Niccolo Machiavelli took a deep breath of the salty sea air and pressed his hands against his aching stomach. Before he’d become immortal he’d been troubled with ulcers, and although his Elder master had cured him of all human ills, at times of great stress his stomach still cramped. Now, standing on the quay on Alcatraz, staring out toward San Francisco, his stomach felt as if it were on fire.
“We’re going to be fine, just fine,” the young man in the stained jeans and battered cowboy boots standing beside him said for the tenth time. “We’re going to be fine.”
“William,” Machiavelli said carefully, keeping his voice low, “how long have you been immortal?”
“One hundred and twenty-six years,” Billy the Kid said proudly.
“I became immortal in the year 1527,” the Italian said, glancing at the American. “I was alive when Columbus claimed discovery of this country. I am not the oldest immortal-I am older than Dee, but the Alchemyst Flamel is older than I, Duns Scotus is even older still, and Mo-Tzu older still. Gilgamesh is older than all of us. But I have had more contact with the Elders than these others. And let me tell you that our Elder masters do not countenance failure. They demand complete obedience. They expect results. And we have failed,” he added. He held up his closed fist and extended his little finger. “We were sent here to kill the Sorceress Perenelle”-he stuck a second finger up-“and release the creatures in the cells into the city.” Another finger. “Perenelle escaped, in our boat,” he added, extending a fourth finger, “leaving us trapped on the island with the monsters still in their cells. We failed. We are most definitely not going to be fine.”
Both men turned as the sound of an engine drew nearer. Machiavelli shaded his stone-gray eyes and saw a boat approaching, leaving a wide white wake across the bay.
Billy held up his cell phone. “I called for help,” he said, almost apologetically. “What do you reckon will happen?”
Machiavelli sighed. “We will be summoned before our masters and our immortality will be removed. We will die. Quickly, if we are lucky, but our masters are often cruel…”
Billy shuddered. “Not sure I like the thought of that. I’ve sort of grown used to being immortal.” Then he shook his head quickly. “My master is…” He paused, trying to find the proper word. “He’s different from some of these other Elders. I can explain all this to him.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the prison buildings behind him. “We’ll be fine.”
“Please stop saying that.”
A bright red speedboat pulled up to the dock and a tall, striking-looking Native American with copper skin and hatchet-sharp features grinned up at Billy the Kid. “Our master wants to see you-you too,” he said, looking at Machiavelli. “You are both in so much trouble.”