Book of the Dead (Gods of Egypt 2)

by Nadine Nightingale

  The Medjay

  Chapter 11

  Blaze

  It takes us fifteen minutes to get to Martinsburg. No one speaks. We’re all lost in our own nightmares, and we look like crap.

  Shaggy and Scooby are paler than pale.

  Oz’s hair is sticking out every which way, as if he’s made acquaintance with an electric fence, and his eyes resemble those of a Viking warrior out to rescue his bride from a dragon.

  Kathy pulls into the driveway of a lovely ranch-style home on a cul-de-sac. Ethel is waiting on the porch.

  Ethel, by far the oldest member of our clan, slowly lifts her fragile bones off the step and limps toward us. She was expecting us. What am I saying? She probably knew exactly when we’d get here And not because we called her. See, Ethel has a way of knowing things before they actually happen. She’s always waiting on her porch with a cake if you go see her. Even when you don’t ring her up to announce the visit. She’s also incredibly intuitive. One time she showed up at our doorstep to tell my mom that her boss was going to give her a hard time about some stolen money. The very next day, Mom came home, broke down in tears, and told Dad she was accused of taking fifty quid from the register. Spooky, but I assumed she was bored senseless and made stories up to keep herself busy. I kept telling myself she simply got lucky with her guesses. Now I’m inclined to give the second-sight theory some credibility.

  “Is that her?” Shaggy gazes out of the window at Ethel. Her face is obscured by the shadow of a large weeping willow.

  “Yeah.” I roll my stiff shoulders. “That’s Ethel.”

  “She looks ancient, man.” The statement earns him a nudge in the ribs from his twin. “What?” Shaggy sighs. “She does.” He’s not wrong. Ethel’s back is messed up from years of hard labor. She can barely carry herself upright. So even if you haven’t seen her wrinkled baby-face, you can tell she’s well over the average age.

  “She’s a 106.” Kathy looks over her shoulder at the three boys. “I suggest you don’t mess with her. She can be….” Her eyes grow distant. “Tough.”

  I’m willing to bet my bike Kathy recalled the one time she was rude to Ethel and earned herself a beating. It wasn’t pretty. But you don’t just call Ethel “stone-old” and get away with it.

  “Come on.” Kathy unbuckles her seatbelt. “It’s just a matter of time before the sheriff’s office realizes I’m MIA.”

  We hop out onto concrete, treading on her heels.

  “Your ability still scares the shit out of me,” Kathy teases, throwing her arms around Ethel. I’m inclined to shout a warning that she’s about to break the old woman, but Ethel responds with a bear hug, wrapping her wrinkled arms tight around Kathy.

  A heartbeat later, Ethel approaches me, her back bent, her wrinkled, chocolate skin illuminated by the reddish moon. “Blaze.” She looks me up and down. “I see you’ve finally come to accept your destiny.”

  Too tired to argue with her, I scrub my fingers through my hair and sigh. “Hi, Ethel.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Liar.” She waves me off and turns back to the house. “We must get started.”

  “On what?” Scooby whispers.

  I shrug. “Wish I knew.” Scratch that. I really don’t want to know. Ethel has a tendency toward freakishness. Just ask my mom. She’ll tell you all about naked dances in the meadow during a full moon.

  Ethel claps her hands. “Chop chop.”

  We’re on the porch and through the door in moments.

  From the outside, Sixty-one Academy Drive looks painfully normal. Like any other typical American home. Inside, however, is neither normal nor very American.

  Statues line up in the narrow hallway—lions, men, half-naked women—appear aged, even more so than Ethel. Shaggy and Scooby glare at the strange art, not sure what to make of them. Neither do I, by the way.

  Ethel moves us into an open-plan living room and kitchen. It’s dimly lit and might very well be part of a museum. The creamy walls are covered with old paintings of Nubians. Black men wearing white, black, and red Sarongs are lined up one behind the other. Canopic jars sit on a dresser, adding to the spooky atmosphere. Who would voluntarily put those things in their living room? They were, after all, meant to hold organs of the deceased.

