Amulet Keepers

by Michael Northrop

  “My bag …”

  The voice was weak but welcome. Ren was awake. She raised her head off the floor and squinted up toward the stairs as her would-be kidnappers disappeared from view. By the time Alex could take hold of his amulet again, the familiar olive green messenger bag had already been carried off on Liam’s shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, looking down at his bleary-eyed friend. “I am so, so sorry.”

  They both knew he wasn’t just talking about the bag.

  They were a strange sight, the three of them. Alex walked on one side of Ren, bending down to support her. Luke walked on the other side, bending down even farther, since he was taller than both of them. Ren, for her part, had the look of a sleepwalker: her eyes just cracked open and her steps unsure.

  From the steps of the gallery, a guard called out to them to come back and wait for the police, but he quickly lost sight of them in the shifting throng of the midday metropolis. Fellow pedestrians eyed them suspiciously. But soon they were back in the relative safety of the good old Northern Line. Once the train doors closed behind them, Ren became just another sleepy kid, jet-lagged perhaps.

  Luke leaned across her to talk to Alex: “Why didn’t we wait for the cops?”

  Alex shushed him as a few nearby heads turned. Luke was surprised by the shushing, and Alex was stumped by the question. How could he explain this to his cousin? Where would he even start: the powerful death cult for whom the police were no obstacle, or the full story, ancient spells and all, that would land them all in a mental institution? He glanced down at the spot where his amulet rested beneath his shirt.

  “What is that thing?” Luke whispered. “There’s no way those guys were just throwing themselves around. You did that, right? With that bug thing?”

  Alex gave Luke a look: Not now!

  “Well, at least tell me where we’re going,” he said, leaning back.

  “Servants’ quarters,” mumbled Ren from the seat between them.

  The three shaken friends settled back — into their seats, and into their thoughts. Alex’s were dark, as usual, but also unusually clear. His grim mood and obsessive behavior had driven his best friend away — and alone, she was easy prey. The thought that she could have suffered the same fate as his mom — kidnapped, taken from him — had rocked him to his core. As the train rumbled toward its destination, he stewed in a mix of guilt at himself, anger at The Order, and gratitude for Ren’s safety — and Luke’s help.

  He glanced over at his cousin, who looked troubled, too. Luke caught his cousin’s eyes and whispered one last word to him, very clearly: “Knives.” Alex nodded, but Luke had already looked away. Once again, he had taken running into the thugs in stride — literally — but the fact that they were armed this time had clearly caught him off guard. Luke wasn’t used to the rules changing mid-game.

  Ren sat silently, sleepily between them. If she was still angry at Alex, she didn’t show it. In fact, as the train jounced and jostled along, he felt her lean against him for support. The needle-torn sleeve of her injured shoulder felt rough against his arm. He understood her instinctively, the way that best friends do sometimes: We’re both hurting. It’s okay.

  The train reached their stop, and the three disembarked. Enveloped by the anonymous chatter of the crowd, they could speak more freely now. And Luke had something to say. “I don’t know what you two are up to,” he announced, “but it’s more exciting than this camp. And no one at the camp has tried to stab me, either. I want payback. I want in.”

  Alex and Ren exchanged quick glances. No need for discussion. Luke wanted in? After what he’d just seen? After saving their bacon for a second time? They just nodded. He was in already.

  On the way back they stopped at a Tesco — a British chain that fell somewhere between supermarket and 7-Eleven — and loaded up on food and snacks. Mostly snacks. Then they walked into the little parking lot of the Campbell Collection.

  “Home again, home again,” said Alex.

  Ren removed a Cadbury chocolate bar from the plastic bag, the last wisps of fog lifting from her eyes. “Jiggety-jog,” she answered.

  On the other end of town, Liam was about to learn that when you work for a death cult, failure has its consequences.

