“Give me a minute…” Using illegal access codes, Machiavelli hopped from traffic camera to traffic camera, tracking the cab by its number plate across Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly and onto the A4. “He’s heading out of London,” he said finally.

“Which direction?”

“West onto the M4.”

“Where are they going?” the Elder snarled. “Why are they leaving London? Surely if they are trying to convince Gilgamesh to teach the twins one of the elemental magics, they could do it at a safe house in the city?”

Machiavelli increased the resolution on the map, looking for items of significance on their route. “Stonehenge,” he said suddenly. “I’ll wager they are going to Stonehenge. He’s heading for the ley lines on Salisbury Plain,” he announced confidently.

“Those gates have been dead for centuries,” the Elder said. “Assuming he chose the correct gate, it would still need a powerful aura to activate them.”

“And Gilgamesh has no aura,” Machiavelli said very softly. “The Alchemyst would have to do it himself. But that would be madness; in his weakened state, the effort would burn through his aura and consume him in seconds.”

“That might be just enough time to open the gate and push the twins through,” the Dark Elder said.

Machiavelli looked up at the screen, tracking the black cab as it drove down the A4, washed yellow in the glare of sodium light. “Would Nicholas Flamel sacrifice himself for the twins?” he wondered aloud.

“Does he believe-truly believe-these to be the real twins?”

“Yes. Dee also believes that, and so do I.”

“Then I have no doubt that he would sacrifice himself to save them.”

“There is one other option,” Machiavelli said. “Could he not have the twins open the gates? We know their auras are powerful.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. The Italian heard ghostly snatches of song, like the sounds of a distant radio. But the song was a Spartan marching ballad. “The gate on Salisbury comes out on the West Coast of America, north of San Francisco.”

“I could have told you that,” Machiavelli said.

“We will lay our plans accordingly,” the Elder said.

“Well, what exactly does that mean…,” Machiavelli began, but the phone was dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Josh’s right hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Gilgamesh’s wrist. He squeezed and twisted all in one movement and the knife fell from the king’s hand, embedding itself point-first in the rubber matting on the floor. Sophie bent down and quickly scooped it up.

“Hey,” Palamedes shouted at the sudden commotion. “What’s going on back there?”

“Nothing,” Flamel answered quickly, before Josh or Sophie could say anything. “Everything is under control.”

Gilgamesh sat back in the seat, nursing his bruised wrist, glaring at the Alchemyst. He looked at the knife in Sophie’s hands. “I want that back.”