The Alchemyst: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel
 

I read it in gaia well it was an expert from the book and i really like it but sadly i havent been able to get it yet cuz i don't live near any borders or bookstores that might have it.

I am legend.
Death has no claim over me, illness cannot touch me. Look at
me now and it would be hard to put an age upon me, and yet I was
born in the Year of Our Lord 1330, more than six hundred and seventy
years ago.
I have been many things in my time: a physician and a cook, a
bookseller and a soldier, a teacher of languages and chemistry,
both an officer of the law and a thief.
But before all these I was an alchemyst. I was the Alchemyst.
I was acknowledged as the greatest Alchemyst of all, sought
after by kings and princes, by emperors and even the Pope himself.
I could turn ordinary metal into gold, I could change common
stones into precious jewels. More than this: I discovered the secret
of Life Eternal hidden deep in a book of ancient magic.
Now my wife, Perenelle, has been kidnapped and the book
stolen.

Without the book, she and I will age. Within the full cycle of
the moon, we will wither and die. And if we die, then the evil we
have so long fought against will triumph. The Elder Race will reclaim
this Earth again, and they will wipe humanity from the face
of this planet.
But I will not go down without a fight.
For I am the immortal Nicholas Flamel.
From the Day Booke of Nicholas Flamel, Alchemyst
Writ this day, Thursday, 31st May, in San Francisco, my adopted city

OK answer me this: why would anyone want to wear
an overcoat in San Francisco in the middle of summer?”
Sophie Newman pressed her fingers against the Bluetooth
earpiece as she spoke.
On the other side of the continent, her fashion-conscious
friend Elle inquired matter-of-factly, “What sort of coat?”
Wiping her hands on the cloth tucked into her apron
strings, Sophie moved out from behind the counter of the
empty coffee shop and stepped up to the window, watching
men emerge from the car across the street. “Heavy black
wool overcoats. They’re even wearing black gloves and hats.
And sunglasses.” She pressed her face against the glass. “Even
for this city, that’s just a little too weird.”
“Maybe they’re undertakers?” Elle suggested, her voice
popping and clicking on the cell phone. Sophie could hear

I read the thing on Gaia as well and I am still waiting to get the book.

It really does look very good, but when I first saw the title I thought J.K. Rowling was getting ready to sue for copyright infringement or whatever. It took a few mintutes to figure out this was probably a real guy, or at least a guy Rowling did not create.

something loud and dismal playing in the background—
Lacrimosa maybe, or Amorphis. Elle had never quite got over
her Goth phase.
“Maybe,” Sophie answered, sounding unconvinced. She’d
been chatting on the phone with her friend when, a few moments
earlier, she’d spotted the unusual-looking car. It was
long and sleek and looked as if it belonged in an old blackand-
white movie. As it drove past the window, sunlight reflected
off the blacked-out windows, briefly illuminating the
interior of the coffee shop in warm yellow-gold light, blinding
Sophie. Blinking away the black spots dancing before her eyes,
she watched as the car turned at the bottom of the hill and
slowly returned. Without signaling, it pulled over directly in
front of The Small Book Shop, right across the street.
“Maybe they’re Mafia,” Elle suggested dramatically. “My
dad knows someone in the Mafia. But he drives a Prius,” she
added.
“This is most definitely not a Prius,” Sophie said, looking
again at the car and the two large men standing on the street
bundled up in their heavy overcoats, gloves and hats, their
eyes hidden behind overlarge sunglasses.
“Maybe they’re just cold,” Elle suggested. “Doesn’t it get
cool in San Francisco?”
Sophie Newman glanced at the clock and thermometer
on the wall over the counter behind her. “It’s two-fifteen
here . . . and eighty-one degrees,” she said. “Trust me,
they’re not cold. They must be dying. Wait,” she said, interrupting
herself, “something’s happening.”
The rear door opened and another man, even larger than

