It was hard to believe that he had finally found Excalibur’s match. Half a millennium ago, when Henry VIII had ruled England, Dee had begun his quest to find the legendary Sword of Fire.

“I have been readied at your hand, to grant what ever you would crave…”

Taking a deep breath, the doctor lifted the sword. Although it was little more than twenty inches in length, it was remarkably heavy. The blade and the plain hilt looked like they had been carved from a single piece of sparkling granite. The moment his fingers touched the warm stone, the power from the sword washed over him…

Voices raised in anger.

Shouts of terror.

Cries of pain.

Dee shuddered as sounds filled his head, threatening to overwhelm him. His singing faltered. “I… I have waged life and… and land, your love and… and good will for to have…”

The sword was powerful, incredibly powerful, wrapped in mystery and legend. Yesterday, when Gilgamesh had seen the sword, he had used the words of the ancient prophecy-the two that are one, the one that is all-to describe it. Dee had always thought that the prophecy referred to the twins, but now he was not so sure.

“Greensleeves, now farewell adieu…”

In fact, he was sure of nothing anymore. In the last few days, his entire way of life, his whole world, had shifted. And it was all because of Flamel and the twins. They had made him look a fool and put him in terrible danger. Dee’s short fingers brushed the length of the flesh-warm stone.

Whispered secrets…

Vague promises…

Hints of ancient knowledge, of hidden lore…

Dee jerked his hand away and the voices faded from his consciousness. His thin lips curled in a cruel smile: this sword might well prove his salvation. The Dark Elders would pay dearly for a weapon like this. He wondered if it might even be worth his immortal life.

The doctor’s phone suddenly buzzed and vibrated in his pocket, startling him. Stepping away from the sword lying on the table, he slipped the phone out of his pocket and looked at the fingerprint-smudged screen. He’d been expecting to see his Elder master’s impossibly long number on the screen, but it read Restricted. For a single instant he thought about not answering it, but then curiosity-always both his greatest strength and his worst failing-got the better of him and he pressed Answer.

“You recognize my voice?”

Dr. John Dee blinked in surprise. The voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Niccolò Machiavelli, who had gone to San Francisco. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“This is supposed to be a secure line, but you know my motto… trust no one.”

“A good motto,” Dee murmured.

“I understand you survived.”