The Necromancer by Michael Scott

TEN
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one of the late-evening tourists crowding noisily into Covent Garden in London paid any attention to the tall slender woman with the cascade of jet-black hair. She had taken up a position between two of the pillars in front of the Punch & Judy Pub and placed a square of soft leather painted with red curling spirals on the cobbles at her feet. Finally, she unwrapped a carved wooden flute from a leather cover, put the flute to her lips, closed her eyes, and blew gently.
    The sound was extraordinary.
    Magnified by the stone pillars, the haunting, ethereal music drifted out across Covent Garden, washing over the cobbles stopping everyone in their tracks. Within minutes a crowd had gathered in a half circle around the woman.
    Standing perfectly still, she played with her eyes closed. It was a tune none of the listeners recognized, though many found it vaguely familiar and discovered that their fingers or toes were tapping along with the beat. A few were even moved to tears.
    Then, finally, the ancient-sounding wordless music ended with a single high-pitched note that sounded like distant birds flying overhead. There was a long moment of silence and the musician opened her eyes and bowed slightly. The crowd applauded and cheered, and most immediately started to drift away toward the Apple Market. A few dropped money—British sterling, American coins and euros—onto the leather cloth and two people asked if the musician had a CD of her music for sale, but she shook her head and explained that every performance was different and unique. She thanked them for their interest in a soft whispering voice that had just the hint of an American East Coast accent.
    Finally, only one listener remained: an older man who watched her intently, gray eyes following her every movement as she wiped down the flute and slid it back into what was obviously a handmade leather case. He waited until she had stooped to gather up the red leather cloth with its scattering of coins and then stepped forward and dropped a fifty-pound note onto the ground. The woman picked it up and looked at the man, but he had positioned himself so that the light was behind his head, leaving his face in shadow. “There is another fifty if you’ll spare me a few minutes of your time.”
    The woman straightened. “Now, there’s a voice from my past.” She was taller than the man, and while her elegant fine-boned face remained expressionless, her slate-gray eyes danced with amusement. “Dr. John Dee,” she murmured in an accent that had not been heard in England since the time of Queen Elizabeth in the sixteenth century.
    “Miss Virginia Dare,” Dee replied, slipping easily into the same accent. He moved his head and the evening light ran across his face. “It is good to see you again.”
    “I cannot say the same.” The woman glanced quickly left and right, nostrils flaring. Her tongue flickered, like a snake’s, almost as if she was tasting the air. “I’m not sure I want to be seen with you. You have been marked for death, Doctor. The same mercenaries who only yesterday hunted the Alchemyst are now looking for you.” There was nothing friendly about the smile that curled her lips. “How do you know I will not kill you and claim the reward?”
    “Well, two reasons, really. First, I know my masters want me alive, and second, because there is little our Dark Elder masters could offer you that you do not already have,” Dee said, smiling easily. “You are already immortal, and you have no one to call master.”
    “There is a very big reward on your head,” Virginia Dare said, shoving the money into the pockets of her long denim maxi coat. She pushed the leather cloth into another pocket and slung the flute over her shoulder, carrying it like a rifle.
    “I can offer you more,” Dee said confidently. “Much more.”
    “John,” Virginia said almost affectionately, “you always were a terrible braggart.”
    “But I never lied to