the first two, climbed stiffly out of the car. As he closed the
door, sunlight briefly touched his face and Sophie caught a
glimpse of pale, unhealthy-looking gray-white skin. She adjusted
the volume on the earpiece. “OK. You should see what
just climbed out of the car. A huge guy with gray skin. Gray.
That might explain it; maybe they have some type of skin
condition.”
“I saw a National Geographic documentary about people
who can’t go out in the sun . . . ,” Elle began, but Sophie was
no longer listening to her.
A fourth figure stepped out of the car.
He was a small, rather dapper-looking man, dressed in a
neat charcoal-gray three-piece suit that looked vaguely oldfashioned
but that she could tell had been tailor-made for
him. His iron gray hair was pulled back from an angular face
into a tight ponytail, while a neat triangular beard, mostly
black but flecked with gray, concealed his mouth and chin.
He moved away from the car and stepped under the striped
awning that covered the trays of books outside the shop.
When he picked up a brightly colored paperback and turned
it over in his hands, Sophie noticed that he was wearing gray
gloves. A pearl button at the wrist winked in the light.
“They’re going into the bookshop,” she said into her earpiece.
“Is Josh still working there?” Elle immediately asked.
Sophie ignored the sudden interest in her friend’s voice.
The fact that her best friend liked her twin brother was just a
little too weird. “Yeah. I’m going to call him to see what’s up.
I’ll call you right back.” She hung up, pulled out the earpiece

and absently rubbed her hot ear as she stared, fascinated, at
the small man. There was something about him . . . something
odd. Maybe he was a fashion designer, she thought, or
a movie producer, or maybe he was an author—she’d noticed
that some authors liked to dress up in peculiar outfits. She’d
give him a few minutes to get into the shop, then she’d call
her twin for a report.
Sophie was about to turn away when the gray man suddenly
spun around and seemed to stare directly at her. As he
stood under the awning, his face was in shadow, and yet for just
the briefest instant, his eyes looked as if they were glowing.
Sophie knew—just knew—that there was no possible way
for the small gray man to see her: she was standing on the opposite
side of the street behind a pane of glass that was bright
with reflected early-afternoon sunlight. She would be invisible
in the gloom behind the glass.
And yet . . .
And yet in that single moment when their eyes met, Sophie
felt the tiny hairs on the back of her hands and along her
forearms tingle and felt a puff of cold air touch the back of
her neck. She rolled her shoulders, turning her head slightly
from side to side, strands of her long blond hair curling across
her cheek. The contact lasted only a second before the small
man looked away, but Sophie got the impression that he had
looked directly at her.
In the instant before the gray man and his three overdressed
companions disappeared into the bookshop, Sophie
decided that she did not like him.

Peppermint.
And rotten eggs.
“That is just vile.” Josh Newman stood in the center of
the bookstore’s cellar and breathed deeply. Where were those
smells coming from? He looked around at the shelves stacked
high with books and wondered if something had crawled in
behind them and died. What else would account for such a
foul stink? The tiny cramped cellar always smelled dry and
musty, the air heavy with the odors of parched curling paper,
mingled with the richer aroma of old leather bindings and
dusty cobwebs. He loved the smell; he always thought it was
warm and comforting, like the scents of cinnamon and spices
that he associated with Christmas.
Peppermint.
Sharp and clean, the smell cut through the close cellar atmosphere.
It was the odor of new toothpaste or those herbal
teas his sister served in the coffee shop across the street. It
sliced though the heavier smells of leather and paper, and was
so strong that it made his sinuses tingle; he felt as if he was
going to sneeze at any moment. He quickly pulled out his
iPod earbuds. Sneezing with headphones on was not a good
idea: made your ears pop.
Eggs.
Foul and stinking—he recognized the sulfurous odor of
rotten eggs. It blanketed the clear odor of mint . . . and it was
disgusting. He could feel the stench coating his tongue and
lips, and his scalp began to itch as if something were crawling
through it. Josh ran his fingers through his shaggy blond hair
and shuddered. The drains must be backing up.

