Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1)

by Nadine Nightingale

  “That sucks.” It’s her day off. She should have breakfast in bed and watch silly movies. Instead, she’s spending her time with cranky hotel guests who are complaining about…well, just anything, I guess.

  Rob adds some pancakes to our plates and flings himself onto a chair. “In the words of the great Tupac: ‘For every dark night, there is a darker day.’”

  Izzy’s brows fly up. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what he said.” She’s right. The original quote is: “For every dark night, there’s a brighter day.”

  Rob doesn’t care about accuracy. “The question isn’t if the world is a shitty place, kids. It’s how shitty it is.”

  “Sensei.” Izzy presses her fist against her flat palm and bows her head. “We hear you. The world is messed up and there’s no hope saving it.”

  Rob smirks. “You’re as cray-cray as your momma, little girl.”

  “Isn’t that why you adore me?” she shoots back, flashing him an innocent smile.

  “You might be on to something,” he replies before digging into his scrambled eggs.

  Another Bob Marley song roars to life when Izzy’s gray eyes meet mine. “So, little cousin. Are you going to tell us how bad last night was, or would you rather pretend it didn’t happen?” I’m not surprised she knows what went down yesterday. News spreads fast in Shepherdstown. Besides, Aunt V probably told her all about the accident.

  If I had a choice, I’d go with option two. But I know my cousin. She won’t give it a rest. “It wasn’t that bad,” I lie. In reality, it was worse. The chief didn’t just question me like Johnson and Radcliffe. Nope. He practically told me he wanted me out of his town, preferably the country too. No way I’ll tell Izzy. She’d show up at the police station to scratch the man’s eyes out. Then I’d have another ruined life on my conscience.

  She furrows her brows. “Okay, huh? So, why did you come home so late?”

  All of a sudden, I’m not hungry anymore. I shove the plate away, putting on a poker face. “The chief was busy.”

  Something dark passes through Rob’s eyes. He doesn’t like Chief Mole. No one in my family does. “So busy he kept a seventeen-year-old till four in the morning on a school night?”

  I shrug, grab the paper, and skim over the headlines: Mayor’s Mysterious Death Shocks Harpers Ferry, Director of CIA Warns of Possible Terror Attacks in the U.S., and so on. Awesome. I was hoping to take my mind off murder and mayhem, not dive into more stories of death and gore.

  “Nisha.” Rob’s carefreeness flies out the window. “Do I need to have a talk with the guy?” His stone-cold expression says his fists would play a crucial part in the conversation.

  “No.” I shove the paper away. “It just took him a while till he could take my statement. That’s all. Really.”

  Izzy abandons her pancakes and groans. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling us half of what really went down?”

  Because I’m not?

  “Nisha,” she barks, a little pissed off when I say nothing.

  She won’t let it go unless I give her something to ease her mind. Ideally, something that won’t get her arrested for assault. “Fine.” I fold my hands on the table. “Maybe the chief kept me waiting on purpose, but it really wasn’t that bad.”

  “And why’s that?” Rob asks, obviously not convinced I’m telling the truth.

  “I had good company,” I blurt out, tongue faster than brain.

  “Good company?” The edge in Izzy’s voice is gone, replaced by sheer curiosity. “Is there something you’d like to tell us, little cousin?”

  An image of Blaze’s stunning eyes flickers across my mind. I blush like a five-year-old.

  Rob is studying me closely. “What, or should I say, who, did we miss?”

  “Is he hot?” Izzy asks.

  Why did I bring him up again? Oh, right. Because I wanted to avoid more chief talk. What a fabulous idea. Whatever. I dug my grave, now I have to find a way to climb out. “I didn’t say I met a guy, Izz.”

  “Oh, please.” She bends over the table, almost knocking over her OJ. “The only other time I saw that look on your face was when you were glued to the TV, making goo-goo eyes at Jon Snow.”

  “It’s not like that,” I assure her and myself. I adore Kit Harington. Blaze, however, is just a guy I bumped into. Granted, a very hot, cocky guy with a sexy accent, but still just a guy. “He was waiting to get out of his cuffs. I was waiting on the chief. We talked a bit. End of story.”

