The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

dangerous smile. “I think we should attack the island.”
    “Just the four of us?” he asked lightly.
    Perenelle leaned forward until her forehead touched her husband’s, and looked deep into his eyes. “This is the last day of our lives, Nicholas,” she said softly. “We have always lived quietly, keeping to the shadows, hoarding our energy, rarely using our auras. We don’t have to do that anymore. I think it is time we reminded these Dark Elders why they once feared us.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    THE RUKMA VIMANA shuddered, engine whining. The huge triangular flying ship had been damaged in the fight outside Abraham’s crystal tower. One side of the craft was peppered with scars, portholes were shattered and the door no longer sat flush in the frame. Icy air howled and shrieked through the opening. The screens and control panels along one wall were black, and most of those still working pulsed with a jagged red circular symbol.
    Scathach the Shadow stood behind Prometheus. She knew him as her uncle, but he had no idea who she was. In this time stream, she had not yet been born—and would not be born until after the island fell. The Elder was struggling to control the craft. Scathach had both hands clasped behind her and refused to grip the back of the Elder’s chair. She was also desperately trying to prevent herself from throwing up. “Can I help?” she asked.
    Prometheus grunted. “Have you ever flown a Rukma vimana before?”
    “I’ve flown a smaller one . . . a long time ago,” Scathach admitted.
    “How long?” Prometheus asked.
    “Hard to tell, really. Ten thousand years, give or take a century or so.”
    “Then you can’t help me.”
    “Why, has the technology changed at all?” she asked.
    William Shakespeare was sitting on the right-hand side of the craft, next to the bulky Saracen Knight, Palamedes. The English immortal looked at Scathach, his bright blue eyes huge behind his overlarge glasses. “You know, I’m a curious person,” he said. “Nosy, some would say.”
    She nodded.
    “Always been my biggest failing . . . and my greatest strength.” He smiled, revealing his bad teeth. “I find you learn so much more by asking questions.”
    “Just ask the question,” Palamedes muttered.
    Shakespeare ignored him. “Experience has taught me that there are some questions one should never ask.” He pointed toward the circular symbol flashing red on the few working screens. “But I really do think I want to know what that means.”
    Palamedes rumbled a laugh. “I can answer that, William. I’m no expert in ancient languages, but in my experience, when something is red and blinking, that means trouble.”
    “How much trouble?” Shakespeare asked.
    “It means abandon ship,” Prometheus answered. “But you don’t want to pay too much attention to that. These old ships are always throwing up warnings.”
    The left-hand wing dipped and they heard something bang and scrape along the underside of the craft.
    Joan of Arc shifted in her seat to peer through one of the broken portholes on the left side. The vimana was skimming treetops, leaving a trail of leaves and broken branches tumbling in its wake. She glanced sidelong at her husband and raised pencil-thin eyebrows in a silent question.
    The Comte de Saint-Germain shrugged. “I am a great believer in only worrying about those things we have control over,” he said in French. “And we have no control over this craft; therefore, we should not worry.”
    “Very philosophical,” Joan murmured.
    “Very practical.” Saint-Germain shrugged elegantly. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
    “We crash, we die,” she suggested.
    “And we die together.” He smiled softly. “I would prefer that. I do not want to live in this world—or any other world, for that matter—without you.”
    Joan reached over and the man caught her hand in his. “Why did it take me so long to marry you?”
    “You thought I was an arrogant, ignorant, boastful, dangerous fool.”
    “Who told you that?” she demanded.
    “You did.”
    “And I was right, you know.”
    “I know.” He grinned.
    There was another bang and the entire craft shuddered. Glossy green leaves drifted in through the ill-fitting door.
    “We need to put down now,” the Shadow said.
    “Where?” Prometheus demanded.
    Scathach lurched over to one of the portholes and gazed out. They were racing over a dense primeval forest. Enormous leathery winged lizards spiraled lazily