The Alchemyst

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S ecurity gates opened, and Dee s black limousine swerved into the driveway,

the Golem chauffeur expertly maneuvering the car through barred gates into an

underground parking garage. Perenelle Flamel lurched sideways and fell

against the sodden Golem sitting on her right-hand side. Its body squelched

with the blow, and spatters of foul-smelling mud squirted everywhere.

Dr. John Dee, sitting directly opposite, grimaced in disgust and scooted as

far away from the creature as he could. He was on his cell phone, talking

urgently in a language that had not been used on earth in more than three

thousand years.

A drop of Golem mud splashed onto Perenelle s right hand. The sticky liquid

ran across her flesh and erased the curling symbol Dee had drawn on her skin.

The binding spell was partially broken. Perenelle Flamel dipped her head

slightly. This was her chance. To properly channel her auric powers she

really needed both hands, and unfortunately, the ward Dee had drawn on her

forehead prevented her from speaking.

Still

Perenelle Delamere had always been interested in magic, even before she met

the poor bookseller who later became her husband. She was the seventh

daughter of a seventh daughter, and in the tiny village of Quimper in the

northwest corner of France, where she had grown up, she was considered

special. Her touch could heal not only humans, but animals, too she could

talk to the shades of the dead and she could sometimes see a little of the

future. But growing up in an age when such skills were regarded with deep

suspicion, she had learned to keep her abilities to herself. When she first

moved to Paris, she saw how the fortune-tellers working in the markets that

backed onto the great Notre Dame Cathedral made a good and easy living.

Adopting the name Chatte Noire Black Cat because of her jet-black hair, she

set herself up in a little booth in sight of the cathedral. Within a matter

of weeks she built a reputation for being genuinely talented. Her clients

changed: no longer were they just the tradespeople and stall holders, now

they were also drawn from the merchants and even the nobility.

Close to where she had her little covered stall sat the scriveners and

copiers, men who made their living writing letters for those who could

neither read nor write. Some of them, like the slender, dark-haired man with

startling pale eyes, occasionally sold books from their tables. And from the

first moment she saw that man, Perenelle Delamere knew that she would marry

him and that they would live a long and happy life together. She just never

realized quite how long.

They were married less than six months after they first met. They d been

together now for over six hundred years.

Like most educated men of his time, Nicholas Flamel was fascinated with

alchemy a combination of science and magic. His interest was sparked because

he was occasionally offered alchemical books or charts for sale or asked to

copy some of the rarer works. Unlike many other women of her time, Perenelle

could read and knew several languages her Greek was better than her

husband s and he would often ask her to read to him. Perenelle quickly became

familiar with the ancient systems of magic and began to practice in small

ways, developing her skills, concentrating on how to channel and focus the

energy of her aura.

By the time the Codex came into their possession, Perenelle was a sorceress,

though she had little patience for the mathematics and calculations of

alchemy. However, it was Perenelle who recognized that the book written in

the strange, ever-changing language was not just a history of the world that

had never been, but a collection of lore, of science, of spells and

incantations. She had been poring over the pages one bitter winter s night,

watching the words crawl on the page, when the letters formed and re-formed,

and for a heartbeat she had seen the initial formula for the philosopher s

stone, and realized instantly that here was the secret to life eternal.

The couple spent the next twenty years traveling to every country in Europe,

heading east into the land of the Rus, south to North Africa, even into Araby

in an attempt to decipher and translate the curious manuscript. They came

into contact with magicians and sorcerers of many lands, and studied many

different types of magic. Nicholas was only vaguely interested in magic; he

was more interested in the science of alchemy. The Codex, and other books

like it, hinted that there were very precise formulas for creating gold out

of stone and diamonds out of coal. Perenelle, on the other hand, learned as

much as she could about all the magical arts. But it had been a long time

since she had seriously practiced them.

Now, trapped in the limo, she recalled a trick she had learned from a

strega a witch in the mountains of Sicily. It was designed for dealing with

knights in armor, but with a little adjustment

Closing her eyes and concentrating, Perenelle rubbed her little finger in a

circle against the car seat. Dee was absorbed in his phone call and didn't

see the tiny ice white spark that snapped from her fingertip into the

fine-grained leather. The spark ran through the leather and coiled around the

springs beneath. It shot, fizzing and hissing, along the springs and into the

metal body of the car. It curled into the engine, buzzing over the cylinders,

circled the wheels, spitting and snapping. A hubcap popped off and bounced

away and then abruptly, the car s electrics went haywire. The windows started

opening and closing of their own accord; the sunroof hummed open, then

slammed shut; the wipers scraped across the dry windshield, then beat so fast

they snapped off; the horn began to sound out an irregular beat. Interior

lights flickered on and off. The small TV unit in the left-hand wall popped

on and cycled dizzyingly through all its channels.

