Standing at the prow of a speedboat bouncing across the icy waters of San Francisco Bay, Niccolo Machiavelli closed his eyes and allowed the salt spray to hide the sudden tears on his face.
When Machiavelli had still been mortal, his wife, Marietta, had once accused him of being an uncaring inhuman monster. “You will die lonely and alone, because you don’t care for anyone,” she’d screamed at him, and thrown an antique Roman plate at his head. He’d long since forgotten what the argument was about, but he’d never forgotten the words. And whenever he thought of them, he remembered Marietta, whom he had loved dearly and still missed, and he wept for her. He never minded the tears: they reminded him that he was still human.
He’d once thought that being immortal was an extraordinary gift.
And in the beginning it was. He had all the time in the world to plot and scheme, to lay plans that would take generations to complete. Working behind the scenes, he had shaped the destinies of a dozen European and Russian nations, had organized wars and revolutions and arranged peace treaties. He had backed leaders, funded inventors, invested in artists and designers. Then he had sat back and watched his grand plans unfold. But somewhere amid all the scheming and plotting, he had stopped thinking about the individuals he was manipulating. He thought of the humani-the humans-merely as objects to be pushed about like pieces on a chessboard.
He had served his Elder master devotedly, doing as he was told even when he disagreed with his orders. Initially, he had believed-because it was the logical conclusion-that the earth would be a better place if the Dark Elders returned.
Now he was not so sure.
He hadn’t been sure for the past two hundred years.
And today… today everything had changed. The turning point had come when he had sat facing Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent and listened while the arrogant Elder almost casually determined whether Machiavelli should live or die. Shockingly, the only reason he had been allowed to live was because Quetzalcoatl felt that he owed Machiavelli’s master a favor. No consideration was given to the centuries of loyal service Machiavelli had performed for the Elders. His skills, his knowledge, his experience, were all dismissed.
His life had been spared by nothing more than chance.
And sitting in that chair, arguing for his life, it had struck him that on far too many occasions he had acted just like Quetzalcoatl. He had passed judgment on the lives of countless men, women and children he had never met and would never know. He had made decisions that would shape their lives and the lives of their descendants for generations to come.
Marietta was right: he didn’t care for anyone.
But she was also wrong. He had always cared for her and adored his children, especially his son Guido, who had been born a few short years before Machiavelli’s “death.”
What had happened? What had changed him?
It all came back to the same answer: immortality.
Immortality had transformed him utterly, had warped his thinking, had made him the uncaring inhuman monster Marietta had accused him of being long before he actually was. He had stopped thinking of humans as individuals-he thought of them as masses of people, as either enemies or friends.
He had become blinded by his own ambition. In his arrogance he had thought that he was different from the humans, that he was, in some way, like the Elders. But today, he had realized that the Elders thought as much of him as he thought of the rest of the human population.
And now he was on another mission for the Elders, one that would affect the lives of millions of people all across the globe. He had tinkered with the destiny of nations; now he was about to reshape the future of the world.
“I’m not liking what I’m seeing,” Billy the Kid drawled, taking up a position alongside the Italian.
Machiavelli looked toward the fast-approaching island. “Is something wrong?”
“Not over there. Here,” Billy said. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pitched his voice just above the hum of the engine and the splashing of the waves so that only Machiavelli could hear it. “You’ve got a look on your face that I don’t like.”
Machiavelli composed himself. “A look?”
“Yep. The look of someone who is thinking deep thoughts. Dark thoughts. Stupid thoughts.”
“And you would be an expert on facial expressions?” Machiavelli said sarcastically.
“Sure am,” Billy said, blue eyes twinkling. “Kept me alive long enough.”
“And what do you think my face reveals?” Machiavelli asked. He’d always been able to keep his face expressionless and was irritated that this uneducated young immortal had managed to read him so easily. Perhaps he had underestimated the American.
Billy took a hand out of his back pocket and rubbed it across his chin, stubble rasping. “You’ve never been in a gunfight?” he asked.
Machiavelli blinked in surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”
“What about a duel? Didn’t you have duels in Europe-swords and pistols at dawn, that sort of thing?”
The Italian nodded. “I’ve attended some.”
“I bet you always knew who was going to lose.”
Machiavelli considered, then nodded. “Yes. I suppose I did.”
“How could you tell?” Billy asked.
“From the expression on their face, the way they stood, the set of their shoulders…”
“Exactly. They expected to lose. And therefore, they lost. Now, I was never a great shot, and never very fast. All that quick-draw nonsense comes from books written about me, and most of those are lies. But I always expected to win. Always. And I made sure to associate with others who expected to win.” He paused and added, “People who start thinking deep dark thoughts in the middle of a war start expecting to lose. And they end up dead because they’re not thinking straight, they’re not focused.”
Machiavelli’s head tilted in a slight bow. “That is a very astute observation. And do you have a suggestion?”
Billy nodded toward the island. “Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. Let’s do what our Elder masters have commanded and awaken these sleeping beasts, before we start thinking deep dark thoughts.”
“We?”
“We.” Billy smiled. “I bet you could teach me a lot.”
Machiavelli nodded, surprised. “And I believe I could learn a lot from you.”
The boat bumped against the dock and Black Hawk pulled them in against the wooden pilings. “All ashore,” he called.
Billy the Kid leapt onto the wooden gangway and then stooped to offer his hand to the Italian. Machiavelli hesitated a moment, then took it, and Billy hauled him up. Black Hawk immediately revved the engine, water churning white as he backed away.
“Are you not joining us?” Billy asked.
“You must be joking! I wouldn’t set foot on this island. It is a cursed place.” Even as he was speaking, dozens of women’s faces appeared just below the surface of the water. Iridescent fishtails flickered. “Call me when you’re done. Will you be long?”
Billy looked at Machiavelli and raised his eyebrows.
“A couple of hours.”
Billy the Kid grinned. “Time enough to change the world.”