The Cursed Pharaoh (The Hank Boyd Origins Book 1)

by Matthew James

  THE CURSED PHARAOH

  A Hank Boyd Origin Story

  By Matthew James

  Description:

  How did Hank Boyd get his start in the world of archaeology? The Hank Boyd Origins will give readers a look into the years preceding the events of Blood & Sand, starting with The Cursed Pharaoh.

  Renown historian, Dr. William Boyd, and his rebellious son, Hank, are called in to investigate an exciting discovery after the tomb of an Egyptian monarch is located. What they find is equal parts perplexing and alarming as Hank contracts a long-dormant virus hidden within the crypt, one that is warned to be a "scourge against humanity."

  Now, the father and son duo, along with a close friend and colleague of theirs, must figure out what's infecting Hank before it's too late. And as if things couldn't get any worse, a sect of ancient warriors are hot on their heels, intent on silencing anyone who disturbs their king's final resting place.

  ALSO BY MATTHEW JAMES

  The Hank Boyd Adventures

  Blood and Sand

  Mayan Darkness

  Babel Found

  Elixir of Life

  The Hank Boyd Origins

  The Cursed Pharaoh

  The Logan Reed Thrillers

  Plague

  Evolve

  The Dane Maddock Adventures

  Berserk

  Standalone Novels

  Dead Moon

  Dark Relic (coming soon)

  PRAISE FOR “THE HANK BOYD ADVENTURES”

  “BLOOD & SAND takes readers on a spellbindingly treacherous journey that also manages to have fun along the way!”

  —Rick Chesler, Bestselling author of HOTEL MEGALODON

  “The Hank Boyd series has been added to my must-read list!”

  —J.M. LeDuc, Bestselling author of SIN

  “The next Hank Boyd Adventure can’t come soon enough!”

  —David McAfee, Bestselling author of 33 A.D

  PRAISE FOR “BERSERK”

  “What should you expect when you mix adventure, complex and humorous characters, ancient science fiction plot with contemporary consequences, magic weapons, and scary monsters? A great story!”

  —C.K. Phillips, Bestselling author of

  COMES THE AWAKENING

  PRAISE FOR “PLAGUE”

  "PLAGUE erupts from the pages in a steroid-filled tornado of terror and shock!"

  —SUSPENSE MAGAZINE

  “PLAGUE is filled with action, monsters, and our new favorite hero, Logan Reed. Need a cup of coffee and the next book!”

  —THE MR. CAFFEINE SHOW

  "PLAGUE is a monstrously thrilling read!"

  —John Sneeden, Bestselling author of THE SIGNAL

  PRAISE FOR “EVOLVE”

  "A rip-roaring action/adventure that grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go, with compelling characters who will stop at nothing to protect one another. Looking forward to the next installment!"

  —Richard Bard, Bestselling author of BRAINRUSH

  PRAISE FOR “DEAD MOON”

  “DEAD MOON is a high-octane thrill ride filled with action, suspense, sadness, and of course, monsters! An amazing read!”

  —Zach Cole, author of KAIJU EPOCH

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As you’ll see on the next page, I’ve dedicated this book to my father, Bill (William). Like a lot of guys, I looked up to him (still do) growing up, loving everything he’s done for me. I’m not sure if I’m a rare case but I don’t really remember getting into it with him. Ever. We always had a peaceful relationship growing up and still do to this day. We had so much in common that we always found something to do together.

  He and my mom help watch my daughter while my wife and I work. It’s such a pleasure to see Grandpa play with my three-year-old girl. Being one of two boys, it’s a lot of fun for me to spy on the two of them together. Riley is the first grandchild on either side of my family and she gets spoiled rotten (as she should).

  Grandpa is the reason for most of it too. His love for me growing up and his love for my own child is something I can’t quantify in any way. I love my family with all my heart but the way my dad does it is just something I can’t comprehend. One of these days, I’ll figure out how and apply it to my own life.

  Thanks for everything Dad.

  For Dad.

  My hero in life.

  INTRODUCTION by Hank Boyd

  I can’t believe I’m saying this already, but when you get to a certain age you start looking back on your life. While the first part of mine was pretty normal, the last decade-plus has been anything but that. Like most everyone’s life, a lot of things stick out more than the rest. For me, it’s the early days working side by side with my hero, my father, Dr. William Boyd. A man I miss dearly…

  A year and a half after mouthing off to a cop in a drunken outburst, Dad “invited” me to accompany him to Egypt on what he called a “potential history-altering discovery.”

  Well, let me clarify something first… While I was technically invited to tag along with him, I wasn’t actually Dad’s first choice—or his second for that matter. He settled on me when two of his top choices came down with a terrible case of Montezuma’s Revenge down in Central America somewhere. They were down for the count for a few days and couldn’t make it, needing to fly out again soon on a separate assignment anyway. His next choice was already on a job halfway around the world and couldn’t get there either. Tomas… It was before he’d even met Nicole.

  So, against every moral fiber in Dad’s body, his twenty-one-year-old shit-talker of a son was asked to go on his first intercontinental expedition. The only other time I’d ever left the country was to Canada and Mexico on family vacations—and let’s face it…those don’t really count.