  “Hello. I’m Mara. Welcome to our home. Can I get you tea or coffee?” The middle-aged woman bears an uncanny resemblance to Ethel—same dark brown eyes, identical round face—and is standing in the kitchen, dressed in a purple bathrobe, long braids cascading down her back.

  “Coffee will be fine,” Ethel answers on our behalf.

  The woman checks our response, and when Oz nods, and Shaggy and Scooby shrug, she goes to her coffee maker.

  “Sit.” Ethel gestures at the beige couch. None of us dares to disobey her. Ethel looks me in the eye. “Before we get started, I need you to take off your shirt.”

  “What?” I’m used to being shirtless. I fought countless times in nothing but shorts. But undressing under the scrutiny of a 106-year-old, who is well-known for naked moon dances, is somewhat unpleasant.

  “Would you rather argue with me or help your friends?” Ethel asks. “From what I’ve heard, time is of the essence. No?”

  I pull my shirt over my head. There, Ethel. Happy? Just for the record, I draw the line if she asks me to do a fertility dance.

  Her cold fingers trace my birthmark, sending chills down my spine. “It has been woken,” she whispers. “The mark of the Bennu is alive.”

  Oz groans. “What does that mean?” He looks about done with everything, especially cryptic riddles that don’t make any sense.

  “You’ve heard the legend of the great Medjay?” Ethel asks. “How he faced exile for going against his tribe and ended up saving the world from his best friend’s madness?” Everyone nods. “He was saved by Nebt-Het, the rightful princess of all of Egypt. The daughter of Geb and Nut, sister of Isis and”—she shoots Oz a quick look, then faces me—“Osiris. The goddess blessed him with the Bennu bird, gifting him rebirth.”

  I’ve heard that tale a million times. It’s not going to solve our problem. “Can you get to the point?”

  Ethel casts me a wary glance. “There’s more to the legend, Blaze.”

  “I’ve only ever heard that much.” Kathy sounds as frustrated as I feel.

  Ethel returns to her seat. “Only elders know the whole story.”

  Oz shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t mean no disrespect, ma’am, but how is this going to help us free our friends from the Underworld?”

  “Good question,” Kathy mutters.

  Mara places coffee on the round ebony table. Some “thank yous” are uttered. Then she joins us in the living room.

  Ethel picks up a mug and leans back. “Your friends aren’t just trapped in the Underworld,” she finally says. “They are prisoners of a past that will quickly catch up with the present. The only way to help them and the rest of the world is by understanding what was, so it will never be.”

  Mara nods. “She’s right.”

  I turn Ethel’s words over in my head. They sound painfully similar to what Asim and his friend said. “Fine.” I draw a deep breath. “Tell us the whole story.”

  “I can’t,” Ethel replies, shoulders drooping. “It’s against our laws.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” I’m done with the secrecy. We just survived a bloody massacre. The last thing I need is Ethel tossing some clan laws at my feet. “You told Kathy you’d help us.”

  “And I will,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “How?” Oz barks. “You won’t even tell us the rest of the legend.”

  She ignores him, wanders over to me, and pinches my cheeks so hard I’m certain they’ll be blue by morning. “Don’t you worry.” A full-on smile lights up her ancient face. “I know a thing or two about lost memories.” She eyeballs the sweet lady. “Mara, go and prepare everything. We have plenty to do and very little time.”

  “O
n it, Aunt Ethel.” Mara pulls her bathrobe tighter and returns to the kitchen.

  Chapter 12

  Mara and Ethel guide me into one of the two bedrooms upstairs. I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm myself. But the wicked smile Ethel threw at me before she hauled me out of the living room doesn’t help. Whatever she’s cooking in her witchy kitchen has stirred up horses in my chest, and they’ll trample down anything in their path.

  Kathy seems worried, too. She insists on coming along. Ethel waves her off and says, “This is something he has to do on his own, dear.”

