The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

caught, one eye open, the other shut in a permanent wink.
    Without turning around, Nicholas continued. “There must have been a plan in place to get the creatures ashore.”
    “The only way on or off the island is by boat,” Perenelle said. “Perhaps the plan changed, or events moved too quickly for him to adjust to the new timescale. Remember, originally the Dark Elders were not due to come back to the Earth Shadowrealm until Litha. That’s still two weeks away.”
    “Dee would have had contingency plans. He must have spent months getting the creatures here. But how? There are no ley lines on the island.”
    Perenelle nodded. “And neither of us felt any tremendous use of power. It had to be by boat.”
    “Which, as you said, is the only way off the island.” Nicholas thought for a moment. “He sent the Lotan ashore to rampage through the streets. While that had everyone’s attention, I’ll wager a boatload of creatures was scheduled to come over from Alcatraz and join in the fun.”
    “And with Dee gone, that leaves the Feathered Serpent in charge?”
    “Or Bastet,” Flamel suggested. “We know Dee’s worked with both.”
    “I would imagine Dee worked with Quetzalcoatl. The Feathered Serpent lives here—well, close, at least,” Perenelle said. “And remember—when I was trapped on the island, Areop-Enap was attacked by flies. Quetzalcoatl must have sent them.”
    “So Quetzalcoatl is sending a boat,” Nicholas began, “but we haven’t seen anything at sea. Nothing passed us.”
    “There is one other alternative,” Perenelle interjected
    Nicholas looked at her and then slowly nodded. “Unless it is already here,” he breathed.
    “But where could it be?” Perenelle asked, suddenly alarmed. “There cannot be that many places to land on Alcatraz.”
    Catching his wife’s hand in his, Nicholas pulled Perenelle over to a stand before the bookshop showing a map of the island. The laminated surface was speckled with dew, and he ran his hands across it. A simplified map depicted the island, with all the buildings picked out in gray, then numbered in red. Above the graphic, in alternating strips of red and black, the numbers were explained.
    “We are here at the wharf,” he said, touching the bottom right of the map. There was a number two alongside a red circle that read YOU ARE HERE .
    Perenelle traced her finger up along the shore, past the guard tower and the guardhouse and the electric shop. “What’s number six?” she asked. “It looks like a substantial building.”
    Nicholas checked the number. “Six is the North Road. It says
Prison Industries
.”
    “Look at the Quartermaster Warehouse,” she said. “It’s big, close to the water, alongside the Powerhouse. You could bring a boat right up to the island, and in this fog no one would be the wiser.”
    “How far away is it?”
    “Nicholas, this is Alcatraz. It’s ten minutes away.”
    “In this fog?” he asked dubiously.
    “You’re right.” She rolled her eyes. “It might take us fifteen.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
    THROUGH THE ENVELOPING fog, the sound of clanging metal rang across the Golden Gate Bridge. Niten folded into a sitting position in the center of the bridge. He could feel the commotion vibrating up through the ground. He smiled at the sudden image of Prometheus tossing cars from one side of the bridge to the other to build his barrier. He heard the tiny tinkle of glass and wondered if being tossed across the Golden Gate Bridge by an Elder was covered by insurance.
    The small Japanese immortal sat cross-legged, his two swords resting flat on the ground before him. He folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, forcing the chill night air deep into his chest. He held it for a count of five, then shaped his lips into an O and blew it out again, puncturing a tiny hole in the swirling fog before his face.
    Even though he would never admit it to anyone, Niten loved this moment. He had no affection for what was to come, but this brief time, when all preparations for battle were made and there was nothing left to do but wait, when the entire world felt still, as if it was holding its breath, was special. This moment, when he was facing death, was when he felt completely, fully alive.
    He’d still been called Miyamoto Musashi and had been a teenager when he’d first discovered the genuine beauty of the quiet moment before a fight. Every breath suddenly tasted like the finest food,