by Rick Riordan
“One is already entombed,” the fiery man said. “The second is weak. She will be easily manipulated. That leaves only two. And they will be dealt with soon enough.”
“Er...how?” the toadie asked.
The fiery man glowed brighter. “You are an inquisitive little tadpole, aren’t you?” He pointed at the toad and the poor creature’s skin began to steam.
“No!” the toadie begged. “No-o-o-o!”
I could hardly watch. I don’t want to describe it. But if you’ve heard what happens when cruel kids pour salt on snails, you’ll have a pretty good idea of what happened to the toadie. Soon there was nothing left.
Rooster Foot took a nervous step back. I couldn’t blame him.
“We will build my temple here,” the fiery man said, as if nothing had happened. “This mountain shall serve as my place of worship. When it is complete, I will summon the greatest storm ever known. I will cleanse everything. Everything.”
“Yes, my lord,” Rooster Foot agreed quickly. “And, ah, if I may suggest, my lord, to increase your power...” The creature bowed and scraped and moved forward, as if he wanted to whisper in the fiery man’s ear.
Just when I thought Rooster Foot was going to become fried chicken for sure, he said something to the fiery dude that I couldn’t make out, and the fiery dude burned brighter.
“Excellent! If you can do this, you will be rewarded. If not...”
“I understand, my lord.”
“Go then,” the fiery man said. “Unleash our forces. Start with the longnecks. That should soften them up. Collect the younglings and bring them to me. I want them alive, before they have time to learn their powers. Do not fail me.”
“No, lord.”
“Phoenix,” the fiery man mused. “I like that very much.” He swept his hand across the horizon, as if he were imagining the city in flames. “Soon I will rise from your ashes. It will be a lovely birthday present.”
I woke with my heart pounding, back in my own body. I felt hot, as if the fiery guy were starting to burn me. Then I realized that there was a cat on my chest.
Muffin stared at me, her eyes half closed. “Mrow.”
“How did you get in?” I muttered.
I sat up, and for a second I wasn’t sure where I was. Some hotel in another city? I almost called for my dad...and then I remembered.
Yesterday. The museum. The sarcophagus.
It all crashed down on me so hard I could barely breathe.
Stop, I told myself. You don’t have time for grief. And this is going to sound weird, but the voice in my head almost sounded like a different person—older, stronger. Either that was a good sign, or I was going crazy.
Remember what you saw, the voice said. He’s after you. You have to be ready.
I shivered. I wanted to believe I’d just had a bad dream, but I knew better. I’d been through too much in the last day to doubt what I’d seen. Somehow, I’d actually left my body while I slept. I’d been to Phoenix—thousands of miles away. The fiery dude was there. I hadn’t understood much of what he’d said, but he’d talked about sending his forces to capture the younglings. Gee, wonder who that could be?
Muffin jumped off the bed and sniffed at the ivory headrest, looking up at me as if she were trying to tell me something.
“You can have it,” I told her. “It’s uncomfortable.”
She butted her head against it and stared at me accusingly. “Mrow.”
“Whatever, cat.”
I got up and showered. When I tried to get dressed, I found that my old clothes had disappeared in the night. Everything in the closet was my size, but way different than what I was used to—baggy drawstring pants and loose shirts, all plain white linen, and robes for cold weather, kind of what the fellahin, the peasants in Egypt, wear. It wasn’t exactly my style.
Sadie likes to tell me that I don’t have a style. She complains that I dress like I’m an old man—button-down shirt, slacks, dress shoes. Okay, maybe. But here’s the thing. My dad had always drilled into my head that I had to dress my best.
I remember the first time he explained it to me. I was ten. We were on our way to the airport in Athens, and it was like 112 degrees outside, and I was complaining that I wanted to wear shorts and a T-shirt. Why couldn’t I be comfortable? We weren’t going anywhere important that day—just traveling.
My dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Carter, you’re getting older. You’re an African American man. People will judge you more harshly, and so you must always look impeccable.”
