The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

breathed deeply again, mangy dog’s head turned to the skies, black nostrils opening and closing. He thought he could distinguish at least seven—or possibly eight—different auras in the air tonight. The meaty-smelling fog blanketed all other odors, so there might have been another up there, but it did not matter. He would kill them all, eat his fill and leave the rest to the monsters now trailing behind him.
    And it didn’t really matter if Flamel had ten companions or ten times ten; he could not escape what was now crawling, slithering and staggering toward him.
    In the corner of the ruined Warden’s House was an enormous mudlike shell. Nicholas tapped on it. It was solid.
    Niccolò Machiavelli folded his arms across his chest and looked at the Alchemyst. “I always knew we would meet again,” he said in French. “Though I never imagined it would be in these circumstances,” he added with a smile. “I was certain I’d get you in Paris last Saturday.” He bowed, an old-fashioned courtly gesture, as Perenelle joined her husband. “Mistress Perenelle, it seems we are forever destined to meet on islands.”
    “The last time we met you had poisoned my husband and attempted to kill me,” Perenelle reminded him, speaking in Italian.
    Over three hundred years previously, the Sorceress and the Italian had fought at the foot of Mount Etna in Sicily. Although Perenelle had defeated Machiavelli, the energies they unleashed caused the ancient volcano to erupt. Lava flowed for five weeks after the battle and destroyed ten villages.
    “Forgive me; I was younger then, and foolish. And you emerged the victor of the encounter. I carry the scars to this day.”
    “Let us try and not blow up this island,” she said with a smile. Then she stretched out her hand. “I saw you try to save me earlier. There is no longer any enmity between us.”
    Machiavelli took her fingers in his and bent over them. “Thank you. That pleases me.”
    Mars and Odin moved outside into positions guarding one of the paths to the house, while Billy and Black Hawk went to watch the other path. Hel leaned against the doorway of the Warden’s House, favoring her injured leg. She was the last line of defense.
    Nicholas, Perenelle and Machiavelli stood around the hardened ball of mud. “You’re sure Areop-Enap is within?” the Italian asked, rapping his knuckles on it.
    “I saw her climb in and wrap it around herself,” Perenelle said.
    “How do we open it?” Machiavelli asked.
    “I’m not sure we should even try,” Nicholas said. “It could be dangerous to Areop-Enap, and more likely dangerous to us. Areop-Enap is unpredictable.” He looked at his wife. “Do I need to remind you about the last time we met the Old Spider?”
    Machiavelli grinned. “Let me guess—you fought.”
    “We did,” Perenelle said. “And it was on an island, too: Pohnpei.”
    “What is it with you people and islands?” the Italian asked. “Japan, Ireland, Pohnpei, the Aleutians. You leave chaos, death and destruction in your wake.”
    “You’re well informed,” Perenelle said.
    “It was—still is, I suppose—my job.”
    “And usually it was your friend Dee who caused the chaos, death and destruction,” Perenelle added. “We were always running.”
    “Dee is no friend of mine,” Machiavelli said shortly. He laid his palm on the mud ball and his dirty gray-white aura flowed over the rough surface. It sizzled and bubbled, but the aura dribbled away to nothing, running off the clay like water. He bent his head, pressing his ear to the stone. “Silence,” he said finally.
    The three immortals placed their hands on the ball and brought their auras to fizzling life. The smells of mint and serpent mingled on the foggy air, ice-white, green and dirty-white misty energies flowing over the hard shell.
    Nicholas was the first to break away. He was gasping for breath and there were new wrinkles lining his forehead and the sides of his nose. “A moment, if you will. Let me recharge a little. What made you change your mind?” he asked, tilting his head to look at the Italian. “Why did you side with us?”
    Machiavelli shrugged. He leaned against a stone wall and brushed at his ruined and filthy black suit. “I have been troubled by my association with the Dark Elders for a long time,” he said quietly. “But coming here and working with Billy and Black Hawk brought up a lot of old memories. I was reminded of something my dear wife, Marietta,