  “Where ya takin’ me, then?” he asked, nervously eyeing the dark tunnel walls around him. Cut at a steep downward angle, the dirt and rock and clay didn’t feel very secure. He wasn’t feeling very secure, either.

  Still no answer from his guide. He risked a quick glance over, but the man’s expression was hidden under a heavy iron mask in the shape of a crocodile head, like a knight’s visored helmet gone wild.

  “What’s your name again?” he asked nervously. He knew the man beneath the mask was powerful and dangerous, but the subterranean silence was driving him batty. He wanted to hear a voice other than his own.

  “Ta-mesah.” The word came out in a low, reptilian hiss that sent a chill through Liam’s system.

  “Tommy what?” he said.

  The other man looked over at him, leveling the sinister snout of the mask in his direction. Liam could just make out two small, dark eyes. “Ta-MESAH!” the man repeated.

  Liam still didn’t understand but nodded anyway.

  The tunnel led steadily down into the dark English dirt. Liam looked up at the roof of the tunnel, where an uneven stripe down the center gave off a greenish-white glow, providing the only light. Must be one of those funguses, he thought. The kind what glow in the dark. He’d seen something about them on the BBC.

  More nervous the deeper they went, Liam continued his questions. “Where ya takin’ me?”

  Ta-mesah was silent for a few more steps and then: “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Liam wondered who on earth that might be. He’d already been told — they all had — that the man in the mask was in charge. The tunnel opened up into a larger chamber, and Ta-mesah slowed down half a step to allow him to enter first. Liam stepped inside.

  A very large man stood behind a stone slab near the back of the room, regarding Liam with black, lightless eyes.

  Liam felt a gut-punch of fear and confusion at the sight, but he did his best to collect himself. “You, uh, wanted ta see me?”

  The looming figure croaked out a ragged response. Liam didn’t understand a word of it, but his masked guide seemed to.

  “Another minion for you,” said Ta-mesah.

  Minion? thought Liam.

  The sleeve of the man’s filthy shirt was rolled up, and he was pushing through an array of sharp metal tools on a tray in front of him. The implements clinked against each other as Willoughby made his selection. He raised a thin bronze probe, as long as a forearm and tipped with a small, sharp hook. Unlike the clods who’d prepared him, Willoughby knew which end to hold the thing by. He looked at Liam … and smiled.

  “Right, then,” said Liam, more to himself than to the two men he was now sure meant to kill him. He’d been a loyal employee, if not an especially effective one, and The Order had paid him well. But there comes a point when even a company man needs to declare free agency.

  He turned quickly on the heel of his boot — always fast for his size — and made for the tunnel.

  Ta-mesah casually raised his right hand from beneath his long dark robe and brought it back down — just a quick flick of the wrist.

  At the mouth of the tunnel, Liam felt his body lift off the ground, his feet kicking out from underneath him. He could only flap his arms helplessly as he was slammed back down. The back of his head crashed into the hard-packed dirt and knocked him out cold.

  A small boy wearing clothes nearly as dirty as his master’s emerged from the tunnel.

  “Why is the little one alive?” said Ta-mesah as he stepped aside to let the child pass.

  Willoughby put down the hook and waggled his thick, sausage-like fingers. Ta-mesah understood: Mummification was an intricate process. It required nimble fingers.

  A crude figure shamble
d in after the boy and began dragging Liam’s limp body toward the stone slab. The creature stooped and pulled against the big man’s weight, its fresh, tight wrappings straining and fraying from the effort. A second figure joined it, and together they lifted the body onto the cold stone slab.

  Ta-mesah assessed the creatures’ decidedly non-nimble movements. They lose something after death, he thought.

  The boy took up his post — his eyes haunted, his movements mechanical — and handed Willoughby his hook.

  Far overhead, back above the surface and another few thousand feet up besides, strange clouds grew thicker and began to turn as Willoughby moved on to the next steps. The sky above opened up.