“That isn’t fair!” I insisted.
“Fairness does not mean everyone gets the same,” Dad said. “Fairness means everyone gets what they need. And the only way to get what you need is to make it happen yourself. Do you understand?”
I told him I didn’t. But still I did what he asked—like caring about Egypt, and basketball, and music. Like traveling with only one suitcase. I dressed the way Dad wanted me to, because Dad was usually right. In fact I’d never known him to be wrong...until the night at the British Museum.
Anway, I put on the linen clothes from the closet. The slipper shoes were comfortable, though I doubted they’d be much good to run in.
The door to Sadie’s room was open, but she wasn’t there.
Thankfully my bedroom door wasn’t locked anymore. Muffin joined me and we walked downstairs, passing a lot of unoccupied bedrooms on the way. The mansion could’ve easily slept a hundred people, but instead it felt empty and sad.
Down in the Great Room, Khufu the baboon sat on the sofa with a basketball between his legs and a chunk of strange-looking meat in his hands. It was covered in pink feathers. ESPN was on the television, and Khufu was watching highlights from the games the night before.
“Hey,” I said, though I felt a little weird talking to him. “Lakers win?”
Khufu looked at me and patted his basketball like he wanted a game. “Agh, agh.”
He had a pink feather hanging from his chin, and the sight made my stomach do a slow roll.
“Um, yeah,” I said. “We’ll play later, okay?”
I could see Sadie and Amos out on the terrace, eating breakfast by the pool. It should’ve been freezing out there, but the fire pit was blazing, and neither Amos nor Sadie looked cold. I headed their way, then hesitated in front of the statue of Thoth. In the daylight, the bird-headed god didn’t look quite so scary. Still, I could swear those beady eyes were watching me expectantly.
What had the fiery guy said last night? Something about catching us before we learned our powers. It sounded ridiculous, but for a moment I felt a surge of strength—like the night before when I’d opened the front door just by raising my hand. I felt like I could lift anything, even this thirty-foot-tall statue if I wanted to. In a kind of trance, I stepped forward.
Muffin meowed impatiently and butted my foot. The feeling dissolved.
“You’re right,” I told the cat. “Stupid idea.”
Besides, I could smell breakfast now—French toast, bacon, hot chocolate—and I couldn’t blame Muffin for being in a hurry. I followed her out to the terrace.
“Ah, Carter,” Amos said. “Merry Chrstmas, my boy. Join us.”
“About time,” Sadie grumbled. “I’ve been up for ages.”
But she held my eyes for a moment, like she was thinking the same thing I was: Christmas. We hadn’t spent a Christmas morning together since Mom died. I wondered if Sadie remembered how we used to make god’s-eye decorations out of yarn and Popsicle sticks.
Amos poured himself a cup of coffee. His clothes were similar to those he’d worn the day before, and I had to admit the guy had style. His tailored suit was made of blue wool, he wore a matching fedora, and his hair was freshly braided with dark blue lapis lazuli, one of the stones the Egyptians often used for jewelry. Even his glasses matched. The round lenses were tinted blue. A tenor sax rested on a stand near the fire pit, and I could totally picture him playing out here, serenading the East River.
&
nbsp; As for Sadie, she was dressed in a white linen pajama outfit like me, but somehow she’d managed to keep her combat boots. She’d probably slept with them on. She looked pretty comical with the red-streaked hair and the outfit, but since I wasn’t dressed any better, I could hardly make fun of her.
“Um...Amos?” I asked. “You didn’t have any pet birds, did you? Khufu’s eating something with pink feathers.”
“Mmm.” Amos sipped his coffee. “Sorry if that disturbed you. Khufu’s very picky. He only eats foods that end in -o. Doritos, burritos, flamingos.”
I blinked. “Did you say—”
“Carter,” Sadie warned. She looked a little queasy, like she’d already had this conversation. “Don’t ask.”
“Okay,” I said. “Not asking.”
“Please, Carter, help yourself.” Amos waved toward a buffet table piled high with food. “Then we can get started with the explanations.”