  “Listen.” Ethel spins around like a prima ballerina, her big, brown eyes piercing my chittering soul. “This isn’t for the faint of heart. The past comes with pain and suffering.” She pauses, studying my blank reaction. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  Does it even matter what I want? I don’t think it does. The night can’t be erased from history, and Nisha won’t stomp up the stairs, proclaiming I had a nightmare and none of this horseshit is real. Fair to say, my choices are pretty limited. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  Ethel nods at Mara, who tightens her bathrobe, lets out a heavy sigh, and opens the bedroom door. “Good luck,” she says, watching us disappear inside.

  A single candle casts a dim light. Shadows of paintings and statues dance over the red walls.

  Ethel tilts her chin at a black blanket spread in the center of the room. “Lie down.

  Do I sound like a pussy if I admit I’m scared shitless? Probably. But what was it my coach used to say? “Never fight fear, son. You’re bound to lose if you do. Accept it instead. Only then you can control it.”

  All right, so I’m scared. But I’ve known Ethel since the day I was born. She might be a hard-arse, but she has never put me through anything she didn’t think I could handle. When she picked the biggest and bulkiest tribe kids as my sparring partners—yes, we were taught to fight at an early age, and it’s how I got into Mixed Martial Arts in the first place—I thought she wanted me dead. But every time I won, Ethel patted my back and said, “I knew you could do it.”

  I make myself as comfortable as possible on the hardwood floor. “How’s this going to work? Are you going to do some mumbo-jumbo or—”

  “Hush.” She moves to a dresser drawer, grabs a small sack, and returns to my side. “You know our people have always been open to other religions?” I nod. “Well, this”—she shoves a large spoon into the sack—“is something we’ve picked up from the people of Gabon who practice Bwiti. Take it.”

  I do, eyeing the brownish, pulverized substance on it. Reminds me of cinnamon, but the scent isn’t as sweet. “Now what?”

  “What do you think?” Ethel frowns. “Eat it.”

  Jaw clenched, I gape at her. “You want me to eat that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind telling me what it is?” It’s not that I don’t trust Ethel. Deep down, I know she’d never poison me. Being careful with unknown substances, however, is a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I once took a drag off a cigarette from a guy on our street and ended up high as a kite, seeing all sorts of crazy things. Mummified cats, warriors slaying creepy demons—it was the worst trip of my life. Never touched weed again.

  Ethel laughs. “It won’t kill you, son. At least, I don’t think it will.”

  I keep staring at her, not backing down, and she adds, “It’s called iboga.”

  “Not helping,” I say.

  Ethel frowns. “It’s an old African hallucinogen.”

  “You want me to take drugs?” I half scream, half laugh. Come on, an old woman wants me to get high? That’s either funny as hell or insane. In Ethel’s case? Both.

  “Do you want to save your friends or not?” The woman knows how to negotiate, I have to give her that.

  I shove the brown powder into my mouth. It wraps around my throat, drying out my insides. “Water. I need water,” I bark between vicious coughs.

  Ethel hands me another spoonful instead. “Go on.”

  By the time I’ve swallowed half the sack, and my insides have turned into a desert, she is satisfied. She presses a wrinkled hand against my chest, pushing me down on the blanket. “Just relax.”

  Once I’m settled, she gets on her wobbly feet. “I’ll be outside”—she tosses me a reassuring smile—“keeping an eye on you.”

  A million questions race through my mind. How does the drug work? What trip am I about to face? Am I going to survive the cardiac arrest I’m currently experiencing? I’d ask her, but she’s gone, and the damn drug is already working my body overtime.

  I sweat. I gasp for air. My heartbeat slows to a point where I’m thoroughly worried about death. It feels as if my organs are deprived of blood, as if everything comes to a standstill.

  I’m sinking into the blanket. I’m being devoured by the floor. The shadows flickering against the red walls play tricks on my mind. They change forms.

  Come on, Blaze. Keep it together. None of this is real, it’s all just—

  “Medjay,” a mighty voice booms.

  I spot charcoal-colored eyes staring at me. They cut through the darkness like a butcher knife.

  Move! Sit up!

  Bloody shame my body is no longer mine to command. Limbs and head are glued to the black blanket, unable to move.

  “You seek the past?” it thunders.

