A/N—I don't own The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel; it belongs, in its entirety, to Mr. Michael Scott.

The only changes in this chapter are basic rewrites and some added dialogue.

So close. He was so close.

The words throbbed in Palamedes' brain as he led the way down the hallway. Everything except Will vanished from thought; nothing else mattered, and even the other immortals with him were beneath his notice. He barely heard the strange cry that reverberated in the hall behind him; he barely felt the strange wind that whipped about him in the dark passageway as if an opening had let it in; he barely smelled licorice, and would have ignored everything if it hadn't been for the flat edge of a sword slamming into his knees and sending him sprawling.

"Hey," Mordred stood over him, his swords flaming with black fire. Palamedes surged to his feet, casting a glance behind him to where the other immortals stood—or where they should have been.

"Oh, yes!" Mordred laughed. "They encountered a little trapdoor, that's all. Nothing to worry about. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I wanted it to be just you and me."

Palamedes drew his sword and gripped it tightly. "Fine."

Mordred chuckled. "Alright then. Do I have to tell you to bring it on?"

Both men charged.

Their swords connected in a spurt of fire. Mordred's blades coursed with black fire, the flames surging down Palamedes' blade as well; the hilt burned against Palamedes' hand. The high scream of metal rang throughout the hallway as the two men tore their swords away, preparing for another strike.

Palamedes fought as he had never fought before. Mordred was the only thing standing between him and Will; Mordred was the only enemy that needed defeating. Anger clouded his vision and his judgment, and he swung wildly, not thinking, hoping to feel his blade connect with flesh.

But Mordred was good. He fought with a prowess that Palamedes had not expected; the young man deflected every one of Palamedes' blows, and often managed to slip in a bolt of auric energy as he backed away. The advantage was with Mordred: he was rested, well fed, and triumphant; Palamedes had not slept since Will's disappearance, had not eaten since the half-touched meal in Aude and Roland's café, and was defeated (physically, mentally, and emotionally) by the stress of Will's capture.

Palamedes' and Mordred's blades connected once more, metal screeching, and Mordred's black aura roiled off the young man's blade in coils that wrapped around Palamedes, enveloping him, paralyzing him.

"Beaten," Mordred said smugly, echoing Hercules' statement from the earlier; he brought up his weapon up in a move that sent Palamedes' sword twisting, nearly falling out of the knight's stiff hand.

"Not yet." Palamedes grunted. He summoned his aura—the only thing not paralyzed—and sent his favorite spell (he remembered Will with a pang as he did so; the Bard had taught it to him) at Mordred.

It worked. An invisible force pressed the young man into the ground. He crumpled slowly, pushed down as if he bore the weight of the earth. As he struggled to evade the pressure of Palamedes' spell, the black cloud about Palamedes vanished and the knight stepped forward. He brought his sword down in a killing stroke that, at the last moment, he manipulated into a stunning blow. Mordred went limp and fell to the cold stone floor. (Will had never approved of killing).

Leaving Mordred's still form sprawled in the passage, and the other immortals to their own devices, Palamedes pressed on, searching for the stairs that he had seen in Annette's illusion. The corridor was long, with no turns, but it stretched on in what seemed like an endless strip of stone.

After what seemed like an eternity (and with every step he had taken Palamedes' had felt his heart sink a little more), the steps appeared before him: long, cracked, and stooping. Palamedes rushed forward, Will's name escaping from his lips in a ragged whisper.

The stones beneath his feet shifted as he ran, and before he had a chance to analyze the situation the ground gave way beneath him—the stones pulled aside, and he plummeted down.

Warrior reflexes honed over the course of several centuries allowed Palamedes to land like a cat, crouched and on his feet. The impact sent jars of pain running up and down his legs, but it was better than a head concussion, which was a complication that he couldn't afford.

"Palamedes!" Roland and Hercules rushed over from across the large room, which appeared to stretch across the entire length of the hallway above. They helped him to his feet, little as it was needed.

"What happened?" Hercules asked. "I saw Mordred, but he trapdoored us before we could warn you."

Roland winced at the made-up word, but nodded in affirmation of Hercules' statement and muttered something in French that Palamedes didn't bother to listen to.

"Where are the others?" Palamedes asked, rubbing his ankles and checking to make sure that no lasting damage had been done by his fall.

"Olivere is wounded," Roland answered softly, pale with concern, using the more familiar variation of his companion's name.

"Not much!" Oliver asserted from a corner, but his voice was slurred, as if he'd had too much to drink. Palamedes suspected that he'd received the concussion that he himself had been so careful (and lucky) as to avoid.

Aude was kneeling by her brother, trying to convince him to lie down; she nodded at Palamedes, but then returned her attention to Oliver. She was joined by Roland once the French immortal had realized that Palamedes did not need anything from him.

"What happened?" Hercules demanded again, trying to worm the information out of Palamedes. "Did you deal with Mordred?"

"Doesn't matter," Palamedes said. He retrieved his fallen sword and headed toward a passage that opened up out of the wall. "Where does that lead?" He motioned at it with his sword.

"We don't know," Hercules admitted.

"We were a bit preoccupied with figuring out what was wrong with Oliver," Roland put it.

Palamedes sheathed his sword and headed toward the passageway; Hercules followed, but Palamedes held out his hand, stopping him.

"Don't come. Get Oliver out and to a hospital—it looks like there's another passage heading toward the front of the building—"

"Whoa!" Hercules interrupted. "Roland and Aude can get Oliver out. I'm coming with you."

Aude's soft voice entered the conversation, siding with Hercules. "I agree; when you find Will, he's not likely to be in any state to walk if the illusions Annette's shown you are true."

"I can carry him!" Palamedes snapped.

"And risk putting him in more danger when you don't have anyone to cover you!" Aude insisted. "You can't fight and carry him, Palamedes."

Palamedes ignored her, peering into the passageway and trying to see if there was any immediate danger ahead. He knew he would have to concede to Aude's way of thinking eventually—he couldn't risk Will getting hurt anymore.

"I agree with Aude," Roland said. "You should bring someone with you. But it should be me: I know how to use a sword."

Hercules shook his head, his temper and competitiveness with the French immortal obviously rising. "No. I've got my club, and I know some magic."

"Yes, well, magic can go astray," Roland pointed out. "If you miss your mark, you could hit Palamedes or Will."

"The same could happen with a sword."

"Not as easily."

Hercules opened his mouth to retort, but Aude inserted herself into the conversation again; this time her voice, though its volume never rose, was stern.

"Both of you go. You might both be needed."

"But Olivere—" Roland began, but Aude shook her head. She was already on her feet, and was guiding her concussed brother to his.

"I can get him out. He can walk; all he needs is a guide. We'll take the passageway Palamedes suggested. I'm sure we can get out on our own."

Her husband hesitated, torn between love for his wife and his companion, and his conviction that Palamedes needed him. He finally went over and kissed Aude, and clasped Oliver's hand tightly. Then he turned to Palamedes and Hercules.

"Let's go."