cool breeze struck his face.
âI am the brother of blood. For eternity.â
His stomach began to gurgle.
âIâ m hungry.â
He heard steps behind him and smiled. This one was cleverer than the others, but heâd foreseen that pos sibility.
Marcas shone the flashlight on the damp walls and floor while also checking behind him. The room where he had started was far behind him nowâa good hundred meters, at least. Footprints were clearly visible. The killer had come this way. He couldnât go any faster, however, because rusty metal rods were poking out of the ceiling, and heâd run right into one if he wasnâ t careful.
A steady stream of cars was twenty meters above him, but he felt cut off from e verything.
The passageway narrowed and curved to the right. A shadow rose up. Marcas jumped to the side and hit the Taser button. A flash illuminated the darkness. Then there was nothing. Heâd shot at a fallen beam. He sped up, figuring heâd soon reach the end of the tunnel. He heard a pattering along the wall and aimed his flashlight at the sound. It was rats racing in his direction. He stepped aside and gave them wide berth. The tunnel veered left, narrowed again, and then opened onto a rectang ular room.
Symbols had been carved in the stone close to the ceiling: a compass, a square, a plumb line, and two columnsâsymbols familiar to all Freemasons. More than a century earlier, brothers had left their mark in this labyrinth. Marcas whispered a ritual formula in their memory. He lowered the stream of light on the wall opposite him. It had a rough hole big enough to let a man through. To the side a knotted rope was engraved in a rusty metal plaque. He mov ed closer.
Beyond the hole there was nothing but a sharp rubble-covered drop. The foul odor of sludge assaulted him as he climbed through the hole and nearly slipped on the loose stones. He grabbed one that seemed secure and cut his hand.
The stench was suffocating. After five minutes of slow progress he found himself inside a tall tank that was about three meters in diameter. On the walls there were openings for three la rge pipes.
A metal ladder inside of the tank led to a half-open grate in the ceiling. Marcas worked his way to the rungs. Just as he started climbing, a deep rumbling caught his attention. He turned toward the sound. One of the tunnel walls was caving inâexactly what the grand secretary had warned him about. A second later the grate above him slammed shut. It w as a trap!
Marcas flashed his light upward, toward the grate. The hooded man was staring down at him, like a devil from the last circl e of hell.
22
Ãle de la Cité
March 14, 1355
N icolas Flamel told his wife that he had a job he couldnât do at the shop. A rich customer wanted him to copy a book, but it had to be done in his home. Lady Perenelle wished him good night, never doubting his word.
When he arrived at the Palais de Justice on the Ãle de la Cité, Flamel held out his writing case, his parchments, and his feather pens for the guards to inspect. A valet then led him through a maze of staircases and dark rooms before handing him over to two guards stationed at a narrow door. After his things were examined once again he was permitted to descend the winding stairs. He reached the bottom step just as the bells of Notre Dame were ringing fo r vespers.
âYouâre right on time, Master Flamel. Come in, and have a g ood look.â
Flamel would never forget what he saw. A womanâyoung and beautifulâbound to a stone, her face, hands, and body mutilated.
âShe is beautifulâlike the devil,â the torturer said, brushing aside a lock of sweaty hair on her forehead. âSo far she has only been given the ordinary measures. Simple physical pressure. Nothing very forceful. But if she holds out, we will have to use more convincing te chniques.â
Nicolas felt his stomach lurch. âButâ¦
âI am the brother of blood. For eternity.â
His stomach began to gurgle.
âIâ m hungry.â
He heard steps behind him and smiled. This one was cleverer than the others, but heâd foreseen that pos sibility.
Marcas shone the flashlight on the damp walls and floor while also checking behind him. The room where he had started was far behind him nowâa good hundred meters, at least. Footprints were clearly visible. The killer had come this way. He couldnât go any faster, however, because rusty metal rods were poking out of the ceiling, and heâd run right into one if he wasnâ t careful.
A steady stream of cars was twenty meters above him, but he felt cut off from e verything.
The passageway narrowed and curved to the right. A shadow rose up. Marcas jumped to the side and hit the Taser button. A flash illuminated the darkness. Then there was nothing. Heâd shot at a fallen beam. He sped up, figuring heâd soon reach the end of the tunnel. He heard a pattering along the wall and aimed his flashlight at the sound. It was rats racing in his direction. He stepped aside and gave them wide berth. The tunnel veered left, narrowed again, and then opened onto a rectang ular room.
Symbols had been carved in the stone close to the ceiling: a compass, a square, a plumb line, and two columnsâsymbols familiar to all Freemasons. More than a century earlier, brothers had left their mark in this labyrinth. Marcas whispered a ritual formula in their memory. He lowered the stream of light on the wall opposite him. It had a rough hole big enough to let a man through. To the side a knotted rope was engraved in a rusty metal plaque. He mov ed closer.
Beyond the hole there was nothing but a sharp rubble-covered drop. The foul odor of sludge assaulted him as he climbed through the hole and nearly slipped on the loose stones. He grabbed one that seemed secure and cut his hand.
The stench was suffocating. After five minutes of slow progress he found himself inside a tall tank that was about three meters in diameter. On the walls there were openings for three la rge pipes.
A metal ladder inside of the tank led to a half-open grate in the ceiling. Marcas worked his way to the rungs. Just as he started climbing, a deep rumbling caught his attention. He turned toward the sound. One of the tunnel walls was caving inâexactly what the grand secretary had warned him about. A second later the grate above him slammed shut. It w as a trap!
Marcas flashed his light upward, toward the grate. The hooded man was staring down at him, like a devil from the last circl e of hell.
22
Ãle de la Cité
March 14, 1355
N icolas Flamel told his wife that he had a job he couldnât do at the shop. A rich customer wanted him to copy a book, but it had to be done in his home. Lady Perenelle wished him good night, never doubting his word.
When he arrived at the Palais de Justice on the Ãle de la Cité, Flamel held out his writing case, his parchments, and his feather pens for the guards to inspect. A valet then led him through a maze of staircases and dark rooms before handing him over to two guards stationed at a narrow door. After his things were examined once again he was permitted to descend the winding stairs. He reached the bottom step just as the bells of Notre Dame were ringing fo r vespers.
âYouâre right on time, Master Flamel. Come in, and have a g ood look.â
Flamel would never forget what he saw. A womanâyoung and beautifulâbound to a stone, her face, hands, and body mutilated.
âShe is beautifulâlike the devil,â the torturer said, brushing aside a lock of sweaty hair on her forehead. âSo far she has only been given the ordinary measures. Simple physical pressure. Nothing very forceful. But if she holds out, we will have to use more convincing te chniques.â
Nicolas felt his stomach lurch. âButâ¦
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