Book of the Dead (Gods of Egypt 2)

by Nadine Nightingale

  “You won’t,” he says, with a confidence that extinguishes the burn of uncertainty.

  There’s no point arguing with him, but the little doubt that remains loosens my tongue. “But—”

  “Nisha.” There’s no hostility in his voice, no mockery in his eyes as he approaches me. “You have climbed a mountain with nothing but your own strength and determination. I think it’s time you give yourself a little credit, don’t you?”

  I hate to admit it, but he’s right. I have come this far; I can handle whatever is waiting inside. “Will you be here when I come out?”

  He averts his eyes, unable to look at me. “We shall meet again.”

  Something in my chest cracks. “Then why do I get the feeling this is goodbye?”

  “It isn’t.” The power in his voice tells me he’s being honest. “I’m never going to be ready to say goodbye to you.”

  Silly heart! Why do I react to words uttered by a murderer? By the captor of my cousin? The man responsible for my parents’ death? Know what? It doesn’t matter. Why I care he looks at me like I’m his world has no influence on my next move. I’m going in.

  “See you, I guess.”

  “Nisha?” He stops me before I push the heavy stone door open. He tilts his chin at the necklace dangling down my chest. “You’re going to be okay. Whatever happens, trust in that.”

  I reach for the amulet he gave me—the one that protected me from a crocodile—wrap my hand around it, and head inside the temple.

  Contrary to what I thought, I don’t have to search for Horus’s Eye. A blue diamond the size of my fist is right there in the center of the bleak hall, secured inside a simple red rock. Around it, drawn in black, are lines depicting the infamous symbol for Horus’s Eye.

  I found it. Now what?

  “You must decide if you’re willing to see what I saw,” a husky voice says.

  I turn, but the hall is empty. It’s just me and the massive, breathtaking diamond. “Who are you?”

  “I’m known by many names, but to you, I will always be a friend, my dear Princess.”

  I have learned to question friendliness after my favorite teacher turned out to be a psycho, but there’s something about his voice that chases all doubt away.

  With great care, I inch closer to the diamond. “Can you tell me what I have to do?” Not the cleverest question, but it’s a legitimate one. I mean, do I have to steal the eye? Take it out of the stone, Excalibur style? There are a hundred possibilities.

  “The eye,” he says, “sees all. Past, future, and present are one within its reach. For you to conquer this cavern, you must prove capable of enduring Ma’at.” A pause. “Are you, Princess?”

  Am I ready to see the truth? “I don’t know.” I barely got over what I witnessed after I ate a fruit from the Tree of Life, and something tells me this is going to be worse. “Am I?”

  “I cannot answer this question on your behalf,” he replies. “Only you can.”

  “At the end of the day, all that matters is that you tried.” Blaze’s words play on repeat.

  I wipe the sweat off my cut palms. “I’m ready.”

  “Lay your hand on my eye, and the truth shall be yours.”

  Well, then….

  My fingertips grace the smooth, cold stone. A fraction of a second later, I bear witness to—

  Screams.

  Blood.

  Death.

  Darkness.

  Chaos.

  It’s the end of the world as we know it.

  It’s the return to darkness and black, sticky water.

  And just when I think it’s all over, the world is born again.

  Birds chirp.

  The sun rises.

  Life is born.

  Light.

  Order.

  The beginning of a new era.

  “Now you know,” the voice whispers as I gasp for air. “Every end is a beginning. You, my dear princess, are the key to both.”

  I open my eyes, the shock of what I saw rattling my bones. “What does that mean?” I sound unhinged. I am unhinged. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our path is predestined. What was is what had to be. What will be is what is,” he replies calmly. One of the stone walls moves, exposing a sandy wasteland. “This has always been your path. The only question was when you’d be ready to walk it.”

  “I….” Have no idea what you’re talking about. Find you utterly confusing. Am not sure what you want me to do now.

  “Go,” he says, as a portal to a world made of sand and sun opens before me. “Conquer the desert and find your way back home. Everything else will reveal itself in time.”

