UNITED STATES PENITENTIARY
ALCATRAZ ISLAND AREA 12 ACRES
11/2 MILES TO TRANSPORT DOCK
ONLY GOVERNMENT BOATS PERMITTED
OTHERS MUST KEEP OFF 200 YARDS
NO ONE ALLOWED ASHORE
WITHOUT A PASS

Over the sign the words Indians Welcome had been daubed in red paint and beneath it, in larger fading red letters, were the words Indian Land.
She knew they had been painted there in 1969 when the American Indian Movement had occupied the island.
The Sorceress had spent the remainder of the afternoon systematically going over the island, looking for some way to escape. There were no boats, though there was plenty of wood and lumber, and she briefly considered making a raft, using towels and blankets from the cell exhibits to lash the wood together. In 1962, three prisoners had supposedly escaped by building their own raft. But Perenelle knew that nothing was going to get past Nereus and his savage daughters. From her second-floor position on the dock over the bookshop, Perenelle could see the heads of the Nereids bobbing in the water directly in front of her, long hair floating behind them like seaweed. From a distance they might have looked like seals, but these creatures were unmoving, and fixed her with cold unblinking eyes. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of jagged teeth as they chewed still-wriggling fish. No doubt they had heard what she’d done to their father.
She had found clothes on her tour of the island and was now dressed in a set of coarse prison trousers and shirt, both of which were at least two sizes too large for her and which scratched everywhere. The clothes had been part of the display that had once greeted the many visitors to the island. But since Dee’s company had taken over, there had been no visitors to Alcatraz for months. Perenelle discovered that many of the cells were decorated with artifacts and items that would once have belonged to the prisoners. Going through the cells, she had found a heavy black coat hanging on a peg and taken that. Although it smelled musty and felt slightly damp, it was still a lot warmer than the light silk dress she’d been wearing, and meant that she would not have to expend her energy keeping warm. She had found no food but had discovered a dusty metal cup in the kitchen, and once she’d cleaned it out, there were plenty of rainwater pools scattered around the island. The water tasted slightly of salt, but not enough to make her feel ill.
As the afternoon had worn on, she’d finally ended up on the dock, where all the visitors-prisoners and tourists-to Alcatraz would have started and finished their journeys. She’d discovered a flight of stairs to the left of the bookshop that led up to the second floor, and had climbed up. Now, leaning on the rail, she looked out over the waves. The city was tantalizingly close, just over a mile and a half away. Perenelle had grown up on the cold northwestern coast of France, in Brittany. She was a strong swimmer and loved the water, but swimming the treacherous and chilly waters of the bay was out of the question-even if Nereus and his daughters had not been waiting. She realized she really should have learned how to fly when they were in India in the days of the Mughal Empire.
Water pounded against the dock, sending silver-white spray high into the air… and the ghost of de Ayala materialized out of the glistening water droplets.
“There must be someone in San Francisco you can call upon for assistance,” the ghost said. “Another immortal, perhaps?”
Perenelle shook her head. “Nicholas and I have always kept very much to ourselves. Remember, most of the immortals are servants or even slaves of the Dark Elders.”
“Surely not all immortals are beholden to an Elder,” de Ayala said.
“Not all,” she agreed. “We are not; neither is Saint-Germain nor Joan. I have heard rumors of others like us.”
“And could some of these others be living in San Francisco?” he insisted.
“It’s a big city. Immortals prefer large cities with constantly shifting populations, where it is easier to remain anonymous and invisible. So, yes, there must be.”
The ghost moved around to float on her left-hand side. “Would you recognize another immortal if you passed one in the street?”
“I would.” Perenelle smiled. “Nicholas might not.”
The ghost floated out directly in front of the Sorceress. “So if you had no contact with others of your kind in the city, then how did Dee find you?”
Perenelle shrugged. “That is a good question, is it not? We’re always exceptionally careful, but Dee has spies everywhere, and sooner or later, he always finds us. In truth, I’m surprised we’ve managed to stay hidden here in San Francisco for so long.”
“But you have friends in the city?” the ghost pressed.
“We know some people,” Perenelle said, “but not many, and not well.” Brushing stray wisps of silvered hair away from her face, she squinted up at the dead sailor. In the afternoon sunlight de Ayala was almost completely invisible, just a wavering impression in the air, the hint of liquid eyes betraying his position. “How long have you been a ghost?” she asked.
“Two hundred and more years…”
“And in all that time have you ever wished for immortality?” she asked.
“I have never thought of it,” the ghost said slowly. “There were times I wished I were still alive. On days when the fog rolls in across the bay, or the wind whips spray into the air, I have wished for a physical body to experience the sensations. But I am not sure I would like to be immortal.”