Leaving the earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he
checked the book list in his hand, then looked at the shelves
again: The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, twenty-seven
volumes, red leather binding. Now where was he going to
find that?
Josh had been working in the bookshop for nearly two
months and still didn’t have the faintest idea where anything
was. There was no filing system . . . or rather, there was a system,
but it was known only to Nick and Perry Fleming, the
owners of The Small Book Shop. Nick or his wife could put
their hands on any book in either the shop upstairs or the cellar
in a matter of minutes.
A wave of peppermint, immediately followed by rotten
eggs, filled the air again; Josh coughed and felt his eyes water.
This was impossible! Stuffing the book list into one pocket of
his jeans and the headphones into the other, he maneuvered
his way through the piled books and stacks of boxes, heading
for the stairs. He couldn’t spend another minute down there
with the smell. He rubbed the heels of his palms against his
eyes, which were now stinging furiously. Grabbing the stair
rail, he pulled himself up. He needed a breath of fresh air or
he was going to throw up—but, strangely, the closer he came
to the top of the stairs, the stronger the odors became.
He popped his head out of the cellar door and looked
around.
And in that instant, Josh Newman realized that the world
would never be the same again.

Josh peered over the edge of the cellar, eyes watering with
the stink of sulfur and mint. His first impression was that the
usually quiet shop was crowded: four men facing Nick Fleming,
the owner, three of them huge and hulking, one smaller
and sinister-looking. Josh immediately guessed that the shop
was being robbed.
His boss, Nick Fleming, stood in the middle of the bookshop,
facing the others. He was a rather ordinary-looking
man. Average height and build, with no real distinguishing
features, except for his eyes, which were so pale that they
were almost completely colorless. His black hair was cropped
close to his skull and he always seemed to have stubble on his
chin, as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. He was
dressed as usual in simple black jeans, a loose black T-shirt advertising
a concert that had taken place twenty-five years earlier
and a pair of battered cowboy boots. There was a cheap

digital watch on his left wrist and a heavy silver-link bracelet
on his right, alongside two tatty multicolored friendship
bracelets.
Facing him was a small gray man in a smart suit.
Josh realized that they were not speaking . . . and yet
something was going on between them. Both men were
standing still, their arms close to their bodies, elbows tucked
in, open palms turned upward. Nick was in the center of the
shop, while the gray man was standing close to the door, his
three black-coated companions around him. Strangely, both
men’s fingers were moving, twitching, dancing, as if they
were typing furiously, thumb brushing against forefinger, little
finger touching thumb, index and little finger extended.
Tendrils and wisps of green mist gathered in Fleming’s palms,
then curled in ornate patterns and drifted onto the floor, where
they writhed like serpents. Foul, yellow-tinged smoke coiled
and dripped from the gray man’s gloved hands, spattering onto
the wooden floor like dirty liquid.
The stench rolled off the smoke, thickening the atmosphere
with the scent of peppermint and sulfur. Josh felt his
stomach twist and lurch and he swallowed hard; the rottenegg
smell was enough to make him gag.
The air between the two men shimmered with tendrils
of green and yellow smoke, and where they touched, sparks
hissed and sizzled. Fleming’s fingers moved, and a long fistthick
coil of green smoke appeared in the palm of his hand.
He blew on it, a quick hissing breath, and it spun up into the
air, twisting and untwisting at head height between the two
men. The gray man’s short, stubby fingers tapped out their

