The Magician

CHAPTER SEVEN

K eeping a tight rein on his temper, Niccol Machiavelli strode down the

steps of Sacre -Coeur, the fog curling and swirling behind him like a cloak.

Although the air was beginning to clear, it was still touched with the odor

of vanilla. Machiavelli threw his head back and breathed deeply, drawing the

smell into his nostrils. He would remember this scent; it was as distinctive

as a fingerprint. Everyone on the planet possessed an aura the electrical

field that surrounded the human body and when that electrical field was

focused and directed, it interacted with the user s endorphin system and

adrenal glands to produce a distinctive odor unique to that person: a

signature scent. Machiavelli took a final breath. He could almost taste the

vanilla on the air, crisp, clear and pure: the scent of raw untrained power.

And in that moment, Machiavelli knew beyond a doubt that Dee was correct:

this was the odor of one of the legendary twins.

I want the entire area sealed off, Machiavelli snapped to the semicircle of

high-ranking police who had gathered at the bottom of the steps in the Square

Willette. Cordon off every street, alleyway and lane from the Rue Custine to

the Rue Caulaincourt, from the Boulevard de Clichy to the Boulevard de

Rochechouart and the Rue de Clignancourt. I want these people found!

You are suggesting closing down Montmartre, a deeply tanned police officer

said in the silence that followed. He looked to his colleagues for support,

but none of them would meet his eye. It s the height of the tourist season,

he protested, turning back to Machiavelli.

Machiavelli rounded on the captain, his face as impassive as the masks he

collected. His cold gray eyes bored into the man, but when he spoke his voice

was even and controlled, barely above a whisper. You know who I am? he

asked mildly.

The captain, a decorated veteran of the French Foreign Legion, felt something

cold and sour at the back of his throat as he looked into the man s stony

eyes. Licking suddenly dry lips, he said, You are Monsieur Machiavelli, the

new head of the Direction G n rale de la S curit Ext rieure. But this is a

police matter, sir, not an external security matter. You have no authority

I am making this a DGSE matter, Machiavelli interrupted softly. My powers

come directly from the president. I will shut down this entire city if

necessary. I want these people found. Tonight, a catastrophe was averted. He

waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Sacre -Coeur, now beginning to

appear out of the thinning mist. Who knows what other terrors they have

planned? I want a progress report on the hour, every hour, he finished, and

without waiting for a response turned and marched over to his car, where his

dark-suited driver waited, arms folded across his massive chest. The driver,

face half hidden behind wraparound mirrored sunglasses, opened the door and

then closed it gently behind Machiavelli. After he had climbed into the car,

the driver sat patiently, black gloved hands resting lightly on the leather

steering wheel, and awaited instructions. The sheet of privacy glass that

separated the driver s section from the back of the car buzzed down.

Flamel is in Paris. Where would he go? Machiavelli asked without preamble.

The creature known as Dagon had served Machiavelli for close to four hundred

years. It was the name by which he had been known for millennia, and despite

his appearance, he had never been even remotely human. Turning in the seat,

he pulled off his mirrored sunglasses. In the dim car interior, his eyes were

bulbous and fishlike, huge and liquid behind a clear, glassy film: he had no

eyelids. When he spoke, two rows of tiny ragged teeth were visible behind his

thin lips. Who are his allies? Dagon asked, shifting from deplorable French

to appalling Italian before dropping back to the bubbling, liquid language of

his long-lost youth.

Flamel and his wife have always been loners, Machiavelli said. That is why

they have survived for so long. To the best of my knowledge, they have not

lived in this city since the end of the eighteenth century. He pulled out

his slender black laptop and ran his index finger over the integrated

fingerprint reader. The machine blipped and the screen blinked to life.

If they came through a leygate, then they came unprepared, Dagon said

wetly. No money, no passports, no clothes other than those they were

wearing.

Exactly, Machiavelli whispered. So they re going to need to find

themselves an ally.

Humani or immortal? Dagon asked.

