The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

rattle of bones.
    The claw had also cut through the lasso. Billy tried to maintain his balance, but he tumbled and fell, and the remains of the leather rope encircled him like a writhing serpent.
    The giant crab’s gaze followed the movement of the rope, saw it drop onto the struggling immortal and snapped at him with its huge claw. Billy rolled to one side and the claw screamed across the ground.
    “Missed me!” he laughed.
    And then the Karkinos impaled the outlaw through the chest with its spiny armored foreleg, pinning him to the stones.
    Howling a savage war cry, Black Hawk flung himself at the Karkinos. His tomahawk screamed off its leg, and he jabbed again and again with the spear. The crab jerked its leg up, actually lifting the impaled Billy off the ground, and Black Hawk grabbed his friend and pulled him free, then bundled him in his arms and raced back toward the Warden’s House. “What did I tell you!” he shouted. “Be careful, I said. But did you listen? Oh no!”
    “I was careful,” Billy whispered. He was deathly pale and there was blood on his lips. “I was watching the claw. I didn’t know he was going to stand on me in some sort of crab-ninja move.”
    “Use your aura,” Black Hawk said. “Heal yourself quickly. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
    “Can’t,” Billy gasped. “Not enough aura left for a big wound like this. Shouldn’t have wasted it healing those scratches earlier.”
    “Let me heal you.”
    “No, you can’t. This isn’t some scratch. Besides, you have about as much of your aura as I do. Save it.”
    Something with massive teeth and wings hopped out of the night, attracted by the scent of Billy’s blood. Black Hawk ran right over it.
    “I got the skeleton guy, though, didn’t I?”
    “You did.”
    “Guess I can’t go back to working for Quetzalcoatl, eh?”
    “When this is over, Billy,” Black Hawk said, “I think maybe you and I should go and visit the Feathered Serpent. Hand in our resignations. I’ll bring a box of matches.”
    “You going to toast some marshmallows with him?”
    “I’ll toast something,” Black Hawk promised. The house coalesced out of the fog and the immortal shouted, announcing their presence. “Mars, we’re back.” He didn’t want to be struck down by the Elder guarding the door.
    Mars stopped them at the entrance to the building and assessed Billy with a professional soldier’s eye. Then he resumed his position.
    “That’s not good, is it?” Billy asked. “It’s never good when they say nothing.”
    Black Hawk laid Billy on the ground inside. He ripped the outlaw’s sodden shirt apart to examine the wound beneath.
    “How bad is it? Will I ever play the piano again?” Billy joked.
    Machiavelli appeared and dropped to the floor beside the two Americans. Without a word, he pressed his palm to Billy’s chest, and his dirty-gray aura bloomed over his hand. It dripped onto the open wound like sour milk.
    “Smells like snake,” Billy mumbled, eyes unfocusing as he slumped into unconsciousness
    “I like snake,” the Italian muttered. Desperately, Machiavelli forced his aura through his hand into Billy’s wound. As he did, he visibly aged. Attempting to awaken Areop-Enap had exhausted him, etching new lines into his forehead, carving bags under his eyes. But with the strain of healing, now he actually grew old. His fuzz of hair turned the same color as his gray eyes and then drifted off his head like dust, leaving him totally bald. His spine curved, and deep wrinkles appeared on his forehead and at the corners of his nose, while his thin lips almost completely disappeared and brown spots suddenly speckled the backs of his hands.
    “Enough,” Black Hawk said. “You will burn yourself out.”
    “Let me give him just a little bit more,” he pleaded.
    “No!”
    “I have a little left. I can give it to him,” Machiavelli gasped.
    “No,” Black Hawk insisted. “If you use any more, there will be nothing left for you.” He gently lifted Machiavelli’s hand. “Enough. Or you will burst into flames. You have done more than anyone could, more than I could. It is out of our hands now. Now he will live or die: it is up to him. And he is Billy the Kid. He will survive.” The immortal suddenly reached out and caught Machiavelli’s hand. He squeezed tightly. “Whatever happens: you have made a lifelong friend here tonight, Italian. Two, if Billy lives.”
    “Three,” Mars said from the doorway, saluting