“Immortality is a curse,” Perenelle said firmly. “It is heartbreaking. You cannot afford to get close to people. Our very presence is a danger to them. Dee has leveled entire cities in his attempts to capture us, has caused fire and famine, even earthquakes as he sought to stop us. And so Nicholas and I have spent our lives running, hiding, skulking in the shadows.”
“You did not want to run?” the ghost asked.
“We should have stopped and fought,” Perenelle said, nodding. Leaning her forearms on the wooden rail, she looked down over the landing dock. The air shimmered, and for an instant, she caught a fleeting glimpse of countless figures in the costumes and uniforms of the past, crowding the docks. The Sorceress focused and the ghosts of Alcatraz disappeared. “We should have fought. We could have stopped Dee. We had an opportunity in New Mexico in 1945, and twenty years earlier, in 1923, in Tokyo, he was at our mercy, weakened almost to the point of death following the earthquake he’d caused.”
“Why didn’t you?” de Ayala wondered aloud.
Perenelle examined the backs of her hands, looking at the new wrinkles and the tracery of lines that ran across once-smooth flesh. The blue-green veins of age were now clearly visible beneath her skin; they had not been there yesterday. “Because Nicholas said that we would then be no better than Dee and his kind.”
“And you did not agree?”
“Did you ever hear of an Italian called Niccolò Machiavelli?” Perenelle asked.
“I have not.”
“A brilliant mind, cunning, ruthless, and now, sadly-and surprisingly-working for the Dark Elders,” the Sorceress said. “But many years ago, he said something like, if you have to injure someone, then make it so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”
“He does not sound like a nice person,” de Ayala said.
“He’s not. But he’s right. Three centuries ago, the immortal human Temujin offered to imprison Dee in some distant Shadowrealm for eternity. We should have accepted that offer.”
“And you wanted to?” de Ayala asked.
“Yes, I was in favor of imprisoning him in Temujin’s Mongol Empire Shadowrealm.”
“But your husband said no?”
“Nicholas said we were tasked with protecting the Codex and finding the prophesied twins, not with warring with the Dark Elders. But I’ll not deny, it would have been easier without Dee always after us. We had an opportunity in Tokyo to strip Dee of his powers, his memory, possibly even his immortality. He would have been no threat to us. We should have done that.”
“But would it have stopped the Dark Elders?” the ghost asked.
Perenelle took a moment to consider. “It would have inconvenienced them, slowed them down a little, but no, it would not have stopped them.”
“Would you both have been able to disappear completely?”
Perenelle’s smile was bitter. “Probably not. No matter where we had ended up, there would have come a time when we would have had to move on. Sooner or later, we always move.” She sighed. “We had already been too long in San Francisco. Even the woman who owns the coffee shop across from our bookshop had started to comment on my unlined skin.” Perenelle laughed. “No doubt she thinks I’m getting Botox injections.” She held both hands up in front of her and examined them critically. “I wonder what she would say if she could see me now?”
“Is this woman a friend?” de Ayala asked quickly. “Would she be able to help?”
“She is an acquaintance, not a friend. And she is human. Trying to explain even the tiniest part of this to her would be impossible,” Perenelle said, “so no, I’ll not ask her. It would only put her in danger.”
“Think, madame, think: there must be someone you can call upon for help,” de Ayala insisted desperately. “What about an Elder friendly to your cause, an immortal who is not allied to the Dark Elders? Give me a name. Let me go find them. You are strong and powerful, but even you cannot stand against the sphinx, the Old Man of the Sea and the monsters in the cells on your own. And whoever sent the flies this morning will be sure to try something else, something even more deadly.”
“I know that,” Perenelle said glumly. The Sorceress stared at the Nereids bobbing in the sea and allowed her thoughts to wander. There must be immortals in San Francisco-in fact, she knew there were; earlier that day she had actually caught a fleeting impression of a young-looking dead-eyed boy staring at her. He’d been using a scrying bowl to watch her. The Sorceress’s lips curled in a smile; he’d not be using that bowl again. There was something about him, though, something feral and deadly about the way he moved and watched her that reminded her of…
“There is someone,” she said suddenly. “She has lived here for decades; I’ll wager she knows every Next Generation and Elder in the city. She will know whom we can trust.”
“Let me go to this person,” de Ayala said. “I can tell her where you are.”
“Oh, she’s not in San Francisco right now.” Perenelle smiled. “But it matters not.”
The ghost looked puzzled. “Then how are you going to contact her?”
“I will scry.”
“Whom will you call?” the ghost asked, curious.
“The Warrior Maid: Scathach the Shadow.”