own rhythm and a yellow ball of energy spun from his hands
and bobbed away. It touched the coil of green smoke, which
immediately wrapped around the ball. There was a sparking
snap . . . and the invisible explosion blew both men backward
across the room, sending them crashing across the tables of
books. Lightbulbs popped and fluorescents shattered, raining
powdery glass onto the floor. Two of the windows exploded
outward, while another dozen of the small square panes shattered
and spiderwebbed.
Nick Fleming tumbled to the floor, close to the opening
to the cellar, almost landing on top of Josh, who was standing
frozen on the steps, wide-eyed with shock and horror. As
Nick clambered to his feet, he pushed Josh back down the
stairs. “Stay down, whatever happens, stay down,” he hissed,
his English touched with an indefinable accent. He straightened
as he turned and Josh saw him turn his right palm upward,
bring it close to his face and blow into it. Then he made
a throwing motion toward the center of the room, as if he
were lobbing a ball.
Josh craned his neck to follow the movement. But there
was nothing to see . . . and then it was as if all the air had been
sucked out of the room. Books were suddenly ripped from
the nearby shelves, drawn into an untidy heap in the center of
the floor; framed prints were dragged from the walls; a heavy
woolen rug curled upward and was sucked into the center of
the room.
Then the heap exploded.
Two of the big men in black overcoats caught the full
force of the explosion. Josh watched as books, some heavy

and hard, others soft and sharp, flew around them like angry
birds. He winced in sympathy as one man took the full force
of a dictionary in the face. It knocked away his hat and sunglasses
. . . revealing dead-looking, muddy, gray skin and eyes
like polished black stones. A shelf of romance novels battered
against his companion’s face, snapping the cheap sunglasses
in two. Josh discovered that he, too, had eyes that looked like
stones.
And he suddenly realized that they were stones.
He was turning to Nick Fleming, a question forming on his
lips, when his boss glanced at him. “Stay down,” he commanded.
“He’s brought Golems.” Fleming ducked as the gray
man sent three long spearlike blades of yellow energy across the
room. They sliced through bookshelves and stabbed into the
wooden floor. Everything they touched immediately started to
rot and putrefy. Leather bindings snapped and cracked, paper
blackened, wooden floorboards and shelves turned dry and
powdery.
Fleming tossed another invisible ball into the corner of
the room. Josh Newman followed the motion of his boss’s
arm. As the unseen ball sailed through the air, a shaft of sunlight
caught it, and for an instant, he saw it glow green and
faceted, like an emerald globe. Then it moved out of the sunlight
and vanished again. This time when it hit the floor, the
effect was even more dramatic. There was no sound, but the
entire building shook. Tables of cheap paperbacks dissolved
into matchwood, and slivers of paper filled the air with bizarre
confetti. Two of the men in black—the Golems—were
slammed back against the shelves, bringing books tumbling

down on top of them, while a third—the biggest—was pushed
so hard against the door that he was propelled out onto the
street.
And in the silence that followed came the sound of gloved
hands clapping. “You have perfected that technique, I see,
Nicholas.” The gray man spoke English with a curious lilt.
“I’ve been practicing, John,” Nick Fleming said, sliding
toward the open cellar door, shoving Josh Newman farther
down the stairs. “I knew you would catch up with me sooner
or later.”
“We’ve been looking for you for a very long time, Nicholas.
You’ve got something of ours. And we want it back.”
A sliver of yellow smoke bit into the ceiling above Fleming’s
and Josh’s heads. Bubbling, rotten black plaster drifted
down like bitter snowflakes.
“I burned it,” Fleming said, “burned it a long time ago.”
He pushed Josh even farther into the cellar, then pulled the
sliding door closed, sealing them both in. “Don’t ask,” he
warned, his pale eyes shining in the gloom. “Not now.”
Catching Josh by the arm, Nick pulled him into the darkest
corner of the bookstore cellar, caught a section of shelving in
both hands and jerked it forward. There was a click, and the
shelving swung outward, revealing a set of steps hidden
behind it. Fleming urged Josh forward into the gloom.
“Quickly now, quickly and quietly,” he warned. He followed
Josh into the opening and pulled the shelves closed behind
him just as the cellar door turned into a foul black liquid
and flowed down the stairs with the most appalling stench
of sulfur.

