The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

man’s pale face squeezed into a semblance of a smile. “Brave words for a man about to die.”
    “I am not dead yet,” Aten said.
    “Oh, but you will be.”
    Aten reached the top of the staircase and stepped past the Elder, emerging from the prison of Tartarus into a vast courtyard.
    The shouts from outside the prison walls were a storm of sound, thrumming against the stones. “Aten . . . Aten . . . Aten . . .”
    “Your people call for you,” Ard-Greimne mocked.
    Directly in front of Aten were four long lines of Ard-Greimne’s constables. Most were anpu or Asterion, but there were bulls and boars among their ranks as well. All wore black leather armor embossed with Ard-Greimne’s personal symbol, the ever-open always-watching eye. They were carrying clubs and whips, and a few had spears. There were even bowmen scattered among the group.
    “I know you respect these humani . . .,” Ard-Greimne began.
    “I do,” Aten answered before the short Elder could finish.
    Ard-Greimne’s thin lips curled. “And that you consider them the successors of the Elders.”
    “I do.”
    “If you have that much respect for them, I want you to go up onto the walls and tell them to disperse peacefully.”
    “Why would I do that?” Aten asked.
    “Because if they do not, I will release the constables on them. I’ll put one hundred—no, two hundred archers on the walls and have them fire into the crowd. There will be panic. Then I will send out my men.
    “It would be a slaughter,” Aten whispered.
    “Only a few hundred would die. We’ll not kill them all. We do want some to return home and spread the word. And it is always bad for business to kill all the slaves.”
    “You want me to talk to the people?” Aten confirmed.
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll do it,” Aten said without hesitation.
    “I thought you would refuse,” Ard-Greimne said, surprised.
    Aten shook his head. “I will tell them what they must do.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
    “BRACE YOURSELVES!” PROMETHEUS shouted.
    “I am never getting into a vimana again,” Shakespeare vowed. “If they don’t crash, they’re on fire. I can see why they went out of fashion.”
    Rattling and banging, the vimana fell from the sky straight toward the great Pyramid of the Sun.
    “We have to move quickly before they realize what we’re going to do,” Prometheus said. “So once we land, get out and take up positions on the steps. Let no one up onto the roof. Is that clear? No one.”
    “Why?” Joan asked.
    “I have no idea. But Abraham gave me very clear instructions about that.”
    Joan nudged her husband with her foot. “Put the book away. I think you’re about to do some practical research for the finale of this musical piece.”
    “What sort of research?” he asked.
    “The crashing, screaming kind, I believe,” she answered.
    “Armageddon,” Saint-Germain said as he climbed to his feet, bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m going to call this work ‘Armageddon,’ or maybe ‘Armageddon Rocks!’ With an exclamation point.”
    “I didn’t need to be reminded of that just now,” Joan said gently.
    “Not a good time?”
    Joan pointed out the window, and Saint-Germain moved to look. He stood beside her, watching as the massive pyramid raced toward them. He put his arm around his wife and held her as the craft began to rattle apart. The engines were shrieking, the sound painfully loud, and every surface was vibrating.
    Windows popped and shattered and a long strip of metal peeled away right under William Shakespeare’s seat, leaving his feet dangling in midair. Palamedes caught him and hauled him back just as his chair was torn off and sucked through the opening.
    “Don’t say a word!” Palamedes warned.
    The entire control panel in front of Prometheus began to crumble and crack, then melt into globules of liquid.
    “It’s so noisy!” Will shouted, pressing both hands to his ears.
    The engines stopped, and suddenly the only sound was the air whipping through the openings.
    Will pulled his hands from his head and looked around. “I preferred it when it was noisy.”
    Then the vimana hit the top of the pyramid in a scream of metal. It skidded across the structure’s polished flat surface, spinning in circles.
    “We’re going to go over the edge at this rate,” Saint-Germain said calmly. He reached out through the shattered window and moved his fingers.
“Ignis,”
he whispered, and the air was touched with the odor of