“Oh…I did not know that.” Nicholas shook his head slightly. “I bought it from a nobleman from an excellent family—a duke. He said the book had been personally given to his ancestor by de Troyes and handed down through his family for generations. I paid far too much for it,” he muttered.

  “And besides,” the stranger added, in peculiarly accented French, “I have everything Chrétien de Troyes wrote. Including some works he personally inscribed to me.”

  “Personally inscribed?” Flamel muttered disbelievingly. “This is the same Chrétien de Troyes who died over one hundred and fifty years ago?”

  “One hundred and sixty-four,” the blond haired man said. “And yes, the same Chrétien de Troyes, author of Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart and, of course, the unfinished Perceval, the Story of the Grail.”

  “With the greatest respect,” Flamel said carefully, “you do not look that old.”

  “And how old do I look?”

  “At first glance…eighteen?” Nicholas suggested.

  “And at second glance?”

  “There is something about your eyes, the way you carry yourself, that suggests you are older.”

  “How much older?”

  “Five and twenty summers, perhaps?”

  “Oh, I am a lot older than I look,” the stranger said enigmatically. “Older than you can imagine.”

  Flamel moved around the room, maneuvering to place the table between himself and the stranger. The hooded man might be telling the truth, or…

  “You are frightened of me?” the man asked.

  “Cautious,” Flamel admitted. “You come here late at night and tell me that you knew a writer who died over one hundred and fifty years ago—”

  “One hundred and sixty-four.”

  “—and that you are older than I can imagine.”

  “Much older.”

  “So if you are lying to me, then I have to wonder why. Are you an agent of the crown, or the church? Or perhaps you’ve been sent by one of my rivals to discredit me.”

  “I am none of those,” the man said. “But tell me, Nicholas Flamel: what if I am telling the truth? What if I am indeed an Ancient of Days?”

  Flamel licked dry lips with a tongue that suddenly felt far too big for his mouth. “Then that would make you a remarkable man.” In his research into alchemy, he’d read stories of men and women who lived far beyond their allotted span of years, of ancient kings who had ruled for centuries and mysterious wanderers doomed to roam the earth for eternity.

  The door opened and Perenelle appeared. She was carrying a small woven tray, holding a bottle and three wooden goblets. Without saying a word, she arranged the three goblets on the table and poured a clear, faintly scented liquid into each.

  “Boiled water. With lemons from the Côte d’Azur. Sit. Drink.”

  Nicholas folded his arms, allowing his right hand to rest on the hilt of the small knife tucked in his belt. “This gentleman claims to be over one hundred years old.”

  The blond man pulled out one of the carved wooden chairs and sank into it. “I never claimed to be over one hundred years,” he said mildly. “I claimed to be much older than that.” Then, shaking loose his cloak, he raised his left arm and rested it on the table. Although Perenelle’s face remained unmoving, Nicholas gasped. A wickedly curved metal hook took the place of the man’s left hand. The flickering candlelight shimmered wetly on the metal, highlighting arcane symbols etched into it.

  Perenelle folded her arms and looked into his blue eyes. “When I was a child, I was taken to see a hooded man who told me a little of my future.” She frowned, chasing the childhood memory. “I believe he had a hook similar to yours.”

  The blond-haired young man sipped the lemon water and did not answer.

  Perenelle’s long, elegant finger traced the outline of the man’s face and the curl of the hook in the air. “I seem to remember that the man I was met was older. You perhaps, but with age written more deeply upon your face. I remember the hook, though.” Even as she was speaking, the symbols cut into the metal winked with reflected light. “The hook was identical.”

  “I have no memory of meeting you, Mistress Perenelle.” He raised his left arm, the hood reflecting rainbowing light around the room. “But that is not to say you are mistaken. This hook is unique. Perhaps that event, which lies in your past, awaits me in my future.”

  “I grew up in Quimper with stories of the groagez.”

  “I am not one of the fairy folk.” He smiled. “Too tall.”

  “But we all know that the world is filled with mysteries and wonders,” she said, eyes fixed on the hook, “and that at the heart of every myth there is a grain of truth.” She looked into the young man’s bright blue eyes. “Are you human?” she asked sharply.

  Nicholas turned to his wife, startled. “You think this is a demon?” He looked the stranger up and down. “He doesn’t look like a demon.”

  The young man smiled. “And when was the last time you saw a demon, Nicholas Flamel?”

  “Never. Though I have seen the gargoyles carved onto the new cathedral. They look like demons.”

  “They look nothing like real demons,” the hooded man said.

  “You say that as if you’ve seen the monsters,” Perenelle said carefully.

  “Many times. They are not always ugly. The most dangerous ones are handsome indeed.”

  Perenelle pulled out a chair and sat opposite the hook-handed man, staring intently at him. Was this the man she’d met as a child? But even as she grasped the memory, it fragmented and slid away until she was unsure if it was a real memory or a dream. She moved her goblet around in her hand, releasing the sharp lemon scent, breathing it in, trying to clear her head. “You know who we are, sir; you know our names, but we have no idea who you are.”

  “I have many names,” the hooded man said, “but you may call me Fearnua.”