“Up.” Nick Fleming’s voice was warm against Josh’s ear.
“This comes out in the empty shop next door to ours. We
have to hurry. It’ll take Dee only a few moments to realize
what’s happened.”
Josh Newman nodded; he knew the shop. The dry cleaner’s
had been empty all summer. He had a hundred questions, and
none of the answers that ran through his mind was satisfactory,
since most of them contained that one awful word in them:
magic. He had just watched two men toss balls and spears of
something—of energy—at each other. He had witnessed the destruction
those energies had caused.
Josh had just witnessed magic.
But of course, everyone knew that magic simply did not
and could not exist.
14

What was that disgusting smell?
Sophie Newman was just about to press the Bluetooth
headset back into her ear when she breathed deeply and
paused, nostrils flaring. She’d just smelled something awful.
Closing her phone and pushing her headset into a pocket, she
leaned over the open jar of dark tea leaves and inhaled.
She had been working in The Coffee Cup since she and
her brother had arrived in San Francisco for the summer. It
was an OK job, nothing special. Most of the customers were
nice, a few were ignorant and one or two were downright
rude, but the hours were fine, the pay was good, the tips were
better and the shop had the added advantage of being just
across the road from where her twin brother worked. They
had turned fifteen last December and had already started to
save for their own car. They estimated it would take them

at least two years—if they bought no CDs, DVDs, games,
clothes or shoes, which were Sophie’s big weakness.
Usually, there were two other staff on duty with her, but
one had gone home sick earlier, and Bernice, who owned the
shop, had left after the lunchtime rush to go to the wholesalers’
to stock up on fresh supplies of tea and coffee. She had
promised to be back in an hour; Sophie knew it would take at
least twice that.
Over the summer, Sophie had grown used to the smells of
the different exotic teas and coffee the shop sold. She could
tell her Earl Grey from her Darjeeling, and knew the difference
between Javanese and Kenyan coffee. She enjoyed the
smell of coffee, though she hated the bitter taste of it. But she
loved tea. In the past couple of weeks she had been gradually
sampling all the teas, particularly the herbal teas with their
fruity tastes and unusual aromas.
But now something smelled foul and disgusting.
Almost like rotten eggs.
Sophie brought a tin of loose tea to her face and breathed
deeply. The crisp odor of Assam caught at the back of her
throat: the stench wasn’t coming from there.
“You’re supposed to drink it, not inhale it.”
Sophie turned as Perry Fleming came into the shop. Perry
Fleming was a tall, elegant woman who could have been any
age from forty to sixty. It was clear that she had once been
beautiful, and she was still striking. Her eyes were the brightest,
clearest green Sophie had ever seen, and for a long time
she had wondered if the older woman wore colored contact
lenses. Perry’s hair had once been jet-black, but now it was

shot through with strands of silver, and she wore it in an intricate
braided ponytail that lay along her back almost to the
base of her spine. Her teeth were small and perfect, and her
face was traced with tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.
She was always much more elegantly dressed than her husband,
and today she was wearing a mint green sleeveless summer
dress that matched her eyes, in what Sophie thought was
probably pure silk.
“I just thought it smelled peculiar,” Sophie said. She
sniffed the tea again. “Smells fine now,” she added, “but for
a moment there, I thought it smelled like . . . like . . . like rotten
eggs.”
She was looking at Perry Fleming as she spoke. She was
startled when the woman’s bright green eyes snapped wide
open and she whirled around to look across the street . . . just
as all the little square windows of the bookshop abruptly developed
cracks and two simply exploded into dust. Wisps of
green and yellow smoke curled out into the street and the air
was filled with the stench of rotten eggs. Sophie caught another
smell too, the sharper, cleaner smell of peppermint.
The older woman’s lips moved, and she whispered, “Oh
no . . . not now . . . not here.”
“Mrs. Fleming . . . Perry?”
The woman rounded on Sophie. Her eyes were wild and
terrified and her usually faultless English now held a hint of a
foreign accent. “Stay here; whatever happens, stay here and
stay down.”
Sophie was opening her mouth to ask a question when
she felt her ears pop. She swallowed hard . . . and then the

