The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

“that these three are under my protection. Assist them, guide them, protect them, and I will be bountiful. Hinder them, misdirect them, harm them, and you—all of you—will know my vengeance. This is my word, and you know my word is law.”
    “Your word is law,” the crowd murmured. Some of the older men and women got down on hands and knees and pressed their foreheads to the stones paving the ground; some of the younger people only bowed their heads.
    Osiris glared at a group of youths. “If I had more time, I would teach them a lesson for their insolence . . .,” he muttered. He stepped back into the vimana. “Go now. Do not delay. Head straight for the building with the pennant. We’ll be back as quickly as possible.”
    The side of the Rukma vimana closed behind him and the craft hummed into the air, leaving Sophie, Josh and Virginia Dare standing alone in the center of the square. The vimana had barely disappeared over the rooftops when a tomato came sailing over the heads of the crowd and spattered onto the ground at Josh’s feet. A second and a third followed.
    “I’m glad to see Isis and Osiris really command the crowd’s respect,” Josh said.
    “Let’s go,” Virginia called, catching them both by the arms and pulling them back. “It usually starts with fruit . . .”
    A rock clattered off the ground and shattered.
    “. . . but it always ends with stones.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    COLORS.
    Bright, brilliant colors . . .
    Shimmering, dancing threads of iridescence . . .
    Pulsating bands of light . . .
    Nicholas rose over the pier, riding higher and higher on nearly invisible curling waves of air that spun and twisted beneath him. He looked down and saw the huddle of people below and recognized himself in the middle of the group.
    He was flying.
    And the feeling was extraordinary.
    There had been a time when he had taken to the skies almost every day and seen the world through Pedro’s eyes. He had never truly understood the lure of flight until he had soared over the island jungles of the Pacific, the winding, ruinous streets of Rome and Ireland’s patchwork green fields and looked down through Pedro’s huge eyes. Nicholas knew then why Leonardo da Vinci had invested so much time in creating machines that would allow man to fly. Maybe the rumors were true; maybe Leonardo had been immortal and had learned to see the world through a bird’s eyes.
    Although it was late afternoon and the light was fading, the world seen through the parrot’s eyes was alive with vibrating flares and streamers of color. The Embarcadero blazed yellow and gold, sending lines of heat billowing out over the water.
    Nicholas could feel the wind moving over his body, the whispering ripple of feathers flickering against one another. Years of flying with Pedro had taught him not to think, to simply focus on a destination and then allow the parrot’s nature to take over. Below him, the water was cloudy with phosphorescent bubbles, alive with streaks of hot and cold channels.
    Alcatraz was less than a mile from shore, which was no distance for wild parrots, but Flamel knew the bird would not be comfortable flying out over the water. Even the vague thought of land made the conure turn sharply and head back to the Embarcadero’s blaze of lights. The parrot squawked, and the birds on the shore lining the roofs in washes of color screamed in welcome.
    Nicholas visualized the distinctive shape of Alcatraz again and the bird swerved—almost reluctantly—and headed away from land. It rose higher, farther from the salt spray, allowing the Alchemyst to see the island clearly: a long, low, ugly shape topped by the white prison building with the tall finger of the lighthouse jutting into the sky. Behind him and to his right, the Bay Bridge was a ribbon of red and white streaks, while off in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge was a horizontal smudge picked out in shimmering lines of heat and warm air.
    In contrast, Alcatraz was in total darkness, and no heat radiated off the ground.
    As he got closer to the island, the Alchemyst realized that Perenelle had been right. There were no other birds in the air over the shores. The ever-present Western gulls that haunted the island’s rocks, coating them in white, were missing, and as he coasted in closer, he realized that nothing was moving. There were no cormorants or pigeons. But Alcatraz was a bird sanctuary; hundreds of birds nested there every year.
    Nicholas shuddered