Michael Scott - The Alchemyst: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel

[The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Book 01]

By

Michael Scott

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

OK-answer me this: why would anyone want to wear tan 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. Theyre even wearing black gloves and hats. And sunglasses. She pressed her face against the glass. Even for this city, thats just a little too weird.

Maybe theyre 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. Shed been chatting on the phone with her friend when, a few moments earlier, shed 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 theyre 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 theyre just cold, Elle suggested. Doesnt it get cool in San Francisco?

Sophie Newman glanced at the clock and thermometer on the wall over the counter behind her. Its two-fifteen here and eighty-one degrees, she said. Trust me, theyre not cold. They must be dying. Wait, she said, interrupting herself, somethings happening.

The rear door opened and another man, even larger than he 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 cant 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.

Theyre going into the bookshop, she said into her earpiece.

Is Josh still working there? Elle immediately asked.

Sophie ignored the sudden interest in her friends voice. The fact that her best friend liked her twin brother was just a little too weird. Yeah. Im going to call him to see whats up. Ill 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-shed noticed that some authors liked to dress up in peculiar outfits. Shed give him a few minutes to get into the shop, then shed 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 bookstores 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.