Sophie drew in a deep shuddering breath and peeled her hands off the now-warm crystal skull. She slumped forward and would have fallen if Aoife had not been holding her. She looked at the Alchemyst. “What can Dee teach him that you can’t?” she rasped hoarsely, sick with worry.

Nicholas shook his head. “I’ve no idea. We studied very similar disciplines: alchemy, mathematics, astronomy, astrology, biology, medicine-” He stopped suddenly.

“Except?” Sophie asked.

“There is one.” All the color had drained from Nicholas’s face, and the dark rings under his eyes were pronounced. “There was one art I refused to learn-but one which Dee mastered and excelled in.”

“No!” Perenelle drew in a quick shocked breath.

“Necromancy,” the Alchemyst said. “The art of raising the dead.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Standing at the prow of a speedboat bouncing across the icy waters of San Francisco Bay, Niccolò Machiavelli closed his eyes and allowed the salt spray to hide the sudden tears on his face.

When Machiavelli had still been mortal, his wife, Marietta, had once accused him of being an uncaring inhuman monster. “You will die lonely and alone, because you don’t care for anyone,” she’d screamed at him, and thrown an antique Roman plate at his head. He’d long since forgotten what the argument was about, but he’d never forgotten the words. And whenever he thought of them, he remembered Marietta, whom he had loved dearly and still missed, and he wept for her. He never minded the tears: they reminded him that he was still human.

He’d once thought that being immortal was an extraordinary gift.

And in the beginning it was. He had all the time in the world to plot and scheme, to lay plans that would take generations to complete. Working behind the scenes, he had shaped the destinies of a dozen European and Russian nations, had organized wars and revolutions and arranged peace treaties. He had backed leaders, funded inventors, invested in artists and designers. Then he had sat back and watched his grand plans unfold. But somewhere amid all the scheming and plotting, he had stopped thinking about the individuals he was manipulating. He thought of the humani-the humans-merely as objects to be pushed about like pieces on a chessboard.

He had served his Elder master devotedly, doing as he was told even when he disagreed with his orders. Initially, he had believed-because it was the logical conclusion-that the earth would be a better place if the Dark Elders returned.

Now he was not so sure.

He hadn’t been sure for the past two hundred years.