  Might as well go all in and go to Egypt, I thought when asked, shrugging indifferently. But my reaction was all for show. Inside, I was pumped to be getting out of D.C. Dad had me doing all sorts of boring, monotonous jobs around the office, The Smithsonian Castle. Most of it was working as a file clerk or research assistant. Like I said, boring. When I was in the field, I was a simple digger, getting my feet wet, and earning the respect of those around me. Dad did have one good point about me starting with my nose in a book, though.

  “Please remember, Harrison, everyone around you has studied for years at what they do. I know you well enough to know that your mind is unique. While you may not be fully engaged in the business of history, your mind is, absorbing everything you’ve taken in like an unquenchable sponge.”

  He was right too.

  Over time, I could hold conversations with people thirty years my senior like it was nothing. I would overhear something being said a few doors down from my workstation and have the need to sprint over and correct them. Needless to say, I wasn’t liked very much. Having a punk from the outside show you up on topics you’ve been studying for decades wasn’t exactly a trait they admired. But two men did.

  Dad and his best friend, my mentor, Dr. Benjamin Fehr.

  Ben was the first guy to really believe in me as a future archaeologist. Even Dad was skeptical for a time—years actually—seeing me as a file clerk or assistant at best.

  So, with permission from my father, my direct supervisor, Ben took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew—a scaled down version, of course. Ben was like me in that he was very anti-establishment when it came to education. Eventually, Dad came around and realized that not everything could be taught in a classroom. Real-world experience was, in my and Ben’s opinions, just as important as the other. Experience is massively underrated.

  My new profession, unfortunately, w
as history, something you sort of needed to study to understand. Thankfully, Ben was a dedicated man, video conferencing with me from Israel every chance he got, sometimes daily. We’d just sit back and talk, eventually stumbling over a historical topic, mythological or not. We just talked. Every so often, Dad sat down with us and we gabbed liked the hens on the View.

  Even though it was technically a part of my schooling, we always had drinks in hand. Dad had his signature Johnnie Walker on the rocks, Ben a dry-as-hell red wine, and I had whatever beer was in the fridge at the time. I’m not what you’d call a “picky” drinker.

  “I like them as dry as the desert summers,” Ben would say when describing his taste in wine. After that, I’d, on occasion, send him the sweetest, nastiest white wine I could find, just to mess with him. He hated every single one, but Mrs. Fehr loved them. It wasn’t until after she left him that I stopped sending them. Ben didn’t take the divorce too well and the white wine reminded him of her.

  But he still had us.

  And history.

  That’s where my story begins, Egypt actually. A land I’ve been in love with for as long as I can remember. Like a lot of kids growing up in the eighties and nineties, I was completely obsessed with movies like The Mummy and others of the same genre.

  That movie, in particular, was the first archaeological adventure since the Indiana Jones series that grabbed me and didn’t let go. I was also old enough to see it in theaters too which was awesome. Witnessing the then state-of-the-art film on the big screen was mind-blowing and it was a flick that Dad could appreciate too. Anything that had to do with history, overdone by Hollywood or not, Dad got behind. History and I were his life and whenever he could spend time with both of them together, he felt it was time well spent.

  But man, some of the gigs we had over the years were rough. This one, being my first official overseas job, was just that. And as the years went by, we had many, many other adventures to add to the list.

  THE CURSED PHARAOH

  A Hank Boyd Origin Story

  By Matthew James

  PROLOGUE

  Ancient History

  His death was inevitable, or so he hoped. The suffering he endured was as if his ancestors themselves were dragging him to the underworld. His continued misery was the missing punctuation mark at the end of a sentence.

  Period… The end.

  He’d thought a lot about his eventual demise, unsure of what to expect. His people had their beliefs and when he was young he was told what he’d see. But what would actually be waiting for him? Would it be a heavenly empire in the clouds, or maybe an eternity of fire and pain?

  King Menkaure, while worshiped as a living god, was anything but one. Sickness and death marred his early life. Some people saw him as cursed at an early age and kept a healthy distance from him at all times. Because of the treatment, he became reclusive and only his closest aides and advisors ever saw him.

  After a few years of no misfortunes, Menkaure believed his damnation to be over. The oracle’s original hypothesis of him dying young had been foiled too. But Menkaure knew his life was truly doomed when he lost his daughter unexpectedly.

  “My king,” his caretaker whispered, “what is thy will?”

  Coughing, he turned his head and smiled. “Nebetka… You have been by my side all these years. I only have one more duty for you before I leave this world.”

  His servant leaned in closer. “Yes, my king?”

  Menkaure’s eyes hardened. “Leave me with my dagger and be at peace. I will not die in weakness or at someone else’s command.”

  Nodding slowly, Nebetka carefully handed his ruler his personal ceremonial blade. While not intended to be used in battle, and made of an odd mixture of gold and something he couldn’t identify, it was still plenty sharp enough to do the job. Turning, he left his king’s side for the first time in over a week.

  “Nebetka?”

