The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

were scattered about. They sat alongside carriages and wagons, none of which were pulled by horses. The area swarmed with dog-, jackal-, bull- and pig-headed warriors, all dressed in full armor. There were a few cat warriors, but they kept apart from the others—especially the dog soldiers.
    “They’re expecting trouble,” Sophie said.
    “Oh, it’s purely ceremonial,” Isis said quickly. “This is a rare occasion: I don’t remember the last time all the Elders gathered in council.” She swiveled in her chair again, and Josh was suddenly reminded of endless summer road trips across America, with his father driving and his mother turning to give them instructions or point out some local landmark, or more often just to separate a fight. “This is probably the last time we’re going to see all the Elders of Danu Talis gathered in one place. The Change has taken many of them and made them . . .” She paused, hunting for the word.
    “Hideous,” Sophie said.
    “Hideous,” Isis agreed.
    “But you haven’t Changed,” Josh said. “Have you?”
    “No, we haven’t,” Isis said with a tight-lipped smile.
    “Though not all changes are external,” Sophie murmured.
    The craft dropped alarmingly, then rocked to a gentle halt on the square before the towering pyramid. Anpu in black and red ceramic armor fell into a formation of two lines outside the craft. “Now, just say nothing and do as you’re told,” Isis said firmly.
    Josh dipped his head to hide a smile. It was just like a Sunday road trip.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
    NITEN STOOD OVER the fallen Prometheus.
    More spears appeared out of the fog, but the Japanese immortal was fast, and he had trained against swords and arrows in his youth, learning to chop them out of the air. It was a useful skill for a warrior, and in his youth he’d done it blindfolded, listening to the faint keen as the blade came nearer. He used the same trick now, standing with his head bent, his left side—his good ear—turned to the fog. He could hear the faintest whistle of the spearhead, the hiss of parting air, even the slight creaking as the wooden spear shaft flexed. The hardest part was knowing when to move. Too soon and he’d miss the spear, too late and the blade would have already struck him.
    Two spears, each sounding slightly different, curled out of the fog.
    Niten relaxed, eyes half closed, tracing the path of the spears by sound. Then he moved. The Spartoi club in his left hand knocked one spear aside; the wakizashi in his right sliced the second in two. The ground before him was littered with broken and shattered lengths of wood.
    Niten caught glimpses of Spartoi as vague shapes in the gloom, but none approached. He hoped they hadn’t managed to find a way around the barrier of cars, but he knew he couldn’t move from his present position to investigate.
    Long and bitter experience had taught the Swordsman to focus exclusively on the battle. A moment’s distraction could prove fatal. A warrior needed to be single-minded. He wasted no time thinking about the Flamels, wondering how they were faring: they were beyond his help.
    A trio of barbed spears whistled out of the night, trailing tendrils of fog like smoke. He smashed one aside and sliced the other in two, but the third caught him high on the left shoulder, piercing his flesh and numbing his entire arm. The club fell from his fingers and rattled to the ground.
    Niten grimaced in pain and then allowed a little of his royal blue aura to wrap around his arm, sealing the wound. But he could feel himself age as he healed, could feel the heaviness in his legs, the tightness in his lungs, and he knew it would take time for feeling to return to his arm. He would have to finish this battle one-handed.
    Still facing out into the night, he crouched beside Prometheus and put a finger on the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none, but he felt the Elder stir under him. “You’re alive,” Niten said, relieved.
    “Did you think I was sleeping?” Prometheus grumbled. He dug his heels in and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Takes more than a little spear to kill me.”
    “For the record: it was two spears, and they were not little. How do you feel?”
    “Like I’ve just been stabbed by two spears.” The front of Prometheus’s armor had been staved in, marred by two holes. He pressed both hands to his chest and his entire body glowed red. The smell of anise briefly covered the odors of