  Ta-mesah watched the mummification with a detached, vaguely academic interest. He’d already known what had become of London’s missing. Now, as the scent of the red rain filtered down into the murky air of the tomb, he understood what triggered that, too. He was more familiar than most with the ancient proverb: blood for blood.

  It meant little to him. He’d been sent here to aid the Walker, and he had done so. But he had no doubt who he was really serving.

  Let the Englishman have his crude toys, he thought. Soon we will have true immortality, and the power that comes with it.

  The three friends were huddled together in Alex’s room. They were staring at the headline on the screen of Ren’s laptop: “The Dr Is Out.”

  Aditi was gone. Alex scanned the story quickly. “Last seen leaving the British Museum after a day of emergency meetings … Observed talking on a cell phone, the records to which have not been recovered.”

  He knew why. It was disposable. Todtman had used one in New York, too, to keep their secret mission off his own phone.

  “Was she talking?” he said, thinking out loud. “Or leaving us messages?”

  Alex looked back at the screen, at the picture of Aditi, smiling just slightly beneath the tacky tabloid headline. All this time he’d thought they were in trouble, when really it was her. He remembered the argument in her office, how his impatience had brought out the worst in him again. More guilt, more fuel for his dark fire.

  “Do you think, like, this cult got her?” said Luke. “ ‘The Order,’ ” he added, making the air quotes with his fingers.

  “I almost hope so,” said Alex. Because there was another possibility, one they hadn’t told Luke about yet. He remembered the gray shadow slipping from his body, the open mouth of the Walker.

  “I can’t look at this anymore,” said Ren, getting to her feet.

  Alex looked at her: Was she remembering the same thing, seeing her own soul torn from its moorings? Or, adrenaline used up, had the tranquilizer finally caught up with her? He tried to make eye contact with her, to get an idea of what she was thinking, but she was already heading toward the door.

  “You can keep my computer for now,” she said as she exited.

  Alex watched his door close and a moment later heard her door open. He turned back to find his cousin looking directly at him.

  “All right, cuz,” said Luke, “I’m not as smart as you, and I’m definitely not as smart as her, but I’m smart enough to know there’s something you two aren’t telling me.”

  Alex nodded. He’d already decided to let Luke know what was going on and had barely bothered to hide it when he’d pulled Ren aside to tell her about Willoughby. There’d be no more keeping Luke in the dark — he’d seen so much already.

  Alex took a deep breath. “Some of this is going to sound pretty crazy, and it might be kind of hard to believe,” he began. He carefully pulled the amulet from under his shirt and closed his left hand around it. “So first I want you to watch something.”

  And there, in the tiny room, Alex put on a little show. It was nothing much. He was still nursing a headache from the fight. He stacked some books, closed the window, flicked the light on and off, all with the wave of a hand. When he was done, Luke’s eyes were wide with wonder.

  Alex told him everything. Well, almost everything. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to tell his cousin how it had all started: with him lying on life support and his mom unfurling the Lost Spells in his hospital room. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that one simple fact: that all of this — everything that had happened in New York and London and Cairo and around the world — was because of him.

  When he was done, Luke looked down at the floor and then back at the story still filling the laptop screen. Finally, he looked at his cousin. “So,” he began, and Alex could see his cousin struggling to comprehend the incomprehensible. “That’s not algae out there, then, is it?”

  Luke nodded toward the window. The rain had started again. The glass had turned red.

  “So what do we do?” said Luke.

  Alex peeled his eyes from the window and looked at his cousin.

  “Remember that place I just told you about, Highgate?” said Alex. “We’re gonna have to go back there.”

  “We have to go to a cemetery?” said Luke.

  Alex pictured the Walker’s mud-streaked clothing. “Under one,” he said.

  Alex knew he should probably be doing more research, but as the rain poured down, and as Ren rested next door, he spent the afternoon asking Luke everything he remembered about his aunt Maggie. They were simple memories — after-hours tours of the museum, the bike she bought him for his seventh birthday — but they meant the world to Alex. Right now, memories were all he had left of his mom.

