Book of the Dead

by Michael Northrop

  Alex slowed down just enough to look back, his chest tight with impatience: His mom could be up ahead! As he paused, long steel spikes shot up from the floor in front of him, so close that one punched a divot into the rubber tip of his right sneaker. His momentum carried his shoulder into the steel a split second after the point shot past, bringing him to a sudden, jarring halt.

  A rumble like thunder sounded above them, the heavy, shifting sound of rock on rock. “This way!” called Todtman, waving his hand back the way they’d come.

  “But …” said Alex. He strained for a look into the little room in front of him, his view now cut into sections by the tall spikes.

  Ren spelled it out for him: “It’s a trap, Alex!”

  “Oh!” he gasped. He turned and ran as rocks began raining down. But running was not an option for Todtman — or for Ren, who was the only one left to support him. In his hurry, Alex had left them in the lurch. Now, with the roof of the passage caving in all around them, all he could think to do was shove them both from behind. All three stumbled forward, Todtman barking in pain as his injured ankle gave out.

  Todtman and Ren fell face-first into a rising cloud of dust, and Alex tripped over them and did the same. Behind them, the passage was a rock pile.

  “That was painful,” groaned Todtman.

  Ren rose to her knees and looked over at Alex. “You almost got us killed.”

  Alex knew she was right. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his face hot under a thin scrim of dust. “I thought my mom was in there.”

  The anger faded from Ren’s face and she looked back at the rocks.

  “No one was in there,” said Todtman, wincing as he rose to his feet. “It was meant to be our tomb.”

  Alex felt the ground give out underneath him. This time it wasn’t a trap. It was despair. “It was a dead end. My mom’s not here.”

  The other two were quiet for a few moments. They’d heard his pain.

  “Perhaps,” said Todtman, “but let me see this other room.”

  “We already checked it,” said Alex.

  “Yeah,” agreed Ren. “The only person in there just turned back into leather.”

  “Just the same,” said Todtman. He spread his arms like a falcon about to take flight, and the others took their positions under his arms. Todtman had to limp along the edge above the now-empty scorpion pit. Then Ren tripped the blade intentionally and the three passed by while it was reloading. The split wire merely waved at them.

  As they entered the room, Todtman used his amulet to make the central pool glow once more. “This is the tomb chapel,” he said as the chamber came into view.

  Todtman propped himself against the wall and looked around at the stolen finery. Alex and Ren circled the room from opposite directions. Ren stepped over the Stung Man’s well-dressed corpse and “accidentally” kicked it. “Oops,” she said.

  “See,” said Alex, turning back to Todtman. “Empty.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but in ancient Egypt, tomb chapels generally had two rooms: an outer one and …”

  “An inner one,” said Alex. He’d forgotten that part.

  They all looked around the chamber. Alex and Todtman clasped their amulets and closed their eyes, hoping for a little extra insight.

  “Uh, boys?” said Ren. They opened their eyes and she was at the back of the room, lifting the corner of the largest tapestry. “It’s back here.”

  “How did you know?” said Alex.

  “It’s the most logical place,” she said.

  “Like I said before,” said Todtman, “we all have our talents.”

  An unfinished stone box filled the center of the inner chamber. “A new sarcophagus for a new tomb,” said Todtman.

  “Why?” said Ren, peering around him.

  “What’s the phrase,” said Todtman, “nap time?”

  There was a pair of large copper pots on either side of the rough-hewn stone. Ren leaned over and sniffed one. “Smells like smoke,” she said.

  “Flashlight, please,” said Todtman. Even after they pulled the tapestry down, the pool was far away and the inner room was dim.

  Alex pulled one from his backpack.

  “Hold it here,” said Todtman, pointing at the pot. Then he began sifting through the piled ashes inside. He pulled out a few scraps of what looked like either paper or cardboard and held them under the flashlight beam. He dropped each one to the floor.

  “Nothing,” he said after the last one.