  I haven’t got the slightest clue what I’m seeking. Except a way to get Nisha and Izzy back home, that is. According to Asim and Ethel, only the past can unlock the path to save them. So, yeah, I guess I’m seeking the past. I’m too paralyzed to say the words though. Luckily, he seems to be able to read my mind.

  The being—an eight-foot-tall thing with a brawny human torso and the head of a jackal—approaches, sending my heart into a frenzy. “Take my hand,” he orders, “and I shall guide you on your endeavor.”

  I will not put my trust in a monster. “W-who a-are y-you,” I stammer, barely able to form a coherent sentence through my locked jaw.

  He flashes me brilliant, razor-sharp teeth. “I am the Guardian of Souls,” he replies. “You may call me Anubis.”

  The name floats through my misty brain, ringing several bells. The one that’s louder than any other is Nisha’s voice. “You don’t understand, Blaze. Every time someone dies, I see Anubis,” she’d told me when we were headed to the bookstore.

  You’re the thing that haunted Nisha, I think, aware he can read me.

  Anubis says nothing.

  I drink him in, suddenly understanding why Nisha thought herself to be insane. She saw that every time someone left this world. Of course she questioned her sanity. Anyone would, me included.

  Why did you torture her? She’s sweet and kind, good and caring. What did she ever do to you?

  Anubis cocks a brow. “You understand very little of who I am and what I do.”

  Enlighten me, then.

  An animalistic roar is followed by a calm but strong voice. “We have very little time, Medjay. Do you really want to waste it on existential questions?”

  No.

  “Good.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Because I don’t normally waste my time with Ma’at seekers.” He inches closer, his face hovering over mine. “But for you, I shall make an exception, Medjay.”

  Why? What’s so special about me that the Guardian of Souls offers his guidance?

  Anubis’s muscles tense. “You and I want the same thing.” His dark eyes grow distant, recalling long-forgotten memories. “We are born to protect our princess, and we will die fulfilling our fates.”

  I don’t trust him. I do, however, believe him when he says he wants to protect Nisha. Well then—gathering every ounce of energy, I lift my hand—lead away.

  The monster extends a hand. Our fingertips connect. I’m floating through white mist, am dropped at—

  I slam into the sand, back first.

  Dull pain crawls up my spine. I don’t have time to dwell on little aches. Ten of Egypt’s b
est warriors are coming at me with everything they’ve got.

  “Let me know when you’ve had enough,” a familiar voice yells. “I’m happy to step in or call them off.”

  “Enough?” I laugh, wiping blood off the corner of my mouth. “I’m just getting started.”

  I’m back on my feet, gesturing for the warriors to attack.

  They charge, khopeshes drawn. Sickle-swords won’t do them any good. I was raised a warrior, born and bred to defeat far more dangerous creatures than them. By the age of five, I had learned to disarm grown men. At ten, I was faster and stronger than even the mightiest of our warriors.

  Three at once wield their swords, as if they could help them beat me, as if I weren’t laughing about their desperate need for weapons.

  I duck, avoiding the blade of the tallest, then slam my knee into the stomach of the second, and my fist into the face of the third.

  Two of them go down, groaning in agony. The third charges again, but a single blow to his throat deprives him of air.

  More warriors attack. I take them down in less than five minutes, offering them my help to get back on their feet once it’s all said and done.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” the familiar voice says and cheers.

  Amber eyes smile at me. Pride radiates from them. “Did you think I’d come crying to you for help?” I tease, easing my tense shoulders.

  The man who is as close to me as a brother shrugs. “A man can dream, can’t he?” We both laugh. It always feels good to engage in lightheartedness. I never had that back home. It was always fight, train, and fight some more.

  Adrenalin fades as we stand side by side, taking in the warriors clearly needing more practice if they are to fight Chaos. “We’ve got lots of work ahead,” I state, aware time is running against us.

  My friend pats my shoulder. “With you on our side, we won’t need an army.” He smiles. He trusts me to protect the kingdom of his beloved, and I will not disappoint him. Not after he’s given me a home, shelter, and friendship. Offering him my undying loyalty is the least I can do.