Nicholas Flamel 1 - The Alchemyst
( Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - 1 )
Michael Scott
He holds the secret that can end the world.
The truth: Nicholas Flamel was born in Paris on September 28, 1330. Nearly 700 years later, he is acknowledged as the greatest Alchemyst of his day. It is said that he discovered the secret of eternal life.
The records show that he died in 1418.
But his tomb is empty.
The legend: Nicholas Flamel lives. But only because he has been making the elixir of life for centuries. The secret of eternal life is hidden within the book he protects--the Book of Abraham the Mage. It's the most powerful book that has ever existed. In the wrong hands, it will destroy the world. That's exactly what Dr. John Dee plans to do when he steals it. Humankind won't know what's happening until it's too late. And if the prophecy is right, Sophie and Josh Newman are the only ones with the power to save the world as we know it.
Sometimes legends are true.
And Sophie and Josh Newman are about to find themselves in the middle of the greatest legend of all time.
For Claudette, of course
iamque opus exegi
I am legend.
Death has no claim over me, illness cannot touch me. Look at me now and it
would be hard to put an age upon me, and yet I was born in the Year of Our
Lord 1330, more than six hundred and seventy years ago.
I have been many things in my time: a physician and a cook, a bookseller and
a soldier, a teacher of languages and chemistry, both an officer of the law
and a thief.
But before all these I was an alchemyst. I was the Alchemyst.
I was acknowledged as the greatest Alchemyst of all, sought after by kings
and princes, by emperors and even the Pope himself. I could turn ordinary
metal into gold, I could change common stones into precious jewels. More than
this: I discovered the secret of Life Eternal hidden deep in a book of
ancient magic.
Now my wife, Perenelle, has been kidnapped and the book stolen.
Without the book, she and I will age. Within the full cycle of the moon, we
will wither and die. And if we die, then the evil we have so long fought
against will triumph. The Elder Race will reclaim this Earth again, and they
will wipe humanity from the face of this planet.
But I will not go down without a fight.
For I am the immortal Nicholas Flamel.
From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst
Writ this day, Thursday, 31st May, in
San Francisco, my adopted city
THURSDAY,
31st May
CHAPTER ONE
OK answer me this: why would anyone want to wear an overcoat in San
Francisco in the middle of summer? Sophie Newman pressed her fingers against
the Bluetooth earpiece as she spoke.
On the other side of the continent, her fashion-conscious friend Elle
inquired matter-of-factly, What sort of coat?
Wiping her hands on the cloth tucked into her apron strings, Sophie moved out
from behind the counter of the empty coffee shop and stepped up to the
window, watching men emerge from the car across the street. Heavy black wool
overcoats. They re even wearing black gloves and hats. And sunglasses. She
pressed her face against the glass. Even for this city, That'sjust a little
too weird.
Maybe they re undertakers? Elle suggested, her voice popping and clicking
on the cell phone. Sophie could hear something loud and dismal playing in the
background Lacrimosa maybe, or Amorphis. Elle had never quite got over her
Goth phase.
Maybe, Sophie answered, sounding unconvinced. She d been chatting on the
phone with her friend when, a few moments earlier, she d spotted the
unusual-looking car. It was long and sleek and looked as if it belonged in an
old black-and-white movie. As it drove past the window, sunlight reflected
off the blacked-out windows, briefly illuminating the interior of the coffee
shop in warm yellow-gold light, blinding Sophie. Blinking away the black
spots dancing before her eyes, she watched as the car turned at the bottom of
the hill and slowly returned. Without signaling, it pulled over directly in
front of The Small Book Shop, right across the street.
Maybe they re Mafia, Elle suggested dramatically. My dad knows someone in
the Mafia. But he drives a Prius, she added.
This is most definitely not a Prius, Sophie said, looking again at the car
and the two large men standing on the street bundled up in their heavy
overcoats, gloves and hats, their eyes hidden behind overlarge sunglasses.
Maybe they re just cold, Elle suggested. doesn't it get cool in San
Francisco?
Sophie Newman glanced at the clock and thermometer on the wall over the
counter behind her. It s two-fifteen here and eighty-one degrees, she said.
Trust me, they re not cold. They must be dying. Wait, she said,
interrupting herself, something s happening.
The rear door opened and another man, even larger than the first two, climbed
stiffly out of the car. As he closed the door, sunlight briefly touched his
face and Sophie caught a glimpse of pale, unhealthy-looking gray-white skin.
She adjusted the volume on the earpiece. OK. You should see what just
climbed out of the car. A huge guy with gray skin. Gray. That might explain
it; maybe they have some type of skin condition.