I didn’t see any flamingo on the buffet table, which was fine by me, but there was just about everything else. I snagged some pancakes with butter and syrup, some bacon, and a glass of OJ.
Then I noticed movement in the corner of my eye. I glanced at the swimming pool. Something long and pale was gliding just under the surface of the water.
I almost dropped my plate. “Is that—”
“A crocodile,” Amos confirmed. “For good luck. He’s albino, but please don’t mention that. He’s sensitive.”
“His name is Philip of Macedonia,” Sadie informed me.
I wasn’t sure how Sadie was taking this all so calmly, but I figured if she wasn’t freaking out, I shouldn’t either.
“That’s a long name,” I said.
“He’s a long crocodile,” Sadie said. “Oh, and he likes bacon.”
To prove her point, she tossed a piece of bacon over her shoulder. Philip lunged out of the water and snapped up the treat. His hide was pure white and his eyes were pink. His mouth was so big, he could’ve snapped up an entire pig.
“He’s quite harmless to my friends,” Amos assured me. “In the old days, no temple would be complete without a lake full of crocodiles. They are powerful magic creatures.”
“Right,” I said. “So the baboon, the crocodile...any other pets I should know about?”
Amos thought for a moment. “Visible ones? No, I think that’s it.”
I took a seat as far from the pool as possible. Muffin circled my legs and purred. I hoped she had enough sense to stay away from magic crocodiles named Philip.
“So, Amos,” I said between bites of pancake. “Explanations.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Where to start...”
“Our dad,” Sadie suggested. “What happened to him?”
Amos took a deep breath. “Julius was attempting to summon a god. Unfortunately, it worked.”
It was kind of hard to take Amos seriously, talking about summoning gods while he spread butter on a bagel.
“Any god in particular?” I asked casually. “Or did he just order a generic god?”
Sadie kicked me under the table. She was scowling, as if she actually believed what Amos was saying.
Amos took a bite of bagel. “There are many Egyptian gods, Carter. But your dad was after one in particular.”
He looked at me meaningfully.
“Osiris,” I remembered. “When Dad was standing in front of the Rosetta Stone, he said, ‘Osiris, come.’ But Osiris is a legend. He’s make-believe.”
“I wish that were true.” Amos stared across the East River at the Manhattan skyline, gleaming in the morning sun. “The Ancient Egyptians were not fools, Carter. They built the pyramids. They created the first great nation state. Their civilization lasted thousands of years.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And now they’re gone.”
Amos shook his head. “A legacy that powerful does not disappear. Next to the Egyptians, the Greeks and Romans were babies. Our modern nations like Great Britain and America? Blinks of an eye. The very oldest root of civilization, at least of Western civilization, is Egypt. Look at the pyramid on the dollar bill. Look at the Washington Monument—the world’s largest Egyptian obelisk. Egypt is still very much alive. And so, unfortunately, are her gods.”
“Come on,” I argued. “I mean...even if I believe there’s a real thing called magic. Believing in ancient gods is totally different. You’re joking, right?”
But as I said it, I thought about the fiery guy in the museum, the way his face had shifted between human and animal. And the statue of Thoth—how its eyes had followed me.
“Carter,” Amos said, “the Egyptians would not have been stupid enough to believe in imaginary gods. The beings they described in their myths are very, very real. In the old days, the priests of Egypt would call upon these gods to channel their power and perform great feats. That is the origin of what we now call magic. Like many things, magic was first invented by the Egyptians. Each temple had a branch of magicians called the House of Life. Their magicians were famed throughout the ancient world.”
“And you’re an Egyptian magician.”
Amos nodded. “So was your father. You saw it for yourself last night.”
I hesitated. It was hard to deny my dad had done some weird stuff at the museum—some stuff that looked like magic.
“But he’s an archaeologist,” I said stubbornly.
