle placed her hand on top of her husband's. Speckles of white crawled along her fingertips, sank through Flamel's wrinkled flesh and seeped into the crystal. A white light tinted with the hint of green throbbed in the eye sockets. Then it faded. "We're not strong enough." Nicholas slumped back into the chair, though Perenelle kept his hand pressed to the crystal.

"Why did you bring this evil thing?" Prometheus asked.

"We were going to use it to try to control the monsters on Alcatraz," Perenelle explained. "Areop-Enap is still on the island. I thought if we could see through the Old Spider's eyes, we would be able to turn the creatures against one another. Many of them are natural enemies. I thought it might buy us a little time until Sophie and Josh were fully trained."

"A good plan," Prometheus agreed. "But you need to fuel the skull with your auras."

"We were rather counting on Sophie and Josh to help us."

The Elder looked at each of them in turn. "You do realize that when you are feeding the skull, it is feeding off you, drinking your auras, your memories, your emotions," he said slowly. "The skulls are true vampires. The twins are young; the process would have taken a few years off their lives, but they would have survived. In your present state, you would not."