I saw a National Geographic documentary about people who Can't go out in the
sun , Elle began, but Sophie was no longer listening to her.
A fourth figure stepped out of the car.
He was a small, rather dapper-looking man, dressed in a neat charcoal-gray
three-piece suit that looked vaguely old-fashioned but that she could tell
had been tailor-made for him. His iron gray hair was pulled back from an
angular face into a tight ponytail, while a neat triangular beard, mostly
black but flecked with gray, concealed his mouth and chin. He moved away from
the car and stepped under the striped awning that covered the trays of books
outside the shop. When he picked up a brightly colored paperback and turned
it over in his hands, Sophie noticed that he was wearing gray gloves. A pearl
button at the wrist winked in the light.
They re going into the bookshop, she said into her earpiece.
Is Josh still working there? Elle immediately asked.
Sophie ignored the sudden interest in her friend s voice. The fact that her
best friend liked her twin brother was just a little too weird. Yeah. I m
going to call him to see what s up. I'll call you right back. She hung up,
pulled out the earpiece and absently rubbed her hot ear as she stared,
fascinated, at the small man. There was something about him something odd.
Maybe he was a fashion designer, she thought, or a movie producer, or maybe
he was an author she d noticed that some authors liked to dress up in
peculiar outfits. She d give him a few minutes to get into the shop, then
she d call her twin for
a report.
Sophie was about to turn away when the gray man suddenly spun around and
seemed to stare directly at her. As he stood under the awning, his face was
in shadow, and yet for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked as if they
were glowing.
Sophie knew just knew that there was no possible way for the small gray man
to see her: she was standing on the opposite side of the street behind a pane
of glass that was bright with reflected early-afternoon sunlight. She would
be invisible in the gloom behind the glass.
And yet
And yet in that single moment when their eyes met, Sophie felt the tiny hairs
on the back of her hands and along her forearms tingle and felt a puff of
cold air touch the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders, turning her
head slightly from side to side, strands of her long blond hair curling
across her cheek. The contact lasted only a second before the small man
looked away, but Sophie got the impression that he had looked directly at
her.
In the instant before the gray man and his three overdressed companions
disappeared into the bookshop, Sophie decided that she did not like him.
Peppermint.
And rotten eggs.
That is just vile. Josh Newman stood in the center of the bookstore s
cellar and breathed deeply. Where were those smells coming from? He looked
around at the shelves stacked high with books and wondered if something had
crawled in behind them and died. What else would account for such a foul
stink? The tiny cramped cellar always smelled dry and musty, the air heavy
with the odors of parched curling paper, mingled with the richer aroma of old
leather bindings and dusty cobwebs. He loved the smell; he always thought it
was warm and comforting, like the scents of cinnamon and spices that he
associated with Christmas.
Peppermint.
Sharp and clean, the smell cut through the close cellar atmosphere. It was
the odor of new toothpaste or those herbal teas his sister served in the
coffee shop across the street. It sliced though the heavier smells of leather
and paper, and was so strong that it made his sinuses tingle; he felt as if
he was going to sneeze at any moment. He quickly pulled out his iPod earbuds.
Sneezing with headphones on was not a good idea: made your ears pop.
Eggs.
Foul and stinking he recognized the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs. It
blanketed the clear odor of mint and it was disgusting. He could feel the
stench coating his tongue and lips, and his scalp began to itch as if
something were crawling through it. Josh ran his fingers through his shaggy
blond hair and shuddered. The drains must be backing up.
Leaving the earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he checked the book list in
his hand, then looked at the shelves again: The Complete Works of Charles
Dickens, twenty-seven volumes, red leather binding. Now where was he going to
find that?
Josh had been working in the bookshop for nearly two months and still didn't
have the faintest idea where anything was. There was no filing system or
rather, there was a system, but it was known only to Nick and Perry Fleming,
the owners of The Small Book Shop. Nick or his wife could put their hands on
any book in either the shop upstairs or the cellar in a matter of minutes.
A wave of peppermint, immediately followed by rotten eggs, filled the air
again; Josh coughed and felt his eyes water. This was impossible! Stuffing
the book list into one pocket of his jeans and the headphones into the other,
he maneuvered his way through the piled books and stacks of boxes, heading
for the stairs. He couldn t spend another minute down there with the smell.
He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, which were now stinging
furiously. Grabbing the stair rail, he pulled himself up. He needed a breath
of fresh air or he was going to throw up but, strangely, the closer he came
to the top of the stairs, the stronger the odors became.
