The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

asked.
    “I came here to guard our grotesque guests, and then stand watch over Perenelle Flamel. I was promised her memories as my fee.”
    “Did she not escape?” Mars said with a savage grin.
    “She eluded me. When I reach the mainland, I will make it my special duty to seek her out. I am hoping she will still be alive so I can kill her. I am also hoping she has enough of her aura left to resurrect herself, so that I can kill her again.”
    “Better creatures than you have tried to kill her and failed,” Mars said.
    “She is humani. And all humani are weak. She escaped last time because she was lucky.” The sphinx threw back her head and breathed deeply. “I will drain your auras and drink your memories,” she announced. “It will be a banquet indeed.”
    “I’m going to make sure I think my foulest thoughts when you are draining me,” Hel promised. “I’m going to give you indigestion.”
    As the sphinx stepped forward, the three Elders felt a sudden rush of warmth, and then all energy left them. All their minor wounds flared to agony, and more serious wounds reopened.
    Mars stood in front of the other two and attempted to lift his sword, but it was a solid leaden weight. The air filled with the stink of burnt meat, and a shimmering purple-red mist started to steam off his flesh. Behind him, Odin’s gray aura gathered around him, and a bloodred miasma coiled off Hel’s mottled flesh. Ozone mingled with rotting fish and the stench of burnt meat.
    “Smells like a barbecue,” the sphinx purred. “I’ve been on this island for months.” Her nails clicked as she continued toward them. “I came here because I was promised a feast. The memories and aura of the Sorceress were denied me. But you three—you more than make up for that disappointment.”
    Mars fell to his knees, sword clattering across the stones, and Odin collapsed beside him, sprawled on the ground. Only Hel remained on her feet, and that was because she had dug her long nails deep into the wall to hold herself up. She was willing the sphinx to come a few steps closer so she could try to launch herself at the creature. Although the sphinx’s body was that of a lion, the head was a small fragile human being.
    The sphinx stopped and cocked her head to one side. “Do you think you can do it, Elder? Do you think you have the strength to throw yourself at me? I don’t. I think I will take you first.” Delicate nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, and her long black snakelike tongue flickered in the air. “Your defiance will add a certain spice to the meal.”
    Hel tried to lash out with her whip, but she could barely raise it off the ground; she knew she didn’t have the strength to send it cracking through the air.
    “Brave,” the sphinx said. “But foolish, too. You are doomed, Elder. Only a miracle will save you now.”
    “You know,” came a new voice, filling the hallway, “I’ve been called many things in my life. But I’ve never been called a miracle before.”
    The sphinx spun around, hissing.
    Standing alone in the center of the corridor was the American immortal Billy the Kid.
    The sphinx took a step toward Billy. “It seems I was mistaken when I said I would take Hel first. It looks like I’ll be starting with an American first course. An appetizer.” Without warning, her hind legs bunched underneath her and she leapt the length of the corridor, claws extended, mouth gaping.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
    IN A WINDOWLESS chamber, deep beneath the Yggdrasill, Hekate, now an ancient and withered woman, lay down in a long coffinlike network of tree roots and folded her arms across her chest, left hand on right shoulder, right palm on left shoulder. The entire tree shuddered and sighed; then the roots coiled around her, embracing her.
    “Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,” William Shakespeare murmured, “the dear repose for limbs with travel tired.”
    “She is the tree,” Scathach said. “Indivisible from it, inextricable, entwined with it. If one dies, the other goes too.”
    “That will never happen,” Huitzilopochtli said confidently, urging his companions out of the windowless circular sleep chamber. “The Yggdrasill has endured for millennia. It will always survive. And so too will the goddess.”
    Scathach’s pointed teeth bit her lip. Less than a week ago she had watched the Yggdrasill—admittedly a smaller version—fall. She had seen the death of Hekate. But that would not happen for ten thousand