(eng) Michael Scott - Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel 04 by The Necromancer # (v5.0)

Author:The Necromancer # (v5.0) [#, The Necromancer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“Didn’t you set a couple of your plays in forests just like this?” Saint-Germain asked lightly.

“Only the comedies,” William Shakespeare said in a hoarse whisper, “and my forests were populated by gentler creatures; this is an evil place.”

Palamedes stopped suddenly and both Francis and William bumped into him. “Will you two be quiet?” he whispered. “You’re making as much noise as a herd of elephants. And trust me, there are certain things in this forest that even I do not want to wake up.”

“It makes no odds,” Saint-Germain murmured. “I’m sure they know we’re here. They knew from the moment we left the car.”

“Oh, they know we’re here. We’re being followed,” Shakespeare added.

The two immortals turned to look at him. Although the forest was pitch black, their enhanced senses allowed them to see in surprising detail, though without color. Palamedes looked at Saint-Germain, who shook his head slightly; neither had been aware that they were being followed.

Shakespeare pushed his large glasses up his nose with his forefinger and smiled, quickly covering his teeth with his hand. “Right now, we are being observed by a forest spirit, female, short, dark-skinned, pretty, wearing an outfit which I presume is colored Lincoln green.”

“Impressive,” Palamedes said. “How do you know all this …,” he began, and then stopped. “She’s standing behind us, isn’t she?” he asked in Latin.

The Bard nodded.

“And she’s not alone, is she?” Palamedes continued in the same language, still looking at Shakespeare.

“She’s not,” the Bard agreed.

Saint-Germain slowly turned to look over the knight’s shoulder.

“I’ll wager they’re armed with bows,” Palamedes continued.

“Bows and spears,” Saint-Germain corrected.

The knight turned to face the welcoming committee. Their patterned clothing was the perfect camouflage, so it took a moment to pick out the dozen women scattered among the trees—he guessed that there were probably a dozen more he could not see. They were short and slender, with limbs a little too long, eyes wide and slanted, mouths thin horizontal lines across their faces. He recognized them as dryads, forest spirits.

One, a little taller than the rest, stepped forward. She was holding a short curved bow, a black-headed arrow already fitted to the string. “Identify yourselves.” Her voice sounded like the whisper of leaves.

Palamedes bowed to the creature. “Merry meet,” he said, using the traditional greeting. “I’ve not seen you before,” he added.

“We’re new.”

The knight straightened. “And with a charming accent too. Naxos … no, Karpathos. So what are Greek dryads doing in an English forest?”

“He called us.”

There was a flicker of movement behind the dryad, and she stepped aside as a tall, extraordinarily thin figure appeared. The face was that of a beautiful woman, but her body looked like it had been carved from the trunk of a tree. Arms that ended in twiglike fingers reached the ground, and knotted roots took the place of toes.

Palamedes turned, on the pretext of introducing the newcomer. “Don’t look into her eyes,” he whispered urgently. “Gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce you to Mistress Ptelea.” He turned back to the creature and bowed deeply.

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