  He raised his soot-blackened hand out of the first pot and began sifting through the second.

  “What are we looking for?” said Ren.

  “These small fires burn unevenly,” said Todtman. “We sometimes recover small artifacts this way.”

  He fished around for another minute in silence and then pulled another scrap of paper out. He blew on it and held it under the light. “What does this look like to you?”

  Alex leaned in. He saw a black line with a few circles next to it. He took it from Todtman and brushed it off some more. He saw a single smudged name next to one of the circles. “Subway map,” he said.

  “I guess they didn’t know the subways here any better than I did,” said Todtman.

  “Hey, Ren,” said Alex as he dropped the scrap to the floor. “Where’s Goodge Street? Is that in Brooklyn?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Sounds kind of Queens-y.”

  “Did you say ‘Goodge Street’?” said Todtman.

  “Yeah,” said Alex. “What do you think: Brooklyn or Queens?”

  “London,” said Todtman. “I’ve been to that station before.”

  He removed his hands from the pot and brushed them off on his pants: black soot on black cloth. “It’s near the British Museum.”

  Alex’s head reeled. It was a clue, a lead … Whatever word he chose, it was something. But it wasn’t his mom. And this one didn’t lead him downtown, or even to Queens. It led across an entire ocean.

  He didn’t look at Todtman. He didn’t want to see his orderly mind processing this latest piece of information.

  He didn’t look at Ren. He didn’t want to see her plugging this new piece into her puzzle.

  He looked at the nearest copper pot.

  He smacked it onto the floor. Soot and ashes flew.

  Once again, the others were quiet. Their minds could process more than just clues.

  “Maybe she’s in London?” said Ren hopefully.

  Alex looked over. He was angry, but not at her.

  “It seems The Order is,” said Todtman, “or will be.”

  Alex let out a long, slow breath. He had to be calmer now, smarter.

  “And it is raining blood over there,” he added quietly.

  They turned and began their long trek back to daylight, walking slowly. They all had a lot to process now.

  Is she slipping away? thought Alex.

  Is she already gone?

  He had to help her, but he didn’t even know where she was.

  “I nearly lost the leg,” said Todtman. “At least that’s what they tell me.”

  Alex and Ren looked at the outline of his left leg under the crisp sheet of his hospital bed. Still there. Then they looked back up toward his face, wearing that now familiar froggy smile. He was in good spirits.

  “I hate to miss work — German, you know — but I suppose this is a good time for it.”

  “The whole wing is closed,” said Ren.

  “Yes, how is Hector?” said Todtman. “Your father’s friend, I believe?”

  “He looks even worse than you.”

  “That bad?” said Todtman, frowning.

  “Who even gets tuberculosis anymore?”

  “Very few people,” said Todtman. “But it was quite common in ancient Egypt. One of the reasons the Old Kingdom collapsed, actually.”

  “That’s where Hector and the other two were working,” said Ren. “In the Old Kingdom rooms.”

  There was a pause as the information sank in.

&
nbsp; “Probably a good thing that wing’s closed,” said Alex.

  “Completely closed,” said Ren.

  Alex could hear the relief in her voice, and he knew why. The quarantine would keep her dad out of there for now. An image flashed through his mind: the little mummy, tossing and turning unseen in her slumber.

  “Yes, I’ll have to keep a close eye on it,” said Todtman. His amulet stood out against his pajama top, which was not black but a surprising light blue.

  “While we’re away …” said Alex.

  Alex and Ren were headed to London. Officially, it was their first assignment as Junior Interns to the internationally renowned Dr. Ernst Todtman. In reality, strange things were afoot in England, as well.

  “What do you think we’ll find?” said Ren.

  “Some messy sidewalks,” volunteered Alex.

  Blood had made another appearance in the London rain.

  “So gross,” said Ren.

  “Well, I would definitely bring an umbrella,” said Todtman dryly.

  “I wish you could come,” said Alex.

