The Sorceress by Michael Scott

Josh stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying. “How did I know that?” he wondered aloud.
    “Mars,” Sophie whispered. She nodded. “It has to havecome from the God of War.” The girl shuddered; she and her brother were changing. Then she shook her head slightly: they had already changed.
    “Mars. I … I remember,” Josh whispered. “When he was Awakening me he said something at the end, something about giving me a gift that I might find useful in the days to come. And then he rested his hand on the top of my head and I felt this incredible heat flow through me.” He looked at his twin. “What did he give me? I don’t have any strange memories, like the ones the Witch gave you.”
    “I think you should probably be grateful you don’t have his memories,” Sophie said quickly. “The Witch knew Mars and despised him. I would imagine most of his memories are foul. Josh, I think he’s given you his military knowledge.”
    “He’s made me a warrior?” Even though the thought was creepy, Josh was unable to keep the note of delight from his voice.
    “Maybe even something better,” Sophie said, her voice soft and distant, eyes flashing silver. “I think he’s made you a strategist.”
    “And that’s good?” He sounded disappointed
    Sophie nodded quickly. “Battles are won by men. Wars are won by strategists.”
    “Who said that?” Josh asked, surprised.
    “Mars did,” Sophie said, shaking her head to clear the sudden influx of memories. “Don’t you see? Mars was the ultimate strategist; he never lost a battle. It’s an amazing gift.”
    “But why did he give it to me?” Josh asked the question Sophie was thinking.
    Before she could answer, the door to the long metal hut suddenly creaked open and a figure in soiled mechanic’s overalls bustled down the steps. Small and slight, with stooped shoulders and a long oval face, the man blinked nearsightedly at the cab. He had a wispy mustache, and although the top of his head was bald, the hair over his ears and at the back of his head flowed down onto his shoulders.
    “Palamedes?” he snapped, clearly irritated. “What is the meaning of this?” His English was crisp and precise, each word enunciated clearly. He saw the twins and stopped short. Pulling a pair of oversized black-framed glasses from a top pocket, he pushed them onto his face. “Who are these people?” And then he turned and spotted Nicholas Flamel at about the same time the Alchemyst saw him.
    Both men reacted simultaneously.
    “Flamel!” The small man shrieked. He turned and darted back toward the hut, scrambling and falling on the metal steps.
    Nicholas grunted something in archaic French, tore open Josh’s backpack and wrenched Clarent from the cardboard map tube. Holding it in a tight two-handed grip, he swung it around his head, the edge of the blade keening and humming through the air. “Run,” he shouted to the twins, “run for your lives! It’s a trap!”

efore Sophie or Josh could react, Palamedes reared up behind the Alchemyst and his two huge hands locked onto Flamel’s shoulders. The two immortals’ auras blazed and crackled, the Alchemyst’s bright green mingling with the knight’s darker olive green. The acrid metal-and-rubber-tainted air of the car yard was suffused with the clean odor of mint and the spicy warmth of cloves. Flamel struggled to swing Clarent around, but the knight tightened his grip and pushed, driving the Alchemyst to his knees, fingers biting into the flesh, pinching nerves. The sword dropped from Flamel’s hand.
    Sophie spread the fingers of her right hand wide and prepared to call up the element of fire, but Josh caught her arm and pulled it down. “No,” he said urgently, just as the pack of dogs boiled out from beneath the hut and swarmed around them. The animals moved in complete silence, lips bared toreveal savage yellow teeth and lolling tongues that were forked like snakes’. “Don’t move,” he whispered, squeezing