  God, I hate riddles.

  “Princess.” The voice stops me. “Always follow your heart, even if you question its course.”

  “I’ll try,” I say. I leave the temple and am surrounded by sand, heat, and loneliness.

  Cleopatra’s Needle

  Chapter 28

  Blaze

  “Name?”

  I stare at the barista, aware he said something. Only I haven’t got the slightest idea what. “I beg your pardon?”

  He taps his pen against the paper cup. “What’s your name, mate?” He can’t help himself. Just has to add an eyeroll to the question. In his defense, it’s six a.m. Café Nero only just opened its doors, and I am one of those customers who doesn’t remember what he ordered.

  Doing my best to remain calm and polite, I offer him a halfhearted smile. “Blaze.”

  He cocks a brow—universal reaction to my name—and jots it on the cup, his handwriting meticulous. “Four Americanos to go, coming right up.” There’s something about his accent that tells me he isn’t British but has been here a long time. Well, long enough to disguise his country of origin.

  Leaning against the counter, I take it all in. Gosh, I missed London. The multicultural flair, the grayish sky, even the rain. Hell, yes, I missed the rain. But being back doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. There was a time after I arrived in Shepherdstown, when I’d have given my bike to grab a coffee at Nero. I used to hang here a lot, back when I worked out at my old gym. Despite the Starbucks across the street, I’d always picked Nero. It’s less hipster, and they serve a killer Americano. The cheerfulness I should feel is dimmed. The reason we’re here is like a dark cloud.

  Not sure what banishes all thoughts about home first: the barista urging me to pay, or the buzzing of my phone. I ignore the vibration in my pocket—have since we landed at Heathrow—and push my credit card into the machine, entering the pin I tend to forget.

  “Just wait over there,” the bloke says, pointing at the end of the counter reserved for picking up orders.

  Making my way over, I check my phone. Seven missed calls from Mum.

  Damn you, Kathy. Did you have to tell them I was coming home?

  I begged her not to. Told her I’d rather not have my parents worry about their son trying to find a way into hell. Did she listen? No, of course not. Kathy argued that my parents needed to know the truth. They grew up with the same stories. Always believed in them. Their blind faith was one of the reasons they let my sister go on that bloody date with wannabe Twi-hard, the bloke who had used my sister as a living blood bag. Mom and Dad think my oldest sister is a reader. For those who aren’t versed in Traveler language, readers are spiritual mediums. It’s said they can read the energy of people, animals, and things. Some, like my sister, are clairvoyant, too. She has great instincts. Sometimes she can tell how you did in an exam, weeks before the teacher returned it. I never thought she was a fortuneteller, though. I assumed she was blessed with a gift allowing her to read people’s body language. After everything that happened these past few days, I’m inclined to give the reader theory some thought. That doesn’t mean I will drag my fragile sister into this mess. She’s got enough to deal with. I won’t put her in the center of, well, whatever this is.

  “Four Americanos for Blaze,” the female barista calls.
<
br />   I shove my phone in my pocket and take the steaming paper cups, not quite sure why baristas have to shout one’s name when you’re the only customer waiting.

  Outside Café Nero, Shaggy is steadying himself against the wall. “Always figured”—lion yawn—“Big Ben to be bigger.”

  “It’s big all right.” Scooby eyes the lean giant overlooking most of London. “You’re just too tired to appreciate its size.”

  “Pretty fucked up, huh?” Shaggy sighs. “Here we are in Europe and all I can think about is a stupid obelisk, a bed, and weed.”

  “You always think about weed,” Scooby counters, his tone less friendly.

  “It’s healthy, bro. You should try it some time.”

  “Pass. Thanks.”

  “Four Americanos,” I say, shoving the cups under the boys’ noses to stop an impending sibling war.

  Shaggy straightens. “Lifesaver.” He tosses the lid, and before I can warn him, downs half the cup, wincing in pain as the liquid burns his mouth. “Shit,” he hisses, wiping his mouth.