  “I do, too,” said Todtman, glancing down at his leg. “But I will have plenty to keep me busy here. Returning a lion and the like. And my colleague will be there. Dr. Aditi is a renowned scholar.”

  “Another member of the book club, you mean?” said Ren.

  “Exactly,” said Todtman. He turned to Alex and added: “And a good friend of your mother’s.”

  “Do you really think she’ll be there?” asked Alex, and they all knew he didn’t mean Dr. Aditi.

  “I hope so,” said Todtman. “Something is going on there, and the pattern does seem very familiar.”

  Alex nodded. In addition to the bloody bad showers, there’d been reports of grave robbery and a near riot at one of the museums. Definitely familiar.

  “Do you think one of them will be there, too?” said Ren. “Another Death Walker?”

  “That is my fear,” said Todtman. “You must be careful, and do as Dr. Aditi says.”

  “You sound like my dad,” said Ren.

  “Yes, he was not so easy to convince,” said Todtman.

  “You didn’t mind-zap him, did you?” Ren asked, staring at him anxiously. “You promised.”

  Todtman raised his hands. “Innocent,” he said. “I just mentioned that these internships are quite common in Germany, that you would be carefully chaperoned, and that it would be a great comfort to Alex.”

  “I helped with that last part,” admitted Alex, raising his hand.

  “I may also have mentioned that it looks very good on school applications,” added Todtman.

  Ren could see that last line having an impact. Heck, it had an impact on her: This was Manhattan, where the competition started in pre-K and ended never. Still, she was skeptical. Maybe he’d mind-zapped her mom instead?

  “What about my aunt and uncle?” said Alex. “You didn’t mind-zap them, did you?”

  “I don’t remember you asking me not to,” said Todtman.

  Alex smiled. He hadn’t. And he wouldn’t miss sleeping under a desk.

  Two hours later, they were on their way to the airport. Ren’s parents came with them and got a little teary-eyed at the gate. Alex just rode it out.

  Ren got the window seat on the plane and gazed out at the runway. She was excited for the trip — London! — but also determined for the mission. She wanted to help Alex and keep him safe. That was a big part of it, but part of it was for her, too. This was her chance to truly be exceptional, and not just look the part. The next time her dad called her his “little Einstein,” she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Forget Jesse Blatz; could even Einstein do what she was preparing to do? Would he even try?

  Alex stared directly at the back of the seat in front of him. He was carrying a heavier weight. He was sure of it now: Everything that was happening was his fault. People had already died because he had lived. All he could do was try to make it right. He had to find the Lost Spells before they could be used again, and he had to undo the damage that had been done.

  But more than that, he had to find his mom. She’d taken care of him his whole life, and now it had cost her. Not everything, though. He was sure his mom was still alive. It wasn’t some insight imparted by his amulet. It was just a feeling he had. They had always been so close — doting mother and only son. Deep down, he could still feel that connection, stretched thin, but unbroken.

  He intended to follow that thread wherever it led. Across an ocean? Sure. Across the globe? If he had to.

  For twelve years, he’d been defined by what he couldn’t do. He’d spent so much time cautious and fearful, sitting and watching. Now, he’d be defined by what he had to do. And at that moment, as he thought about the dangers that lay ahead in London, he was not afraid.

  And not nearly so far away, behind a blue curtain just up the aisle, one final member of the crew reclined in comfort in first class. Luke had been a late addition to the flight. Officially, he was going to London for an elite track-and-field camp. Unofficially, Alex was pretty sure his aunt and uncle were sending Luke to keep an eye on him. Alex wasn’t sure if that made his cousin an obstacle or an ally, and Luke wasn’t saying either way. A battered Yankees cap pulled down low, he was already asleep.

  Thousands of miles away, in the underground lair of The Order, a slumber that had lasted millennia was over. Everything had changed. The heavy sarcophagus at the center of the chamber sat like an open wound between two worlds. Its stone lid lay cracked in two on the floor. Only the leader dared venture in now. Kneeling, he pointed his golden mask at the floor and listened to the shadowy presence looming above him.