The air tasted metallic. Tendrils of static electricity now danced around the

interior of the car. Dee flung his cell phone away, nursing suddenly numb

fingers. The phone hit the carpeted floor and exploded into shards of melted

plastic and hot metal.

You , Dee began, turning to Perenelle, but the car lurched to a halt,

completely dead. Flames leapt from the engine, filling the back of the car

with noxious fumes. Dee pushed the door, but the electric locks had engaged.

With a savage howl, he closed his hand into a fist and allowed his rage to

boil through him. The stench of smoke, burning plastic and melting rubber was

abruptly concealed beneath the stink of sulfur, and his hand took on the

appearance of a golden metal glove. Dee punched straight through the door,

practically ripping it off its hinges, and flung himself out onto the cement

floor.

He was standing in the underground car park of Enoch Enterprises, the huge

entertainment company he owned and ran in San Francisco. He scrambled back as

his hundred-and fifty-thousand-dollar custom-made car was quickly consumed by

fire. Intense heat fused the front of the car into irregular clumps of metal,

while the windshield flowed like candle wax. The Golem driver was still

sitting at the wheel, unaffected by the intense heat, which did nothing but

bake its skin to iron hardness.

Then the garage s overhead sprinkler system came on, and bitterly cold water

sprayed down onto the fire.

Perenelle!

Soaked through, doubled over and coughing, Dee wiped tears from his eyes,

straightened and used both hands to douse the flames with a single movement.

He called up a tiny breeze to clear the smoke, then ducked his head to peer

into the blackened interior of the car, almost afraid of what he would find.

The two Golems that had been sitting on either side of Perenelle were now

nothing more than ash. But there was no sign of the woman except for the rent

in the opposite door that looked as if it had been hacked by an axe.

Dee folded to the ground with his back to the ruined car and beat both hands

into the filthy mixture of mud, oil, melted plastic and burnt rubber. He

hadn't secured the entire Codex, and now Perenelle had escaped. Could this

day get any worse?

Footsteps tip-tapped.

From the corner of his eye, Dr. John Dee watched as pointy-toed,

stiletto-heeled black boots came into view. And he knew then the answer to

his question. The day was about to get worse: much worse. Fixing a smile on

his lips, he rose stiffly to his feet and turned to face one of the few of

the Dark Elders who genuinely terrified him.

Morrigan.

The ancient Irish had called her the Crow Goddess, and she was worshipped and

feared throughout the Celtic kingdoms as the Goddess of Death and

Destruction. Once there had been three sisters: Badb, Macha and the Morrigan,

but the others had disappeared over the years Dee had his own suspicions

about what had happened to them and the Morrigan now reigned supreme.

She stood taller than Dee, though most people stood taller than the doctor,

and was dressed from head to foot in black leather. Her jerkin was studded

with shining silver bolts, giving it the appearance of a medieval

breastplate, and her leather gloves had rectangular silver studs sewn onto

the back of the fingers. The gloves had no fingertips, allowing the

Morrigan s long, spearlike black nails to show. She wore a heavy leather belt

studded with small circular shields around her waist. Draped over her

shoulders, with its full hood pulled around her face and sweeping to the

ground behind her, was a cloak made entirely of ravens feathers.

In the shadow of the hood, the Morrigan s face seemed even paler than usual.

Her eyes were jet-black, with no white showing; even her lips were black. The

tips of her overlong incisors were just visible against her lower lip.

This is yours, I believe. The Morrigan s voice was a harsh whisper, her

voice ragged and torn, like a bird s caw.

Perenelle Flamel came forward, moving slowly and carefully. Two enormous

ravens were perched on her shoulders, and both held their razor-sharp beaks

dangerously close to her eyes. She had barely scrambled out of the burning

car, desperately weakened by her use of magic, when she d been attacked by

the birds.

Let me see it, the Morrigan commanded eagerly.

Dee reached into his coat and produced the metal-bound Codex. Surprisingly,

the Crow Goddess did not reach for it.

Open it, she said.

Puzzled, Dee held the book in front of the Morrigan and turned the pages,

handling the ancient object with obvious reverence.

The Book of Abraham the Mage, she whispered, leaning forward, but not

approaching the book. Let me see the back.

Reluctantly, Dee turned to the back of the book. When the Morrigan saw the

damaged pages, she hissed with disgust. Sacrilege. It has survived ten

thousand years without suffering any damage.

The boy tore it, Dee explained, closing the Codex gently.

I'll make sure he suffers for this. The Crow Goddess closed her eyes and

cocked her head to one side, as if listening. Her black eyes glittered and

then her lips moved in a rare smile, exposing the rest of her pointed teeth.

He will suffer soon; my children are almost upon them. They will all

suffer, she promised.