“I can see their auras,” Josh muttered wearily. The unexpected appearance of his own aura had exhausted him. A sick headache pounded just over his eyes, the muscles in his arms and legs were burning and his stomach felt queasy, almost as if he was going to throw up. His hands were numb where they’d gripped Clarent’s hilt.

Sophie turned to look out the steamed-up window. Josh was correct: the three immortals were outlined with the faintest of auras-Flamel’s emerald green and Palamedes’ deeper olive green bracketing Shakespeare’s pale lemon yellow.

“What are they doing?” Josh asked.

Sophie hit the window button, but the car was turned off and the electric windows didn’t work. She rubbed the palm of her hand across the glass to clear it, then caught her breath. The immortal’s auras brightened, and she could feel the crawling trickle of power as it started to dribble from their hands like sticky liquid into the barrel. “Nicholas and Palamedes seem to be lending their power to Shakespeare. The Bard’s lips are moving, he’s saying something…” She cracked open the door to listen, blinking as a sprinkling of rain spattered into the darkened interior of the car.

“… imagination is the key, brother immortals,” Shakespeare said. “All I need you to do is to concentrate and I can create a charm of powerful trouble.”

“It’s a conjugation,” Sophie said in awe. She was abruptly conscious that this was a word she would never have used days earlier, one she wouldn’t have even understood.

Josh slid over beside his sister to peer out into the wet night. “What’s a conjur… conjurgate…?”

“He’s creating something out of nothing, shaping and making something simply by imagining it.” She pushed open the door a little farther, ignoring the rain on her face. She knew-because the Witch knew-that this was the most arduous and exhausting of all the magics, requiring extraordinary skill and focus.

“Do it quickly,” the Alchemyst said through gritted teeth. “The fire is nearly out and I’m not sure how much strength I have left.”

Shakespeare nodded. He pushed both hands deep into the burning barrel. “Boil and bubble, boil and bubble,” he whispered, his accent thickening, returning to the familiar Elizabethan he had grown up with. “First, let us have the serpent of the Nile…”

Smoke twisted and curled around the barrel, which suddenly boiled with hundreds of heaving snakes. They tumbled onto the ground.

“Snakes! Why are there always snakes?” Josh groaned and looked away.

“… spotted snakes with double tongue…,” Shakespeare continued.

More snakes spilled from the barrel, writhing and slithering around the immortals’ feet. The Gabriel Hounds silently backed away, red eyes fixed on the serpents.