Joan of Arc straightened and tapped her friend’s shoulder.

“What?” Scatty looked up.

Joan nodded toward the hill. The twenty-two saber-toothed tigers had gathered on the brow. They were joined by two more, and then another four appeared. They all looked to be fully grown adults, and their rumbling growls actually vibrated through the ground.

“Do you think this one might have been the leader of the pack?” Joan asked.

The animals parted and another saber-toothed tiger appeared. It was huge, towering head and shoulders over the others and at least half as long again. Its dun coat was white with the lines of ancient scars, one of its bottom teeth had broken off into a ragged spur, and its left eye was only a white glassy globe.

“This one is the leader of the pack,” Scatty said, taking a step backward.

The creature’s single good eye moved from the tiger on the ground to Scatty and back to the tiger again. And then it opened its maw and growled. The sound was incredible, a bone-shaking rumble that sent birds wheeling into the air for miles around. Then, slowly, almost delicately, it started to pick its way down the incline.

Scatty took a step toward the creature, but Joan caught her arm. “Do you remember something you taught me when I was fighting the English?” she asked urgently.

Scatty looked at her blankly.

“You told me that it was a mistake to fight the scarred warriors. They were the survivors.” The Frenchwoman nodded toward the beast approaching them. “Look at this creature. It has survived many battles.”

Scathach looked at the huge scarred saber-toothed tiger. “I am the Shadow,” she said simply. “I can defeat her.”

Joan’s fingers tightened on her friend’s arm. “You also told me never to engage in a battle unless it was completely unavoidable. You don’t have to do this.”

“You’re right, I suppose.” Scatty sighed, then asked, almost regretfully, “So what do we do?”

“We run!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Niccolò Machiavelli took a deep breath of the salty sea air and pressed his hands against his aching stomach. Before he’d become immortal he’d been troubled with ulcers, and although his Elder master had cured him of all human ills, at times of great stress his stomach still cramped. Now, standing on the quay on Alcatraz, staring out toward San Francisco, his stomach felt as if it were on fire.

“We’re going to be fine, just fine,” the young man in the stained jeans and battered cowboy boots standing beside him said for the tenth time. “We’re going to be fine.”

“William,” Machiavelli said carefully, keeping his voice low, “how long have you been immortal?”

“One hundred and twenty-six years,” Billy the Kid said proudly.