  He spun and bowed. “Yes?”

  “Tell no one of my true fate or of what diseased this body.” He blinked heavily, his brow covered in sweat. “I fear it could be the demise of our people. Only you may reenter to prepare this earthly form for what awaits it.”

  Covered from head to toe, the heavily clothed Nebetka bowed again and backed out of the room, praying to the gods as he did. While nothing more than a slave at first, he’d become Menkaure’s friend over the years. The two would discuss things like kingdom politics and beliefs.

  And now I’m partially responsible for the king’s death.

  He climbed a set of stone steps back into the desert heat. Once topside, he stopped and faced the only other people in the area. Menkaure’s warrior bodyguards, his Magi, would protect their king’s final resting place for as long as their bloodline continued. They too understood what their king was.

  A plague, Nebetka thought. He shivered in the warm sun. Even though it was high in the sky, he still felt a cold chill run down the length of his spine.

  Nebetka inspected the stonework surrounding the entrance to Menkaure’s tomb. Before leaving for the time being, he conversed with the tomb’s architect, verifying that the sacred crypt’s deterrents would be in place by season’s end. The old architect limped away and left Nebetka to himself.

  He knew what needed to be done next. No one could find this place. If they did, it would be what Menkaure himself had said, “the demise of our people.”

  Outside Cairo, Egypt

  2006

  The desert heat, while always oppressive, was particularly bad that day. If you looked out into the distance, away from the populated areas, you could see the land itself roll and ripple like it was a wave in the ocean. But those who grew up in the region, knew it to be an optical illusion—Mother Nature playing tricks on the weary minds of men.

  Aziz Nassir was experiencing one of them now. The heat haze was caused by the temperature difference between the ground and air—the ground being hotter. As the ground released the stored heat into the cooler air, it would shimmer and cause the horizon to dance.

  Shaking his head, Aziz did his best to clear his tired thoughts. When that didn’t work, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and poured the remnants of his canteen onto his head and neck, flinching as the cold water pierced his sunburnt skin like a dagger digging deep. It wasn’t painful, just shocking as it continued down his shoulders and back.

  He turned and ventured into the perfectly preserved passageway, relishing in its cooler, sunless air. The artwork was beautiful and very, well, Egyptian. It depicted scenes involving the ancient gods but strangely none of the king himself.

  Odd.

  “Aziz?” a voice asked from ahead.

  Aziz shook his head. “Who else would it be?”

  His cousin, Yasin, was a very untrusting man, now more than ever.

  Something about the dig has him on edge. Aziz understood too.

  This wasn’t like most tombs. If it was of great importance, it would’ve been buried within, or beneath, a burial mound or in a structure like a pyramid. No, this was buried in a flat and uninspiring piece of land with no markings or any evidence of its existence to speak of. How Yasin came across the site was still a mystery.

  “How did you come by it again?” Aziz asked, stopping a few feet behind his kneeling cousin. He wanted more information.

  “I know people,” Yasin replied still facing away from his cousin. “Everyone has a price.”

  They had just broken through an unmarked slab of stone, opening the find for the first time in what must’ve been a couple thousand years.

  “Yes, I know, especially in these parts, but you never said who the information came from.”

  Stopping what he was doing, Yasin turned, eyeing his younger relative. “That is of little importance, Aziz. What matters is that it was accurate.” He went back to his work. “Plus, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And if I told you… Well, let’s just say, it’s best you don’t know.”

  “Does Dr. Fehr know about this?”
/>   No answer.

  Aziz was about to push the subject further, knowing Yasin had been involved with some less than reputable people in the past. And with his unwillingness to divulge his source, Aziz figured that whoever gave him the site location was another such contact. But Aziz intended to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt. Yasin was his only family and he did his best to sway him towards a better path, introducing him to his own employer, Dr. Ben Fehr.

  Fehr was a highly thought-of Israeli historian and had taken to Aziz years ago when he and Fehr’s son, Daniel, had become friends. Aziz lived on the same street as the Fehr’s growing up but was sent to live with his aunt and uncle after his parents died in a terrorist bombing. Yasin was five years older than Aziz and was never close with his younger cousin. It was only after they started working together years later that Yasin paid Aziz any attention. Whether it was him being thankful for the work or just wanting to stay in the loop as work became available, Aziz wasn’t sure. He was hoping it was the former.

  “Yasin, does Dr. Fehr know where you got the tip from?”

  Again, no answer. Instead, Yasin just kept working, readying their jackhammer for another round.

  “Yasin, I asked if—”

  “No, he does not!” he replied, standing and spinning on him. “Take my advice, cousin, and let it go. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

  Biting his lip, Aziz decided to do as he was told and stay quiet. For now, he thought. He wouldn’t keep his cousin’s potential treachery to himself for long. Once, Dr. Fehr arrived on site, Aziz would let it be known. Whatever happened after that would be up to Dr. Fehr and Yasin. There were things in this part of the world that scared even the hardest of men. Men like Yasin. Some were nothing more than silly superstitions—stories passed down from generation to generation. But some of the dangers were of the ancient and terrible kind.