door to the bookshop crashed open and one of the big men
Sophie had seen earlier was flung out onto the street. Now he
was missing his hat and glasses, and Sophie caught a glimpse
of his dead-looking skin and his marble black eyes. He crouched
in the middle of the street for a moment, then he raised his
hand to shield his face from the sunlight.
And Sophie felt something cold and solid settle into the
pit of her stomach.
The skin on the man’s hand was moving. It was slowly
flowing, shifting viscously down into his sleeve: it looked as if
his fingers were melting. A glob of what appeared to be gray
mud spattered onto the street.
“Golems,” Perry gasped. “My God, he’s created Golems.”
“Gollums?” Sophie asked, her mouth thick and dry, her
tongue suddenly feeling far too large for her mouth. “Gollum,
from Lord of the Rings?”
Perry was moving toward the door. “No: Golems,” she
said absently, “Men of Clay.”
The name meant nothing to Sophie, but she watched
with a mixture of horror and confusion as the creature—the
Golem—on the street crawled out of the sun and under the
cover of the awning. Like a huge slug, he left a wet muddy
trail behind him, which immediately dried in the fierce sunlight.
Sophie caught another glimpse of his face before he
staggered into the bookshop. His features had flowed like
melted wax and a fine web of cracks covered the skin. It reminded
her of the floor of a desert.
Perry dashed out into the street. Sophie watched as the
woman pulled her hair free of its intricate braid and shook

it loose. But instead of lying flat against her back, her hair
flowed out about her, as if it were blown in a gentle breeze.
Only there was no breeze.
Sophie hesitated a moment; then, grabbing a broom, she
dashed across the road after Perry. Josh was in the bookstore!
The bookshop was in chaos.
The once-neat shelves and carefully stacked tables were
scattered and tossed about the room in heaps. Bookcases
were shattered, shelves snapped in half, ornate prints and
maps lay crushed on the floor. The stench of rot and decay
hung about the room: pulped paper and wood turned dry
and rotting, even the ceiling was scored and torn, plaster
shredded to reveal the wooden joists and dangling electrical
wires.
The small gray man stood in the center of the floor. He
was fastidiously brushing dust off the sleeve of his coat while
two of his Golems explored the cellar. The third Golem, damaged
and stiff from exposure to the sun, leaned awkwardly
against a crushed bookcase. Flakes of gray mudlike skin were
spiraling off what remained of his hands.
The gray man turned as Perry, followed by Sophie,
dashed into the bookshop. He gave a neat little bow. “Ah,
Madame Perenelle. I was wondering where you were.”
“Where is Nicholas?” Perry demanded. She pronounced
the name “Nicola.” Sophie saw a static charge ripple down
the woman’s hair, blue and white sparks crackling.
“Downstairs, I believe. My creatures are looking for him.”
Clutching the broom tightly in both hands, Sophie slipped

past Perry and crept around to the other side of the room.
Josh. Where was Josh? She had no idea what was happening
and didn’t care. She just needed to find her brother.
“You are looking as lovely as ever,” the gray man said,
eyes fixed on Perry. “You haven’t aged a day.” He bowed
again, an old-fashioned, courtly movement that he performed
effortlessly. “It is always a joy to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same for you, Dee.” Perry moved
farther into the room, eyes darting from side to side. “I recognized
your foul stench.”
Dee closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “I rather like the
smell of brimstone. It is so . . .” He paused. “So dramatic.”
Then his gray eyes snapped open and the smile faded. “We’ve
come for the Book, Perenelle. And don’t tell me you’ve destroyed
it,” he added. “Your continued remarkable good
health is proof indeed of its existence.”
Which book? Sophie wondered, glancing around the
room; the shop was full of books.
“We are the guardians of the Book,” Perry said, and
something in her voice made Sophie turn to look at her. The
girl stopped, mouth and eyes wide with horror. A silver mist
surrounded Perry Fleming, rising off her skin in gossamer
threads. Pale and translucent in places, it gathered thick and
hard around her hands, making it look as if she were wearing
metal gauntlets. “You will never get it,” Perry snapped.
“We will,” Dee said. “We’ve accumulated all the other
treasures over the years. Only the Book remains. Now, make
it easy on yourself and tell me where it is. . . .”
“Never!”