  “I would have told you it’s hot, but—”

  “He wouldn’t have listened, anyway,” Scooby grumbles, slowly sipping his coffee.

  Oz, who hasn’t spoken since we boarded the plane, draws a deep breath. “Where’s the obelisk?” Right down to business. I like this guy, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s close to losing his marbles big time. There’s only so much a guy can swallow before his cup is full.

  But now is not the time for a bromance moment. I’ll pull him aside once we find the book. “Follow me.”

  I guide them past Big Ben and take a sharp left at the beginning of Westminster Bridge. From here it’s a half-mile walk along the Thames. Though we haven’t slept much these past few days, we make it there in a little less than eight minutes.

  We see the benches on the Embankment first. Winged sphinxes decorate them on either end. Across from them, two large bronze sphinxes face the obelisk.

  It pierces the clouded sky, its presence a reminder of a past that’s slowly pushing to the surface. In a heartbeat, I’m back in the world of my drug-induced visions. A world where Nisha is a goddess, and I’m a warrior.

  “Look.” Shaggy’s voice cuts through the memory. He’s studying four metal plaques, mounted around the base of the obelisk. “They give a brief history of the needle and its journey to London.”

  We inch closer, reading the inscriptions. Turns out Cleopatra’s Needle has nothing to do with the famous Egyptian queen. The obelisk was erected by Pharaoh Thothmes the Third about fifteen hundred BC at Heliopolis. Ramses the Great later moved it to Alexandria during the Greek Dynasty. Eventually, the British brought it to London in an iron cylinder. A vicious storm forced them to abandon the relic, which was later discovered in the Bay of Biscay and placed at the Embankment by John Dixon in the forty-second year of Queen Victoria’s reign.

  “This can’t be right,” Oz says, eyeing one of the plaques. “If the obelisk was built by Thothmes the Third, how could you have seen it at a time when the gods still ruled Egypt?”

  Valid question.

  Is it, though?

  We’re talking gods and drug-induced visions, like other people talk breakfast and hobbies. In reality, we know nothing about the world of gods and magic. Except anything is possible, right?

  Still, Oz has a point. What I saw happened long before there were pharaohs ruling Egypt. So how can this obelisk look exactly like the one I from the vision? And it does, right down to the hieroglyphs carved into the stone.

  Shaggy comes up behind me, almost spilling his remaining coffee on me. “Are you absolutely sure that’s the obelisk?”

  “They do all look alike,” Scooby adds, as if trying to justify my failure.

  I look the tall thing up and down, a familiar warmth washing over me. For a split second, I return to the vision and see Nebt-Het gazing at the obelisk.

  I run my hand down the stone. “This is the one.”

  “All right.” Shaggy walks around it. “Let’s see if there’s a secret hideout somewhere.”

  We scan every inch of the tall giant. Well, the inches we can access without a ladder.

  “Ugh, guys.” Scooby sounds worried. “Not to spoil the fun, but people are staring at us.”

  Some film us. Londoners aren’t usually nosy. They’re the rare breed minding their own business. But today, of all days, they seem to care about ours, too. Maybe because they love their antiques and history a little more than privacy.

  “There’s nothing,” Shaggy grumbles, unimpressed by the audience forming around us.

  “He’s right.” Oz’s shoulders are lower, his eyes darker. “There’s nothing suggesting the book is hidden inside.”

  “It has to be there,” I assure them, and not out of wishful thinking. The second I spotted the obelisk, I felt drawn to it.

  Footsteps echo loudly. “Can I help you?”

  Police. Brilliant. This just keeps getting better.

  “Gentlemen?” The constable’s tone is sour. “Why are you sneaking around the obelisk?”

  “I am so utterly sorry.” I force the brightest, fakest smile I can muster up. “My mates and I are working on an essay about Cleopatra’s Needle, and we got carried away in our research.”

  “An essay?” he asks, eyeing us suspiciously.

  “Yes,” Oz says, playing the game I started. “The boys and I just touched down in your beautiful country. We need to write an essay for our college applications and decided that London, as beautiful and historical as it is, offers the best inspiration. Our friend”—he tilts his chin at me—“offered to show us historical monuments.”

