“Barely.” The doctor hurried over to the security monitor and turned it on, quickly flipping through the channels. His suspicious mind wondered if this was a trap: was Machiavelli talking to him, distracting him, while the building was being surrounded? But the offices and its corridors were empty and the parking lot deserted. “Why are you calling me?” he asked.

“To warn you.”

“Warn me!” Even though he had centuries of practice, he was still unable to keep the note of surprise from his voice.

“A few minutes ago, messengers flowed through Xibalba and out into the Shadowrealms. You know what that means?”

Almost unconsciously, Dee nodded. “Xibalba?” he asked aloud.

On the other side of the world, a note of impatience crept into Machiavelli’s voice. “Yes, the Crossroads, the Place of Fright. It’s one of the ancient Shadowrealms.”

“I know it,” Dee said tersely. “The Morrigan took me there during the last Great Conclave.”

“You’ve been there?” Machiavelli sounded impressed.

“I have.”

Xibalba was a neutral ground, used when Elders and Dark Elders from various Shadowrealms needed to meet. Dee was one of only a handful of humans who had ever been there. He had even chosen his distinctive aura smell to match the Shadowrealms sulfurous stench. If the Dark Elders were sending messengers through Xibalba, it meant that they wanted to ensure that every Shadowrealm, even the most distant, was aware of their commands. “I have been judged?” the Magician asked. In the aftermath of his failure, he had no doubts that his sentence had been handed down and that his Dark Elder masters were making sure he would not be able to hide in even the most distant Shadowrealm. He was stuck on earth. Stepping back from the monitor, he stared at his reflection in a mirror: he realized he was looking at a dead man.

“Judged and found guilty.”

Dee nodded but said nothing. He had given the Dark Elders a lifetime of service, and now they had condemned him to death.

“Did you hear me?” Machiavelli snapped.

“I heard you,” Dee said softly. A wave of exhaustion washed over him and he reached out to steady himself against the wall.

The transatlantic line crackled. “All of the Next Generation or immortal humans you called to London to hunt for Nicholas Flamel and the twins will now turn on you… especially when they discover that the reward for you is double the reward you offered for the Alchemyst.”

“I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or not.”

“There’s one difference.” The line crackled again and Machiavelli’s voice faded in and out. “Our masters will take Flamel dead or alive, but you they want alive. They have been very clear about that: anyone who kills you will suffer an appalling fate.”