“I knew you would say that,” Dee said, and then the
huge Golem launched himself at Perry. “Humans are so predictable.”
Nick Fleming and Josh were opening the door of the dry
cleaner’s when they saw Perry, followed by Sophie, race
across the street and into the bookshop. “Get this door
open,” Nick snapped as he reached under his T-shirt. From a
simple square cloth bag dangling around his neck, he produced
what looked like a small book bound in coppercolored
metal.
Josh slammed back the bolts and tugged open the door
and Nick raced out, quickly thumbing through the roughedged
pages as he ran, looking for something. Josh caught a
brief glimpse of ornate writing and geometric patterns on the
thick yellowed pages as he followed Nick back into the bookshop.
Nick and Josh arrived in time to see the Golem touch
Perry.
And explode.
Fine, gritty powder filled the air, and the heavy black
overcoat crumpled to the floor. For a moment, a miniature
whirlwind spun there, churning up the dust, then it curled
away.
But Nick and Josh’s entry diverted Perry’s attention. She
half turned . . . and in that instant Dee drew his left arm
across his eyes and hurled a tiny crystal ball onto the floor.
It was as if the sun had exploded in the room.
The light was incredible. Blinding and harsh, it blanketed

the room in its ghastly flare, and with the light came the
smell: the stink of burning hair and overcooked food, smoldering
leaves and scorched metal mingled with the acrid
fumes of diesel.
Josh caught a glimpse of his sister just as Dee tossed the
crystal. He was partially shielded by Nick and Perry, both of
whom were battered to the floor by the light. Josh’s vision
became a kaleidoscope of black-and-white still images as the
light seared the rods and cones at the back of his eyes. He
saw Nick drop the metal-bound book onto the floor . . . saw
two black-clad shapes surround Perry and vaguely heard her
scream . . . saw Dee snatch the book with a grunt of triumph
while Nick groped blindly on the floor.
“You lose, Nicholas,” Dee hissed, “as you have always
lost. Now I get to take those things most precious to you:
your beloved Perenelle and your book.”
Josh was moving even before he was aware of it. He
launched himself at Dee, catching the small man by surprise.
Although only fifteen, Josh was tall for his age, and heavy: he
was big enough to be a linebacker, and the youngest on his
football team. He knocked Dee to the ground, sending the
book spinning out of his grasp. Josh felt the heavy metal cover
beneath his fingertips and caught it—just as he was lifted
straight off the floor and tossed into a corner. He landed on a
pile of books that cushioned his fall. Black spots and darts of
rainbow light moved across his eyes every time he blinked.
Dee’s gray shape loomed over Josh, then his gloved hand
reached down for the book. “Mine, I think.”

Josh’s grip tightened, but Dee simply wrenched the book
from his hand.
“You. Leave. My. Brother. Alone.” Sophie Newman brought
the broom down five times on Dee’s back, once for every
word.
Dee barely glanced at her. Clutching the book in one
gloved hand, he caught the broom in the other and muttered
a single word, and it immediately withered and turned to
ragged pulpy splinters in Sophie’s hands. “You’re lucky I’m in
a good humor today,” he whispered, “else I’d do the same to
you.” Then Dee and his two remaining Golems swept out of
the devastated bookshop, carrying Perry Fleming between
them, and slammed the door closed. There was a long moment
of silence, and then the last remaining undisturbed shelf
of books clattered to the floor.
23