He popped his head out of the cellar door and looked around.
And in that instant, Josh Newman realized that the world would never be the
same again.
CHAPTER TWO
J osh peered over the edge of the cellar, eyes watering with the stink of
sulfur and mint. His first impression was that the usually quiet shop was
crowded: four men facing Nick Fleming, the owner, three of them huge and
hulking, one smaller and sinister-looking. Josh immediately guessed that the
shop was being robbed.
His boss, Nick Fleming, stood in the middle of the bookshop, facing the
others. He was a rather ordinary-looking man. Average height and build, with
no real distinguishing features, except for his eyes, which were so pale that
they were almost completely colorless. His black hair was cropped close to
his skull and he always seemed to have stubble on his chin, as if he hadn't
shaved for a couple of days. He was dressed as usual in simple black jeans, a
loose black T-shirt advertising a concert that had taken place twenty-five
years earlier and a pair of battered cowboy boots. There was a cheap digital
watch on his left wrist and a heavy silver-link bracelet on his right,
alongside two tatty multicolored friendship bracelets.
Facing him was a small gray man in a smart suit.
Josh realized that they were not speaking and yet something was going on
between them. Both men were standing still, their arms close to their bodies,
elbows tucked in, open palms turned upward. Nick was in the center of the
shop, while the gray man was standing close to the door, his three
black-coated companions around him. Strangely, both men s fingers were
moving, twitching, dancing, as if they were typing furiously, thumb brushing
against forefinger, little finger touching thumb, index and little finger
extended. Tendrils and wisps of green mist gathered in Fleming s palms, then
curled in ornate patterns and drifted onto the floor, where they writhed like
serpents. Foul, yellow-tinged smoke coiled and dripped from the gray man s
gloved hands, spattering onto the wooden floor like dirty liquid.
The stench rolled off the smoke, thickening the atmosphere with the scent of
peppermint and sulfur. Josh felt his stomach twist and lurch and he swallowed
hard; the rotten-egg smell was enough to make him gag.
The air between the two men shimmered with tendrils of green and yellow
smoke, and where they touched, sparks hissed and sizzled. Fleming s fingers
moved, and a long fist-thick coil of green smoke appeared in the palm of his
hand. He blew on it, a quick hissing breath, and it spun up into the air,
twisting and untwisting at head height between the two men. The gray man s
short, stubby fingers tapped out their own rhythm and a yellow ball of energy
spun from his hands and bobbed away. It touched the coil of green smoke,
which immediately wrapped around the ball. There was a sparking snap and the
invisible explosion blew both men backward across the room, sending them
crashing across the tables of books. Lightbulbs popped and fluorescents
shattered, raining powdery glass onto the floor. Two of the windows exploded
ou
tward, while another dozen of the small square panes shattered and
spiderwebbed.
Nick Fleming tumbled to the floor, close to the opening to the cellar, almost
landing on top of Josh, who was standing frozen on the steps, wide-eyed with
shock and horror. As Nick clambered to his feet, he pushed Josh back down the
stairs. Stay down, whatever happens, stay down, he hissed, his English
touched with an indefinable accent. He straightened as he turned and Josh saw
him turn his right palm upward, bring it close to his face and blow into it.
Then he made a throwing motion toward the center of the room, as if he were
lobbing a ball.
Josh craned his neck to follow the movement. But there was nothing to see and
then it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Books were
suddenly ripped from the nearby shelves, drawn into an untidy heap in the
center of the floor; framed prints were dragged from the walls; a heavy
woolen rug curled upward and was sucked into the center of the room.
Then the heap exploded.
Two of the big men in black overcoats caught the full force of the explosion.
Josh watched as books, some heavy and hard, others soft and sharp, flew
around them like angry birds. He winced in sympathy as one man took the full
force of a dictionary in the face. It knocked away his hat and
sunglasses revealing dead-looking, muddy, gray skin and eyes like polished
black stones. A shelf of romance novels battered against his companion s
face, snapping the cheap sunglasses in two. Josh discovered that he, too, had
eyes that looked like stones.
And he suddenly realized that they were stones.
He was turning to Nick Fleming, a question forming on his lips, when his boss
glanced at him. Stay down, he commanded. He s brought Golems. Fleming
ducked as the gray man sent three long spearlike blades of yellow energy
across the room. They sliced through bookshelves and stabbed into the wooden
floor. Everything they touched immediately started to rot and putrefy.
Leather bindings snapped and cracked, paper blackened, wooden floorboards and