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Chapters (73)
  1. =Table of Contents=
  2. CHAPTER ONE
  3. CHAPTER TWO
  4. CHAPTER THREE
  5. CHAPTER FOUR
  6. CHAPTER FIVE
  7. CHAPTER SIX
  8. CHAPTER SEVEN
  9. CHAPTER EIGHT
  10. CHAPTER NINE
  11. CHAPTER TEN
  12. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  13. CHAPTER TWELVE
  14. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  15. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  16. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  17. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  18. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  19. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  20. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  21. CHAPTER TWENTY
  22. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  23. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  31. CHAPTER THIRTY
  32. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  33. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  34. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  35. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  41. CHAPTER FORTY
  42. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  43. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  44. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  45. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  46. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  47. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  48. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
  49. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
  50. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
  51. CHAPTER FIFTY
  52. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
  53. CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
  54. CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
  55. CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
  56. CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
  57. CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
  58. CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
  59. CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
  60. CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
  61. CHAPTER SIXTY
  62. CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
  63. CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
  64. CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
  65. CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
  66. CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
  67. CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
  68. CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
  69. CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
  70. CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
  71. CHAPTER SEVENTY
  72. EPILOGUE
  73. AUTHOR’S NOTE

“We will do what we have always done: we will survive.”

“And what about Perenelle?” Joan asked.

But Scathach had no answer to that.

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY

Billy the Kid glanced at the black-and-white photograph cupped in the palm of his hand, fixing Machiavelli’s severe appearance in his head. The short white hair should be easy to spot, he decided. Tucking the image into the back pocket of his jeans, he folded his arms across his thin chest and watched the first passengers appear in the arrivals hall of San Francisco International Airport.

The tourists were easy to pick out; they were casually dressed in jeans or shorts and T-shirts, most with baggage carts piled high with far too many suitcases full of clothes they would never wear. Then there were the businessmen in light-colored suits, or slacks and sports jackets, carrying briefcases or pulling small overnight bags, striding out purposefully, already checking their cell phones, Bluetooth earpieces blinking in their ears. Billy paid particular attention to the families: elderly parents or grandparents greeting grandchildren, young men and women-maybe students-returning home to their parents, couples reuniting. There were lots of tears, shouts of joy, smiles and handshakes. Billy wondered what it would be like to be met like that, to step out into an airport arrivals hall and scan the faces, knowing that you would find someone genuinely pleased to see you-a parent, a sibling, even a friend, someone with whom you shared a history and a past.

He had no one. There hadn’t been anyone for a very long time. Even during his natural life, he’d had few friends, and most of those had tried to kill him. None had ever succeeded.

Finally, tall and elegant in a smart black suit, a black leather computer bag over his shoulder, the white-haired man in the photograph came into the hall. Billy bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling: maybe in some European airport Machiavelli would pass unnoticed, but here, amid all the color and casual clothes, he stood out. Even if Billy hadn’t seen the photograph, he would have known that this was the European immortal. He watched Machiavelli put on a pair of plain black sunglasses and scan the crowd, and even though he showed no sign of recognition, the Italian turned and made his way toward Billy. The American wondered if he would shake hands. Many immortals were reluctant to touch other humans, and especially other immortals. Though he’d met the English Magician a few times, Billy had never seen Dee take off his gray gloves.

Machiavelli stretched out his hand.

Billy smiled, quickly rubbed his palm on the leg of his jeans and stretched out his hand in turn. “How did you know it was me?” he asked in passable French. The Italian’s grip was firm, his flesh cool and dry.