The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel by Michael Scott

Author:Michael Scott [Scott, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“D idn’t you set a couple of your plays in forests just

like this?” Saint-Germain asked lightly.

“Only the comedies,” Wil iam 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

Wil iam bumped into him. “Wil 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 fol owed,”

Shakespeare added.

The two immortals turned to look at him. Although the

forest was pitch black, their enhanced senses al owed 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 fol owed.

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 al 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, stil looking at Shakespeare.

“She’s not,” the Bard agreed.

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

shoulder.

“I’l 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 tal er 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 cal ed us.”

There was a flicker of movement behind the dryad, and

she stepped aside as a tal , 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. “It is always a pleasure to meet you,” he

said, speaking in the language of his youth.

“Sir Knight.” Ptelea came forward to stand before the

immortal.

Palamedes kept his head bent, avoiding al eye contact.

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