  The man’s buying Oz’s lie. I can tell by the faint smile forming at the edges of his thin lips. “Well, then, welcome to London, boys.”

  “Thanks,” they sing like a choir.

  The constable nods. “While I do appreciate your goals, I have to ask you not to get too close to the monument. It’s one of a kind, and we wouldn’t want any harm done, would we?”

  “Never,” I assure him.

  “Brilliant.” He turns on his heels. “Good luck with your applications, gentlemen.”

  We watch him head down the Embankment, all of us aware we’re still being watched. “Now what?” Shaggy says, annoyed.

  Scooby points to the onlookers. “No way we can continue the search without getting arrested.”

  “I’d rather get arrested than get the girls killed,” Oz barks.

  Me too. But what good would it do if we end up behind bars? “Let’s come back tonight.” There won’t be many people around then.

  Oz casts me a dark glance. “And what do you suggest we do till then? Have tea and biscuits?”

  On cue, my phone buzzes again. Mum never gives up. I must have inherited that from her. “Actually,” I say, pushing the green button. “That’s a bloody great idea.”

  The boys stare at me. I shrug and get on with the phone call. It’s time to face the truth. We need help, and some of us—Shaggy and Oz—need a warm bed and a hot shower. “Mum?”

  “Blaze!” she half cries, half yells. “Bloody hell, why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Long story,” I say, glaring at the brownish Thames. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

  “Damn right you will.” My mum swears like a drunken sailor, but she’s the kindest soul you’ll ever meet. “You and your friends are right here on my doorstep in the next half an hour, or I will hunt you down. Clear, innit?”

  “Crystal.” I hang up and lead the boys home.

  Chapter 29

  Blaze

  “Mind the gap.” The familiar warning bursts through the speakers as the doors of the District Line Tube slide open at Earl’s Court.

  We hop out and quickly move up the stairs.

  “Gotta admit,” Shaggy says, eyeing the station. “Public transportation in London rocks.” He’s still stunned it took us less than seventeen minutes to get here. We boarded the Tube
at St. James Park, and it took us straight to our destination.

  “Yeah, but in a minute or so, this station is going to be like a heavy metal festival.” Scooby is referring to the rush-hour crowd invading the station and respective platforms.

  “Yep,” I say. “You won’t see the tiles on the floor.” Workers and pupils alike will storm in, trying to get into one of the Tubes. As a London-born Underground pro, I suggest avoiding the platforms between seven thirty and nine thirty in the morning, and then again around five and six thirty in the evening. Blood has been shed on those platforms.

  “I’d rather be gone by then,” Scooby says.

  I guide them out of the main entrance and take a sharp left. The street we’ve been living on since my fighting career took off is the same. Pret-A-Manger is serving breakfast and coffee, Byron’s is yet to open its doors, and Boots is getting ready to sell cosmetics, pharmaceuticals, and Meal Deals for lunch. God, I’d give my shirt for one of their bean, cheese, and sour cream burritos. They’re delicious.

  We’re not here for the food, though. Depending on how quickly we make it to the white terrace houses, a little farther down the street, I’ll be facing my parents and my oldest sister. The others are most likely on their way to school. Dad should be at work. I bet my college money he called in sick the second Kathy told him I was on my way.

  My dad isn’t the strict type. He never once scolded, let alone smacked us. And we deserved a few smacks over the years. My parents don’t believe in violence. They think kids need to learn by doing. They need to make mistakes and mess up every now and then. I always thought that attitude was amazing—especially when I got into trouble at school, which happened almost daily—but after my sister disappeared, I blamed my parents. They should have been stricter, should have said no when Jade (my oldest sister and alleged reader) decided to date a freak. They didn’t, though. Instead, they warned me not to get involved. That didn’t sit well with me, and for a long time, I was mad at my parents’ lack of parenting. Sometimes, when I see Jade rocking herself to sleep or hiding her scars under a scarf, I still am.