The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

applicable now,” Saint-Germain said to Joan as they waited at the top of the stairs ahead of Shakespeare and Palamedes.
    Joan nodded. “The endgame.”
    “And we have reached it.”
    The stairs opened into the very heart of the tree. On a vast wooden plane an army had gathered, men and women standing in long uneven lines, green light running off metal and armor, giving everything an underwater appearance. The air above was dark with whirling gliders, and somewhere a drummer was beating an irregular tattoo. A bagpipe joined in, the sound lost and lonely.
    Saint-Germain and Joan watched as dozens of vimana were wheeled out of hangars. Most were patched with wood and leather; others were bound together with rope or had leaves over portholes instead of glass. Humans in thick wool and leather flying suits swarmed around the craft, checking them over, while others loaded spears and crates stacked with crystal globes into the holds.
    “I am reminded of the young men who flew over the battlefields of Europe in the First World War in wood and fabric planes,” Joan said quietly. “How many survived?”
    “Very few,” Saint-Germain said.
    “And how many of these will return?” she asked.
    Saint-Germain looked at the ancient vimana with their patchwork of repairs. “None.”
    The tiny French immortal breathed deeply. “I seem to have spent most of my long life on battlefields watching young men and women die.”
    “And you spent as many years as a nurse saving lives,” Saint-Germain reminded her.
    “After the last war, I swore I would never end up on a battlefield again,” she said.
    “We do not always get what we want. Sometimes life presents us with surprises.”
    “Well, this adventure certainly counts as a surprise.” She smiled. “And while I really do love surprises, I’m not sure I’m loving this. But here we are, and here we will do what we must do.”
    “You know,” Saint-Germain said, looking around, “I think I’m getting an idea for a new album.” His hands moved through the air, tapping time with the drum and bagpipe. “It’s going to be a big concept album, with an orchestra and choir. . . .” He started to whistle.
    Joan held up her hand, silencing him. “Why don’t you just surprise me.” A sudden thought struck her and she turned back to her husband. “Do you have a title for this album?”
    “Armageddon!”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
    THE GROUND FLOOR of the Alcatraz Powerhouse pulsed with a dull gray glow.
    Moving cautiously through the ever-thickening fog, Nicholas and Perenelle crept toward the light. The Alchemyst’s right hand trailed against a metal railing. Beyond the railing, they could hear—but not see—the sea lapping against the shore.
    Perenelle breathed deeply. Above the salt and rotten-meat stink of the fog, she caught the hint of another smell: the dry musty odor of wet feathers. She placed her mouth close to Nicholas’s ear and whispered. “I think I know what is going on here.”
    “So do I,” he said, surprising her. Then he hissed in pain as his toe smacked into a piece of broken masonry. This section of the island was in a state of disrepair. The salt erosion and the weather were gradually reclaiming Alcatraz, slowly wiping away signs of man.
    They could just about make out the steeply slanting roof of the Quartermaster Warehouse and the Powerhouse. Behind them was a tall chimney stack. And docked alongside the Powerhouse was the vague outline of a battered and rusty tourist boat, similar to the type that had brought tourists to the island before Dee’s company bought it and closed it down. Most of the boat was concealed behind the Powerhouse and the shifting fog, but they caught a glimpse of a series of lights stretching from the back of the ruined building out to the boat.
    “Tell me,” Perenelle whispered.
    “Think about the monsters you saw in the cells. . . .”
    He felt her hair brush his face as she nodded.
    “And you said that some cells held more than one type of creature.”
    The Sorceress nodded again. “Some held two or three.”
    “But these are small cells, Perenelle. Five feet by nine feet . . .”
    “The bigger monsters,” she said immediately. “Of course! There were no big creatures in the cellblocks.” She turned to look at the vague shapes of the two buildings. “I did see a minotaur, but it was relatively small—a baby. The sphinx was the biggest creature there, and she was walking free.”
    “It makes sense that