  “Cuffs?” Rob barks, uncannily serious. “Why in the name of Ganesha”—oh, yeah, did I mention Rob converted to Hinduism, because he likes celebrating Ganesha Charturthi, whatever the heck that is—“did you have small talk with a felon?”

  “He’s not a felon,” I defend him. Though, after what I heard from his conversation with Kathy, he might very well be.

  My cousin gloats. Rob, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to go from pacifist to Rambo. It’s time to get out of the line of fire. “He’s just a dude I met,” I say, carrying my plate to the sink. “I’m pretty sure I won’t ever see him again, okay?”

  Neither Rob nor Izzy is okay with my explanation. Each one for their own reasons. But before they can interrogate me some more, I head to the door.

  “Hey,” Rob yells after me. “Where are you going?”

  “School,” I reply. “Unless you want me to stay home. Then I’ll head back upstairs and re-watch Prison Break. You know, in case I ever need to help someone escape justice.”

  Rob’s eyes almost pop. “Get out of here.” He looks from me to Izzy, who laughs her butt off. “Both of you.”

  I blink.

  Again.

  Again.

  And again.

  It’s still there.

  Could this be another hallucination? Possibly. My mind has been playing tricks on me frequently. When I was a kid, I was only haunted by these strange nightmares. After last Devil’s Night, I saw Anubis every time someone died. And in the past few weeks, the delusions have graduated to a point where one minute I’m standing in a classroom, the next I’m surrounded by sand and desert roses. That’s not even the craziest part. I hear voices, too. One to be specific—the man from my dreams, the merciless conqueror. Sometimes, when I’m by myself, he whispers: Soon, my love. Soon. Maybe this is just another pink elephant conjured up by my messed-up brain. Maybe I don’t need to feel violated and small. Because maybe, just maybe, it isn’t real.

  It is, though. Real, I mean. I know, because I’m not the only one seeing it. Everyone at Jefferson High can. Everyone, including Izzy. She’s shell-shocked. Glares at the thick, red letters painted across my locker. Reads the words over and over, waiting for them to go away, to vanish. They don’t. They won’t.

  Silent minutes go by. The candy red words, scribbled across the silvery metal, still read: Angel of Death.

  A lot of people—amongst them the chief and a couple of teachers—call me that. Nisha Blake, Shepherdstown’s very own Angel of Death. My name has turned into the definition of gore and horror in this town. I am the thing kids fear at night. The reason they lock their closets, ask their parents to check under their beds, and sleep with the lights on. Every now and then, they sit around bonfires, exchanging creepy stories about me.

  She made a woman jump off New Rumsey Bridge. Her body was never recovered.

  If you dare look into her eyes, you will be stabbed before dawn.

  Those who have touched her are lying in a shallow grave.

  She haunts the woods at night. Kills you before it’s light.

  She’s as crazy as Lizzie Borden, killed her parents in cold blood.

  She’s the grim reaper. She’s a demon. She’s a witch.

  She’s the Angel of Death, and you are next.

  I have become an urban legend. My life, a tale of the macabre. Like any folktale— passed on from parents to kids, from older sibling to younger sibling—the stories are semi-true. My proximity is fatal. My life a battlefield of corpses. Ye
t I’m not a reaper, demon, or witch. And I’m sure as heck no Angel of Death. These things don’t exist. I’m just a girl, withering everything around her. Sort of like a deadly disease that can’t be cured. An unholy plague that has come upon this ordinary American town. A curse. Yep, that’s what I am. Shepherdstown’s death curse.

  Instinct urges me to wipe the words off and move on with life. I’ve been through so much worse than this. Red ink shouldn’t break me. After what went down last Devil’s Night, nothing should have that kind of power over me. I just need to step forward, lift my hand, and smear the letters. But I’m rooted to the spot. My arms and feet won’t move. They’re overpowered by the new dimension of horror that has come upon this school, that has come upon me.

  Whispers roar through the hallway. Students stop to admire the gory art. Their gazes flicker from the words to me. They don’t have to say it out loud. I know exactly what they’re thinking: Maybe she finally gets the hint and leaves town. It would be better for her. It would be better for everyone in this town, including my own family.

