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white aura bloomed around her, filling the interior of the ruined house with stark light. A dark wave of spiders scuttled into the shadows. “Do you know how many Dark Elders and their kith and kin have attempted to kill me?” Perenelle demanded.
    Areop-Enap shrugged, an ugly movement of all its legs. “Many?” it suggested.
    “And do you know how many are still alive?”
    “Few?” Areop-Enap suggested.
    Perenelle smiled. “Very few.”

ait up. My phone is ringing.”
    Sophie ducked into a doorway, fished in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. The battery had died in Hekate’s Shadowrealm, but the Comte de Saint-Germain had found her a charger that worked. Tilting the screen, she peered at the unusually long number. “I don’t know who it is,” she said, looking from her brother to Nicholas.
    Josh looked over his sister’s shoulder. “I don’t recognize the number,” he added
    “What does it begin with?” Nicholas asked, squinting, trying to focus on the screen.
    “Zero, zero, three, three …”
    “That’s the country code for France,” Flamel said. “Answer it; it can only be Francis.”
    “Or Dee or Machiavelli,” Josh said quickly. “Maybe we should—”
    But before he could finish, Sophie had pressed the Answer button. “Hello?” she said cautiously.
    “It’s me!” Saint-Germain’s voice was light and accentless, and Sophie could tell he was outside by all the noise in the background. “Let me speak to the old man. And don’t tell him I said that!”
    Sophie bit back a grin and handed the phone to the Alchemyst. “You were right; it’s Francis. He wants to talk to you.”
    Nicholas pressed the phone to one ear and covered the other with his hand, trying to block out the noise of the traffic.
“Allô?”
    “Where are you?” Saint-Germain asked in Latin.
    Nicholas looked around, trying to orient himself. “On Marylebone Road, just coming up to Regent’s Park tube station.”
    “Hang on; I’ve got someone on the other line.” Nicholas heard Saint-Germain move away from the phone and relay the information in rapid-fire archaic French. “OK,” he said a moment later. “Continue straight down the road and then wait outside St. Marylebone Church. You will be picked up.”
    “How will I know the driver is working for you?” Nicholas asked.
    “A good point. Do you have reason to believe this conversation may be monitored?”
    “Both the Italian and the Englishman certainly have the resources,” the Alchemyst said carefully.
    “That is true.”
    “And there was an unwelcoming committee waiting for us. I would imagine they reported in before they came after us.”
    “Ah.” Saint-Germain paused and then said carefully, “I am assuming you took care of the problem discreetly.”
    “Very discreetly. But …”
    “But?” Saint-Germain asked.
    “Although I used none of my aura, a certain amount of power was released. That’s sure to have attracted attention, especially in this city.”
    There was another pause; then Saint-Germain said, “OK, I’ve just sent the driver a text. Let me remind you of a party I held in Versailles in February 1758. It was my birthday, and you gave me a vellum-bound book from your personal library as a present.”
    Nicholas’s lips curled in a smile. “I remember.”
    “I still have the book. The driver will tell you the title,” he continued, raising his voice over the rattle of hammering in the background.
    “What’s all the noise?” Flamel asked, slipping back into English.
    “Workmen. We’re trying to shore up the house. Apparently, there is the very real danger that it will collapse into the catacombs below, and probably take half the street with it.”
    Nicholas lowered his voice. “Old friend. I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the trouble I brought to your home. I will of course pay for the damage.”
    Saint-Germain chuckled. “Please do not trouble yourself. It’s not costing me anything. I’ve sold the exclusive