The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

His eyes flickered toward the remains of the hog.
    “That could just as easily be you,” Machiavelli said.
    “You really like telling me all this stuff, don’t you?”
    “It’s educational.”
    “Okay then, mister educator, master strategist. Tell me how we’re going to get off this island.”
    Machiavelli started to shake his head once again, when abruptly the fog shifted and swirled between the two men as if blown by a strong wind. But there was no breeze in the prison yard. Water droplets hung suspended in the air. They coalesced, running together to form larger beads of moisture.
    And suddenly the outline of a head formed in midair.
    A face appeared: it was long and narrow and had once been handsome. There were two holes where the eyes should have been, another in place of the mouth. Then the fog thickened and the water droplets turned white and became hair, and the face took on form and substance. The hint of clothing appeared: a loose white linen shirt tucked into knee-length trousers. The legs disappeared just below the knee, and there were no visible feet.
    “Ghost . . .,” Billy squeaked.
    The ghost’s mouth moved, opening and closing, and then the voice became audible. It was a thread, a series of bursting bubbles of water splashes. “
I am Juan Manuel de Ayala. I discovered Alcatraz
.”
    “An honor to meet you.” Machiavelli bowed and tapped Billy with his foot.
    Billy nodded quickly. “An honor. Sure.”
    “
You fight with the Sorceress, Perenelle Flamel
?” the ghost asked.
    “We fight the same enemy,” Machiavelli said carefully.
    “
Then we have a common cause
,” the ghost said. “
Follow me
.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    PROMETHEUS RAISED a metal-gloved hand. “Hang on. We’re just about to reach the zenith of our glide.”
    The crippled Rukma vimana hung suspended in the air for a single moment. There was a sudden lurch. Simultaneously, all the darkened screens cracked and shattered, metal floor plates shivered loose, screws and bolts ricocheting off the walls, and a tiny fire began in the controls under Prometheus’s feet. He stamped it out.
    “And now we fall.”
    The Rukma vimana plunged downward. William Shakespeare turned a surprisingly high-pitched scream into a cough.
    The dark-skinned Saracen Knight reached out to pat his arm. “I am sure that the man who wrote so much about death must have thought about it a lot. You’ve written about dying, Will,” Palamedes said.
    “Lots,” Shakespeare said, his voice a little uneven. “But not so much about falling, tumbling and crashing in a ball of fire.”
    “I doubt there’ll be fire,” Prometheus said.
    “That’s comforting. So just the falling, tumbling and crashing bit.”
    Joan of Arc leaned forward. “I have always liked your line
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
. . . Very poetic. It’s a very French sentiment. I’m surprised it was written by an Englishman,” she added with a little smile.
    “Hamlet,”
Will said, smiling weakly. “One of my favorites.”
    Palamedes grinned, teeth white against his dark face. “But what about:
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death, and death will have his day
.”
    “From
Richard II
,” Shakespeare said. “Trust you to think of that one. A great line, even if I did write it myself.”
    Saint-Germain crossed his legs. “I must admit I have always been partial to
King John
:
Death, death; O amiable, lovely death! . . . Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest
.” He glanced over at his wife. “Another very French sentiment, don’t you think?”
    “Very. Will, you must have French blood in you somewhere,” she insisted.
    The Bard folded his hands in his lap and nodded affably. Like most writers, he loved talking about his work, and he’d perked up noticeably at the subject. “Well, I did live with a family of French Huguenots in Cripplegate in London for a while.”
    “A French influence. I knew it!” Joan said, clapping her hands.
    “Have you all quite finished with the death quotes?” Scathach snapped.
    “Oh, I’ve got more,” Shakespeare offered.
    “Enough already!” Scathach closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She’d once been told she was going to die in an exotic location, and she guessed it didn’t get much more exotic than in a vimana above the legendary isle of Danu Talis.
    Dying did not frighten her—she’d spent her entire life as a warrior. There was always the expectation of death, and over the