  Someone giggles behind me. The nasty laughter belongs to none other than Marie. She’s the second prettiest girl at school. Cheer captain, rich daughter, and queen bee amongst her tribe—the Mean Girls of Jefferson High. They are the real-life Heathers. A clique so cruel no one is dumb enough to get on their bad side. They make you, or they break you. Teachers don’t scold them. They turn two blind eyes to their gruesomeness, giving them the unofficial license to bully.

  I don’t dare turn. Who knows what else Marie has up her sleeve. A reenactment of the Carrie prom scene? A rigged science lab experiment à la Slaughter High? Whatever it is, I have not the slightest interest in finding out.

  The same can’t be said about Izzy. After the initial shock fades, her gray eyes darken to a point where they remind me of the demons on Supernatural. “Bloody bitch,” she snarls, balling her fists at her sides. “I’m going to mop the floor with her frizzy hair.”

  I’ve never seen my cousin so mad. She’s a happy-go-lucky, glass-half-full kind of girl. Never stirred up any drama or engaged in silly cat fights like you’d expect from the most popular girl at school. One could say she’s the antipode of Marie and her tribe. It’s why everyone—nerds and jocks alike—adore her. It’s also why the killer look on her face scares the heck out of me. “Izzy.” I squeeze her shoulder. “It’s o—”

  “No,” she says, forceful enough to draw more attention. “This will end today. It will end here.” Izzy slowly turns to face Marie. “It will end now.”

  I could pretend the prospect of Izzy giving Marie’s face a makeover with her fists doesn’t light up my day. In reality, it makes my heart beat a little faster and the situation a bit more bearable. Doesn’t mean I’ll let her go through with it. She’d be suspended at best, expelled at worst. “Hey.” I grab her by the shirt and pull her back. “She’s not worth it.” I’m not worth it, but I’d be mad to tell her. She might punch me instead if I did.

  The muscles in Izzy’s jaw contract. Her murderous glance is now directed at me. “How long are you going to stand back and take shit from them, Nisha? They’ll never stop if you don’t stand up for yourself. Bullies.” She shoots Marie a look. “Never. Do.”

  Somewhere in the dark pit I call soul, her words ring true. Those who have tasted power rarely give it up. It’s intoxicating and addictive. But I counted the cost of a battle with Marie a long time ago, and the price is too high. “Ignoring her hurts more.” The power of attention hos lies within the feedback they get from others. Take that away, and they have nothing left.

  Izzy pulls her brows to her hairline. “You keep telling yourself that. But at the end of the day, it’s just an excuse. We both know why you don’t stand up to them. You think you deserve all of this.” She narrows her eyes at me. “News flash: no one deserves that. Not even Lucifer.”

  I’m all set to assure her Lucifer doesn’t exist. He’s just an invention of humanity to rationalize why their so-called gods don’t avert evil. I never get a chance though.

  “There you are.” Oz, my cousin’s boyfriend, moves toward us. Just the sound of his voice puts sparkling diamonds in Izzy’s eyes. The two have been in love since kindergarten, a couple since elementary school, and will probably be married before college. A lot of people—including Oz’s parents —believe they’re too young to be committed to each other like this. I disagree. A blind man could see the sparks flying between them, feel the love they have for each other. Now, I don’t believe in heaven and crap like that. If I did, I’d be certain their match was made there.

  The football team steps aside, clearing a path for Oz. He’s on the very top of the high school food chain—hotter than Liam Hemsworth, better built than Taylor Lautner, and nicer than High School Musical’s Zac Efron. Together, Oz and Izzy mount up to the king and queen of Jefferson High. “I’ve been looking for you all over,” he says, running a hand through his damp brownish hair. “You’ll never believe who transferred to Jefferson High. None other than—” He cuts himself off as he sees the murderous expression on Izzy’s face. “Whoa, what’s with you?”

  “That’s what’s with me,” she hisses, pointing at the red paint.

  The muscles in Oz’s arms flex. The lightheartedness and excitement from seconds ago changes into angry frustration. “Unbelievable.” His gaze drifts from the locker to me and back to Izzy. “Who did that?”

  My cousin cocks a brow. “You have to ask?”