  “Rise, loyal servant,” came a dry and desolate voice. “For soon, the old ways will be restored, and we will bow to no one.”

  Answers echoed around the globe. Deep underground in New York City, in a lightless and abandoned inner sanctum, a faint tapping began. It was coming from inside the painted stone of a false door, with only rats to hear it. In a cemetery in London, a more insistent sound clawed the night. And elsewhere, the first faint stirrings of life, long delayed. Of evil, long dormant.

  Michael Northrop has written short fiction for Weird Tales, the Notre Dame Review, and McSweeney’s. His first young adult novel, Gentlemen, earned him a Publishers Weekly Flying Start citation for a notable debut, and his second, Trapped, was an Indie Next List selection. NPR picked Michael’s middle-grade novel Plunked for their Backseat Book Club. He has also written about a rescued Rottweiler in Rotten and, most recently, some treacherous seas in Surrounded By Sharks. An editor at Sports Illustrated Kids for many years, Michael now writes full-time from his home in New York City. Visit him online at www.michaelnorthrop.net.

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  Book 2

  Amulet Keepers

  By Michael Northrop

  A large figure descended the steep slope of Swain’s Lane in north London. The man’s features were old, but his frame was strong and he moved in long, sure strides. Each step of his heavy, old boots brought him closer to the slumbering neighborhood below. The warm summer night was dark out here so far from the city’s glittering center. The man brushed one heavy hand against the tall black fence posts as he passed.

  Thick fingernails struck old iron: Tik tik tik!

  On the other side lay a very old cemetery, built into the hillside. He looked in at the moss-shrouded grounds with ink-dark eyes: considering, remembering. The cemetery was mostly full now, had been since World War I. It was a sleepy place. Deathly quiet. Tik tik tik! He let his hand drop. The fence ended; the village began.

  The man moved more quietly now, like a cat settling in for the hunt. The first little houses appeared, h
uddled close together, their windows dark. A few moments later, he saw light up ahead, movement. The faintest hint of a smile formed on his death-parched lips.

  “Aw, don’t eat that!” said Bennie Kemp, tugging on the leash. “Spitfire! Spitfire! Bad dog!”

  The British bulldog looked back and, reluctantly, dropped the candy wrapper. Empty anyway, his little dog brain thought.

  “Just do your business and let’s go,” said his owner. “Creepy out here.”

  Spitfire looked back blankly. He understood several words — food, walk, biscuit — but none of those.

  Bennie looked around the streets of his little neighborhood. He was surprised how deserted they were. He’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. But having been raised on tales of British bravery, he was a little disappointed in his neighbors. A few people go missing and the whole town shuts down, he thought. He could barely manage half a thought for the reports of blood falling from the sky and other mysterious events. He chalked that all up to public hysteria stoked by the media.

  “Bunch o’ nonsense,” he said grouchily to Spitfire’s back.

  The dog didn’t even bother to turn around this time. Talk to me when you’ve got a biscuit. Instead, he kept feverishly sniffing the ground with his blunt, slobber-covered snout. There was something dead up ahead, and he Had To Find It! Now he was the one tugging on the leash. It could be anything: a squirrel, a pigeon, a cat — oh, how he hoped it was a cat! He pulled his owner toward the smell.

  As Bennie followed his lumpy little leader out of the glow of one streetlight and toward the glow of another, he saw a man. It is a man, isn’t it? he thought. His face was creased with deep lines, but his body was large and solid. The combination reminded Bennie of a statue from a village green. The outfit, too. He looked like an explorer from the height of Britain’s colonial might. Dressed for the heat of India or Africa, Bennie thought.

  “You all right, then?” said Bennie. “Gave me a fright.”

  Spitfire finally peeled his stubby nose from the sidewalk. Well, this is the dead thing, he thought. But it’s all wrong.