Niccolò Machiavelli settled into his seat and adjusted his watch nine hours back to 1:20 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. Then he reclined his seat, laced his fingers together on his stomach, closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare luxury of being uncontactable. For the next eleven hours and fifteen minutes, no one would be able to phone, e-mail or fax him. Whatever crisis arose, someone else would have to handle it. A smile formed on his mouth: this was like a mini-vacation, and it had been a long time-more than two centuries, in fact-since he’d had a proper rest. His last holiday, in Egypt in 1798, had been ruined when Napoléon had invaded. Machiavelli’s smile faded as he shook his head slightly. He had masterminded Napoléon’s plan for a “federation of free peoples” and the Code Napoléon, and if the Corsican had only continued to listen to him, France would have ruled all Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. Machiavelli had even drawn up plans for an invasion of America via sea and down through Canada.

“Something to drink, monsieur?”

Machiavelli opened his eyes to find a bored-looking flight attendant smiling down at him. He shook his head. “Thank you. No. And please do not disturb me again for the duration of the flight.”

The woman nodded. “Would you like to be awakened for lunch or dinner?”

“No, thank you. I am on a special diet,” he said.

“If you had let us know in advance, we could have organized an appropriate meal…”

Machiavelli held up a long-fingered hand. “I am perfectly fine. Thank you,” he said firmly, eyes moving off the woman’s face, dismissing her.

“I will let the others know.” The attendant moved away to check on the three other passengers in the l’Espace Affaires cabin. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked bread filled the air, and the Italian closed his eyes and tried to remember what real food-fresh food-tasted like. One of the side effects of the gift of immortality was the diminishing of appetite. Immortal humans still needed to eat, but only for fuel and energy. Most food, unless it was highly spiced or sickly sweet, was tasteless. He wondered if Flamel, who had become immortal by his own hand rather than by an Elder’s, suffered the same side effect.

And thinking of Nicholas made him focus on Perenelle.

Dee’s Elder had been quite clear: “Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst.”