“It could be anyone.” Machiavelli blinked in surprise. Not taking his eyes off the TV screens, he continued, “I am head of the French secret service. How would I know who is even in London?” He was pleased that his voice remained neutral and calm.

“Surely the information is in your database?” the voice on the phone asked, and the Italian was sure he could hear the smile in the comment.

“My database?” he asked carefully.

“Yes, your secret database.”

Machiavelli sighed. “Obviously not that secret. How many know about it?” he wondered aloud.

“The Magician knows,” the voice said, “and he told his masters… and I… well, let us say I discovered it from them.”

Machiavelli kept his face carefully neutral, just in case his master could actually see him. He had always known about the different factions within the Dark Elders. He wasn’t surprised. The Dark Elders had once been rulers, and where there were rulers, there were always others waiting, plotting, planning to take over. This was the type of politics Machiavelli understood and excelled in.

The Italian sat down and rested his fingers on the keyboard. “What do you want to know?” he asked with a sigh.

“London belongs to the Magician. But Flamel has the two that are one, and both have been Awakened. The girl knows Air and Fire, the boy knows nothing. Who, in London, has mastery of any of the elemental magics and, more importantly, would be sympathetic enough to Flamel and his cause to train the twins?”

“Surely you have other means of discovering this?” Machiavelli asked, fingers moving over the wafer-thin keyboard.

“Of course.”

Machiavelli understood. His Elder did not want the others to know he was looking for the information. A screen of names, some with attached photographs, appeared: Elders in London with control over one or more of the elemental magics. “There are twelve Elders in London,” he said, “and they are all loyal to us.”

“What about Next Generation?”

Sixteen names appeared on the screen. Machiavelli checked their allegiances and again shook his head. “All loyal to us,” he repeated. “Few who side against us choose to live in England, though there are some in Scotland and one in Ireland.”

“Try immortal humans.”

Machiavelli’s fingers danced across the keys and half a screen of names appeared. “There are immortal humans scattered all across England, Wales and Scotland…,” he said, fingers moving on the keyboard as he narrowed the search, “but only five in London.”

“Who are they?”

“Shakespeare and Palamedes…”

“Shakespeare has disappeared, possibly dead in the fire in London,” Machiavelli’s master said immediately, “and Palamedes was seen with the Alchemyst. Neither has mastery of an elemental magic. Who else?”

“Baybars the Mamluk…”

“Friend of Palamedes and no friend to us. He has no knowledge of the elemental magics.”

“Virginia Dare…”