Machiavelli took a moment to consider. An immortal, he said finally. I m

not sure they know many humani in this city.

So which immortals are currently living in Paris? Dagon asked.

The Italian s fingers hit a complicated series of keystrokes and the screen

scrolled to reveal a directory called Temp. There were dozens of .jpg, .bmp

and .tmp files in the directory. Machiavelli highlighted one and hit Enter. A

box appeared in the center of the screen.

Enter Password.

His slender fingers clicked across the keyboard as he typed in the password

Del modo di trattare i sudditi della Val di Chiana ribellati, and a database

encoded with unbreakable 256-bit AES encryption, the same encryption used by

most governments for their top-secret files, blinked open. Over the course of

his long life, Niccol Machiavelli had amassed a huge fortune, but he

considered this single file to be his most valuable treasure. It was a

complete dossier on every immortal human still living in the twenty-first

century, compiled by his network of spies across the globe most of whom

didn't even know they were working for him. He scrolled through the names.

Not even his own Dark Elder masters knew he possessed this list, and he was

sure some would be very unhappy if they were to discover that he also knew

the locations and attributes of almost all the Elders and Dark Elders still

walking the earth or in the Shadowrealms that bordered this world.

Knowledge, as Machiavelli well knew, was power.

Although there were three screens devoted to Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel,

hard information was scarce. There were hundreds of entries, each one a

reported sighting of the Flamels since their supposed deaths in 1418. They

had been seen on just about every continent in the world except Australia.

For the past 150 years, they had lived on the North American continent, with

the first confirmed and verified sighting of the last century taking place in

Buffalo, New York, in September 1901. He skipped to the section marked Known

Immortal Associates. It was blank.

Nothing. I have no records of the Flamels associating with other

immortals.

But now he is back in Paris, Dagon said, bubbles of liquid forming on his

lips as he spoke. He will seek out old friends. People behave differently at

home, he added; their guard comes down. And no matter how long Flamel has

lived away from this city, he will still consider it his home.

Niccol Machiavelli looked over the top of the computer screen. He was

reminded yet again of how little he knew about his faithful employee. And

where is your home, Dagon? he asked.

Gone. Long gone. A translucent skin flickered across the huge globes of his

eyes.

Why have you remained with me? Machiavelli wondered aloud. Why have you

not sought out others of your kind?

They too are gone. I am the last of my kind, and besides, you are not that

dissimilar to me.

But you are not human, Machiavelli said softly.

Are you? Dagon asked, eyes wide and unblinking.

Machiavelli took a long moment before finally nodding and returning to the

screen. So we re looking for someone the Flamels would have known when they

were still living here. And we know they haven t been in the city since the

eighteenth century, so let us limit our search to immortals who were around

then. His fingers tapped the keys, filtering the results. Seven only. Five

are loyal to us.

And the other two?

Catherine de Medici is living off the Rue du Dragon.

She s not French, Dagon mumbled stickily.

Well, she was the mother of three French kings, Machiavelli said with a

rare smile. But she is loyal only to herself . His voice trailed away and

he straightened. But what do we have here?

Dagon remained unmoving.

Niccol Machiavelli swiveled the computer screen so that his servant could

see the photograph of a man staring directly at the camera in what was

obviously a posed publicity shot. Thick curling black hair tumbled to his

shoulders, framing a round face. His eyes were startlingly blue.

I do not know this man, Dagon said.

Oh, but I do. I know him very well. This is the immortal human once known as

the Comte de Saint-Germain. He was a magician, an inventor, a musician and an

alchemist. Machiavelli closed the program and shut down the computer.

Saint-Germain was also the student of Nicholas Flamel. And he s currently

living in Paris, he finished triumphantly.

Dagon smiled, his mouth a perfect O filled with razor teeth. Does Flamel

know that Saint-Germain is here?

I have no idea. No one knows the extent of Nicholas Flamel s knowledge.

Dagon pushed his sunglasses back in place. And I thought you knew

everything.