  “Far-new-a,” Nicholas said, rolling the name around in his mouth. “An odd name; German? Russian, perhaps?”

  “It reminds me a little of the Breton I spoke in my youth,” Perenelle said.

  Fearnua nodded. “It has Celtic roots.” He looked up at Nicholas, who was standing behind his wife. “Are you going to continue lurking there with your hand on your knife, or will you sit?”

  “Sit, Nicholas,” Perenelle said quietly. “I believe if this gentleman wishes us ill, there is little we can do to prevent it.”

  “You are wise, Mistress Flamel.” The cloaked man moved his left arm and the hook sent shivering crescent reflections around the room. “I wish you no harm.” He suddenly raised his head and closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared. “But we must hurry.”

  Even as he was speaking, Nicholas and Perenelle felt the subtle change in the atmosphere. The temperature had dipped, and a faint odor, something sickly sweet, like rotting meat, tainted the flower-scented air.

  “Something’s coming,” Perenelle said quietly. Her thin nostrils flared. “Something wicked.”

  “You are being pursued?” Nicholas said to the blond man.

  “I may have picked up a tail on my journey.”

  “And you’ve led them here?” the alchemyst snapped.

  “They are not here yet…and when they arrive I will not be here. Nor will you.”

  “We’re going nowhere,” Nicholas said defiantly.

  “Who are you?” Perenelle pressed. “I asked you before. I will not ask again.”

  “I am…a traveler,” Fearnua said carefully. “And a collector.” As he was speaking, he reached under his cloak with his right hand to produce a slender rectangular package wrapped in thick oiled leather, secured by a thin knotted strap. “My travels bring me into contact with many strange and interesting objects.” He pushed the package into the center of the table, then placed the metal hook on its oiled leather. Suddenly the symbols etched into the metal began to glow. A rainbow slick of iridescent light ran down the hook, and it steamed a warm amber mist. The small room was suffused with the scent of oranges. “And when I come across something particularly interesting, I like to make sure it finds a good home,” the man finished.

  Nicholas and Perenelle stared at the leather wrapped object beneath the glowing hook. “It looks like it might be a book,” Nicholas said.

  “And how did you deduce that?” the man asked.

  “The size, the shape, and the fact that when I first saw you, you were examining my library.”

  “It is a book,” Fearnua said, slipping the edge of his hook under the leather strap and easing it open.

  “Not an ordinary book,” Perenelle said.

  “Far from it.”

  “It is dangerous?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Fearnua said simply. “This is the most dangerous book in the world.”

  “And you want to sell it to us?” Nicholas said.

  “No. I want to give it to you.”

  Nicholas leaned forward to examine the parcel, but Perenelle sat back, pushing away from the table. She laid a hand on her husband’s arm, stopping him. “Everything has a cost,” she said quietly. “Even gifts.”

  Fearnua nodded again. “Especially gifts.”

  “And what will this gift cost us?” she asked.

  Fearnua shrugged. “Everything.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a gift, does it?” Nicholas said.

  Perenelle smiled. “I think the better question is: What will this book bring us?”

  “Everything,” Fearnua repeated.

  “A book of riddles,” Flamel said.

  The hooded man shook his head. “A book of answers.”

  Nicholas and Perenelle stared at the leather-wrapped book. For a single moment, Nicholas imagined he saw the leather pulse, beating like a heart.

  “You now have a decision to make,” Fearnua continued. “If you accept this gift, then I will open this binding. Unfortunately, that will release a wash of power that will alert my pursuers to my location. Refuse this gift, and I will not open the book but will be on my way. Your lives will continue as they were, undisturbed and unremarkable.”

  “And the book?” Nicholas asked.

  “I will not leave the book behind. You would not survive the night.”

  “This is a rare tome?”

  “There is nothing like this in any of the known worlds. It is unique in ways that you cannot even imagine.”

  “It is a grimoire,” Nicholas said. “A spell book.”

  “There are spells within in its pages,” Fearnua said carefully, “but this is not a witch’s grimoire.” He tapped the leather with his hook again, and the room blossomed with the acidic tang of oranges. “All human and inhuman knowledge lies within. The known and unknown history of this and the many Shadowrealms is writ upon these pages.”

  “Shadowrealms?” Nicholas asked.

  “This world does not exist in isolation. It is linked to countless others: the secret places, the veiled worlds. The myths and legends of every race tell of hidden lands, lost islands, secret valleys, fairy mounds filled with all manner of wonders.”

  Perenelle nodded. “Only recently a traveler from Saxony told us a story of a piper who lured all the children in the town into a magical cave. None of the children were ever seen again.” She saw something shift behind Fearnua’s eyes. “That’s wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No,” he said. “I regret not being there to save the children. Yes, they were lured into a cave that was the entrance to a Shadowrealm. One day I will find them or, at the very least, avenge them.” He tapped the book again. “Shadowrealm lore from a hundred worlds and countless times is contained in these pages.”

  “It seems very slender to contain such a vast wealth of knowledge,” Perenelle said carefully.

  “The text is ever changing,” the man explained. “It moves, shifts, and rearranges itself according to the rotation of the planets, the cycles of the moon, and the wishes and needs of the reader. Ask it a question, and it will answer.”