“That’s his cover story. You’ll remember that he specialized in translating ancient spells, which are very difficult to understand unless you work magic yourself. Our family, the Kane family, has been part of the House of Life almost since the beginning. And your mother’s family is almost as ancient.”
“The Fausts?” I tried to imagine Grandma and Grandpa Faust doing magic, but unless watching rugby on TV and burning cookies was magical, I couldn’t see it.
“They had not practiced magic for many generations,” Amos admitted. “Not until your mother came along. But yes, a very ancient bloodline.”
Sadie shook her head in disbelief. “So now Mum was magic, too. Are you joking?”
“No jokes,” Amos promised. “The two of you...you combine the blood of two ancient families, both of which have a long, complicated history with the gods. You are the most powerful Kane children to be born in many centuries.”
I tried to let that sink in. At the moment, I didn’t feel powerful. I felt queasy. “You’re telling me our parents secretly worshipped animal-headed gods?” I asked.
“Not worshipped,” Amos corrected. “By the end of the ancient times, Egyptians had learned that their gods were not to be worshipped. They are powerful beings, primeval forces, but they are not divine in the sense one might think of God. They are created entities, like mortals, only much more powerful. We can respect them, fear them, use their power, or even fight them to keep them under control—”
“Fight gods?” Sadie interrupted.
“Constantly,” Amos assured her. “But we don’t worship them. Thoth taught us that.”
I looked at Sadie for help. The old guy had to be crazy. But Sadie was looking like she believed every word.
“So...” I said. “Why did Dad break the Rosetta Stone?”
“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean to break it,” Amos said. “That would’ve horrified him. In fact, I imagine my brethren in London have repaired the damage by now. The curators will soon check their vaults and discover that the Rosetta Stone miraculously survived the explosion.”
“But it was blown into a million pieces!” I said. “How could they repair it?”
Amos picked up a saucer and threw it onto the stone floor. The saucer shattered instantly.
“That was to destroy,” Amos said. “I could’ve done it by magic—ha-di—but it’s simpler just to smash it. And now...” Amos held out his hand. “Join. Hi-nehm.”
A blue hieroglyphic symbol burned in the air above his palm.
The pieces of the saucer flew into his hand and reassembled like a puzzle, even the smallest bits of dust gluing themselves into place. A
mos put the perfect saucer back on the table.
“Some trick,” I managed. I tried to sound calm about it, but I was thinking of all the odd things that had happened to my dad and me over the years, like those gunmen in the Cairo hotel who’d ended up hanging by their feet from a chandelier. Was it possible my dad had made that happen with some kind of spell?
Amos poured milk in the saucer, and put it on the floor. Muffin came padding over. “At any rate, your father would never intentionally damage a relic. He simply didn’t realize how much power the Rosetta Stone contained. You see, as Egypt faded, its magic collected and concentrated into its remaining relics. Most of these, of course, are still in Egypt. But you can find some in almost every major museum. A magician can use these artifacts as focal points to work more powerful spells.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
Amos spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Carter. It takes years of study to understand magic, and I’m trying to explain it to you in a single morning. The important thing is, for the past six years your father has been looking for a way to summon Osiris, and last night he thought he had found the right artifact to do it.”
“Wait, why did he want Osiris?”
Sadie gave me a troubled look. “Carter, Osiris was the lord of the dead. Dad was talking about making things right. He was talking about Mum.”
Suddenly the morning seemed colder. The fire pit sputtered in the wind coming off the river.
“He wanted to bring Mom back from the dead?” I said. “But that’s crazy!”
Amos hesitated. “It would’ve been dangerous. Inadvisable. Foolish. But not crazy. Your father is a powerful magician. If, in fact, that is what he was after, he might have accomplished it, using the power of Osiris.”
I stared at Sadie. “You’re actually buying this?”
“You saw the magic at the museum. The fiery bloke. Dad summoned something from the stone.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking of my dream. “But that wasn’t Osiris, was it?”
“No,” Amos said. “Your father got more than he bargained for. He did release the spirit of Osiris. In fact, I think he successfully joined with the god—”