  Apparently, he doesn’t. Oz zooms in on Marie. She isn’t laughing anymore. I wouldn’t be either if Oz and Izzy gave me that look. The one saying: you just crossed a line, and there’s no coming back from it.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Oz announces, a deadly ring to his voice.

  “No. Don’t,” I plead, hoping to stop the drama before it unfolds. “It’s not a big deal.” I use the sleeve of my hoodie, smearing the paint. “See, it’s coming off.”

  Izzy casts me a scary glance. “This girl,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “I can’t…I just…” She faces Oz. “You talk to her. Tell her she has to stop being the punching bag for these bitches. She won’t listen to me.”

  Oz throws his black Eastpak over one shoulder and grabs my arm. “Look at your sweater,” he says, calm but enigmatic. “Do you really want to live like this?”

  No, but I don’t deserve better. Marie might be a bully. In my case, however, she has a valid reason to treat me like shit. His name is Mole. He’s her ex-boyfriend. And I almost got him killed.

  I avert my gaze. “She’s just upset about what happened to Mole.” Who knows how I’d react if I were in her shoes. Judging people is easy. Trying to understand where they’re coming from? So much harder.

  Oz’s light-brown eyes pierce through mine. Then, after what feels like forever, he lets go of my sweater and sighs heavily. “He’s back.”

  He, as in Mole? I did not see this coming. “Since when?”

  Izzy chews on her lower lip. “I was going to tell you last night, but you came home so late. I fell asleep.” She won’t look at me. “He’ll be attending classes in a few days. I…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

  She has absolutely nothing to be sorry about. “I’m glad he’s better.” He could have died that night in the woods by the river. The fact he’s back from rehab eases my guilty conscience immensely. Doesn’t mean I want to bump into him. He must hate me more than his father—the chief of police—does.

  “Still.” Oz’s handsome face slips into a frown. “None of it makes this right, Nisha. And she”—he moves toward Marie—“knows it.”

  It’s too late to stop him. He’s already invading Marie’s personal space. Izzy is delighted. I’m petrified. What if his involvement makes things worse? I don’t think I could handle worse.

  He whispers something in her ear.

  Marie’s eyes widen. She pales, and I fear she might faint any second.

  Pride and love put a mesmerizing smile on Izzy’s face. “I love t
his guy.” Of course she does. Oz is the most just person I’ve ever met. He’s always used his popularity for the greater good. Heck, even in kindergarten he’d taken a stand for the less fortunate kids.

  The longer Oz speaks to her, the more miserable Marie looks. Her head is bowed. Her shoulders have sunk. I think she wants to jump back in time just to avoid Oz’s lecture. “Got it?” he barks, loud enough for the whole school to hear.

  She just nods and walks—actually, she runs—away.

  Izzy grins like the Cheshire Cat. “Problem solved.”

  Then why can’t I shake the feeling that I’ll have to pay for this big time?

  “What problem?” Shaggy asks, scrubbing his fingers through his wild curls. Scooby, his fraternal twin brother, is right next to him. For the record: Shaggy and Scooby are their real names. They blame their parents’ unhealthy Scooby Doo, Where Are You! obsession for it. Other than Oz and Izzy, they are my only friends. We’ve all known each other since kindergarten. Unlike everyone else at this school, they don’t hate or fear me.

  “Yeah.” Scooby eyeballs us. “What did we miss?”

  Oz points to the smeared paint on my locker. “Just another day at Devil’s High.”

  The boys examine the unrecognizable words. “We don’t want to know what it said, do we?” Shaggy mutters.

  Izzy throws her arm around his shoulders. “Nope. Seems like all that weed hasn’t clouded your instincts yet.”

  “Arguable,” Scooby says, half joking, half serious. The twins might have shared a womb, but they couldn’t be more different. Shaggy the rebel, with his weed addiction. Scooby, the responsible big brother, with a no-drug policy. The only thing they have in common is their love for MMA, which is why they wear matching shirts from the gym that all of them—including Oz—go to.

  Shaggy ignores his brother and focuses on me instead. “You okay?”

  I give him a reassuring smile. “Always.”

  Shaggy doesn’t buy it. I can tell he’s about to lecture me on the importance of self-defense, but Scooby comes to the rescue. “So, did you guys hear about the new guy?”