  Nicholas pulled in a deep breath. “It must be old.”

  “Older than the pyramids, older than Babylon or Thebes. Think of the oldest civilization you know, and then add ten thousand years and more. And even then you will still not have come close to the age of this book.”

  “But if it is that old, then we will not be able to decipher the script,” Nicholas said. He waved vaguely toward his shelf of books. “My Latin is good, but the older Greek sometimes defeats me.”

  Fearnua’s lips curled in a smile. He tapped the leather parcel with his hook. “The text will rearrange itself into the language you are most comfortable with.” Suddenly, the candle on the table flickered and danced in an unfelt breeze. “Quickly now. Make your decision.”

  “I need to talk to Perenelle about this,” Nicholas said, glancing at his wife.

  The hooded man nodded. “Let me step outside for a moment, then. But before I do that,” he added, “you should know that the two great secrets of alchemy, how to turn base metal into gold and how to become immortal, are contained in this book.” He nodded to Nicholas and bowed more deeply to Perenelle; then he stepped outside and pulled the door closed. The moment he left, the light from the flickering candle bloomed a little brighter.

  Nicholas and Perenelle stood and, almost unconsciously, began to circle the small table, eyes fixed on the leather-wrapped parcel.

  “You want the book,” Perenelle said simply.

  “If what the hooded man is saying is true—that it contains all the knowledge in the world —then yes, of course. For generations, alchemists have sought the secret of immortality and worked to turn metal into gold.”

  “And you believe this hook-handed man?”

  Nicholas stopped and looked across the table at his wife. “Yes. Yes, I do. Even the Ancients knew that the world is far older and stranger than we could ever imagine. For centuries Alchemists and Scholars have written about the mysteries at the heart of the world. This…this book and this stranger have just confirmed what we suspected. And Fearnua himself…is he entirely human? I think not.”

  “I agree,” Perenelle said. “Once, perhaps, but no longer.”

  “And you’ve seen the hook. It pulses and glows with arcane energies.”

  “Magicians and witches have their wands and brooms. Perhaps it is his wand,” she suggested.

  “But I am often a poor judge of people,” Nicholas admitted. “You have said that yourself. You have the gift: what do you think?”

  Perenelle leaned over and put her face directly over the small package. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply. “Oranges, and something else, something older, much older. I can almost taste the power steaming off the book.” And then she stiffened.

  Memories flickered….

  Images…

  A crystal tower lashed by a storm.

  A creature, both human and inhuman, more metal than flesh, standing atop the tower, bathed in terrifying cracking energies. The figure turned to look at her, a single gray eye in a golden mask holding her gaze. His ruined mouth shaped words.

  Take it.

  Massive waves crashed around the tower, battering it. A huge chunk of iridescent crystal broke away, and the platform tilted precariously.

  Take it.

  Perenelle staggered back and Nicholas caught her. “You saw something?” he asked.

  “Something ancient,” she said, exhaling sharply. “A golden creature, metal and flesh combined. It stretched out a hand and gave this book to…” She hesitated. “It was almost as if it handed it to me.” She shook her head quickly. “And there was someone else there, someone I did not see. A woman, I think. She took the book from the monster.”

  “The woman was Tsagaglalal, She Who Watches,” Fearnua said, suddenly reappearing at their side, “and the creature you call a monster was Abraham the Mage, one of the most powerful beings ever to walk this earth. All of humanity owes him a debt.” Neither Nicholas nor Perenelle had seen or heard the hooded man reenter the room. He looked at Perenelle, blue eyes bright and searching, and for a moment, the woman wondered if he was related to the creature she had seen in her vision.

  “You have the Sight,” Fearnua said. It was a statement rather than a question. “What you saw happened ten thousand and more years ago. You caught a glimpse of the night when the old world fell and this world—the time of the Humani—truly began.”

  In the silence that followed, a sound shivered in the air, a faint, high-pitched howling that echoed across the rooftops of Paris.

  “Ah, your glimpse of the past has revealed our location,” Fearnua said sadly. “No doubt your aura flared and my pursuer latched onto it.”

  “You believe this book is meant for us?” Perenelle asked.

  “I do,” Fearnua answered simply. “This is your destiny.”

  “We will accept it,” Perenelle said carefully. She turned to look at Nicholas and waited for him to nod before continuing.”But on one condition.”

  Fearnua’s thin lips curled in a smile. “I’ve never heard of anyone putting conditions on a gift.”

  “We will not accept this as a gift,” Perenelle continued. “We will pay you for it.”

  The hooded man nodded. “Ah, so you know something about the nature of magical gifts.”

  Nicholas looked confused.

  “Gifts come with obligations,” Perenelle explained, her eyes fixed on the hooded man’s face. “Obligations that might have to be repaid someday. Whereas if we pay now, then we have already discharged our debt.”

  Fearnua bowed. “I can assure you that there are no strings attached to this gift, but if it eases your mind, then reach into your purse, Nicholas, and give me the first coin that comes into your hand.”

  Flamel tugged open the purse at his belt and reached inside. “I don’t have much…,” he began.

 

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