  Finally, Alex knew he needed to snap back into action. He headed down the creaky stairs, Luke close behind him.

  It was just after five and the museum was already closed when they reached the first floor. Somers was puttering around, flicking off lights and straightening up. One look at him told them that he was upset. Eyes heavy and face puffy, it looked like he might even have been crying. Alex thought he knew why.

  “You and Dr. Aditi are close, right?”

  Somers stopped what he was doing and turned toward him. “She … Priya … she was like a daughter to me,” he said. “I was her professor once. In another life, feels like.”

  The word was echoed in Alex’s head. Was like a daughter … And he wasn’t the only one to hear it.

  “We could still find her.”

  It was Ren, appearing at the edge of the room. Her hair was rumpled from sleep but her eyes were alert. Somers gave her a tired smile, and a wave of guilt washed over Alex when he saw it. He felt responsible for all of the disappearances — so many had suffered because he’d been saved — but for this one especially.

  “What do you need from me?” asked Somers. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

  “The Book of the Dead,” Alex said without hesitation. “We were going to get it from the British Museum, once we figured out which spell …”

  His voice trailed off. He hadn’t exactly done that yet, but he had a good idea of the type of spell he needed. He thought he’d know it when he saw it …

  “Why do we need a book?” said Luke, who had never had much use for them.

  But this part Alex was sure of. “This is a battle now,” he said. “They got Dr. Aditi, and they almost got Ren. We need to get them. We need to stop Willoughby, the Death Walker. He’s why all this is happening, just like in New York.”

  He searched his brain for the right expression and found it: “We need to cut off the head of the snake.”

  “You can do that with the Book, can’t you?” said Somers. “You can send ’im back.”

  Alex looked at Somers and nodded. Aditi had said they could trust him, but now he found himself wondering how much did the old man — the old professor — already know. How much she had told him.

  “Can we still get it?” he said. “The Book of the Dead, I mean. Can you get it?”

  Another tired smile. “What, the old caretaker from the Campbell is going to waltz into the British Museum and walk out with an armful of ancient texts?”

  Alex considered it. The security at the British would be wor
ld-class, especially right now. Without Aditi, that would be another battle …

  “But we do have some of the Book here,” said Somers.

  Alex shook his head. “I checked that out when we first got here,” he said. “It’s just a few spells from the beginning.”

  “But we know more now,” said Ren. “You should check it again.”

  “But …” Alex said.

  “We only need one,” she said.

  “I guess it’s worth a shot,” he admitted.

  The case was a few rooms over. Alex surveyed the sparse selection of papyrus and linen, all covered with the rows of small symbols that made up hieroglyphic writing and illustrated with little paintings. Gods and humans, judges and judged.

  Alex wrapped his left hand around the scarab and felt the cold stone warm to his touch, as if alive. In the dim light of the closed collection, the ancient writing in front of him began to glow softly.

  Alex’s eyes scanned the battered pages. As the words became clear, he read the titles out loud. Not quite a dozen in total: “For Going Out into the Day” … “For Breathing in the Land of the Dead” … Finally, his hand fell from his amulet, the glow faded, and the white returned to his eyes.

  “Not here,” he said. “It’s none of these.”

  The energy drained from the room like air from a week-old birthday balloon.

  Suddenly, Alex turned to face Somers. “But there are more here, aren’t there?”

  “More?” said Somers.

  “Yes, more of the Book, other spells,” said Alex. “I could feel them.”

  Somers looked confused for a moment, but then his expression cleared. “You’re right,” he said. “In the basement. But they’re in rough shape. Not suitable for display.”

  Alex smiled grimly. “We don’t need to display them.”

  The basement was more shadow than light. Thick cobwebs in the corners and a shifting layer of dust on the floors completed the effect.

  “Lovely,” said Ren, hanging back a bit as Somers rummaged through rusty cabinets and crumpled boxes.