by Allie Burton
Stunned, I could only stutter, “W-w-what?”
“Tut’s trumpets. Gordon brought the instruments to Professor York’s house.”
A strong shiver rocked me out of my earlier shock. Mr. Gordon was dead. “Is my grandfather alive?”
“At the moment.” His tone clipped. “Stop being annoying and get the trumpets.”
I pictured the trumpet in my head and how Grandfather had said he needed to hide it. How much had he known about the danger? He’d acted weird throughout dinner and had warned me away when the black car pulled up. “I only saw one trumpet and I don’t know where it is.”
“Quit playing games! They’re in the house.”
“I don’t know where in the house.” I spoke between uneven gasps. “And I only saw one trumpet.”
“Find them.”
I didn’t have a clue where to search. I’d just moved in. Hadn’t even unpacked. Grandfather would know where the single trumpet was hidden.
“I’ll have to ask my grandfather. Put him on the line.”
The man spluttered into the phone. “Search the damn house. I don’t care if you have to tear everything apart.” He spoke erratically; crazy, almost. I couldn’t trust him.
“I want to speak with my grandfather. How do I know he’s alive?”
The man grumbled. “Hold on.”
“Aria.” My grandfather sounded raw, older than normal. His voice scratched across the line and dug into my heart. “Don’t give them—”
“See? He’s alive. If you want him to stay that way I suggest you do everything possible to find Tut’s trumpets. And don’t call the cops again. I’ll be in touch.”
The phone buzzed with the disconnection swarming in my head.
I held the phone away from my ear, processing.
Grandfather was alive. At the moment. And he didn’t want me to give away the trumpet.
The kidnapper wanted me to find two trumpets. He thought both instruments were in the house. And obviously Grandfather hadn’t told the kidnapper where he’d hidden the case holding the one trumpet.
My thoughts spun, wheeled and whirled. Why not tell the kidnapper if giving him the trumpet could save Grandfather’s life?
Everyone knows when you’re mugged, you give up your things instead of your life. But Grandfather was willing to die to save a trumpet.
The spinning stopped. The goal focused. I couldn’t lose the only family I had left.
I had to find Tut’s trumpet.
Chapter Three
Aria
I should call the police. Tell them I’d heard from the kidnapper.
A frisson of fear shot through my body. The kidnapper told me not to call the police. And he’d known the second the two officers had left. He must be watching.
The frizzle grew stronger, causing my limbs to shake. My chest deflated and I suffocated in my terror and panic. Plus, the cops suspected Grandfather of being involved. Could I trust them?
The kidnapper wanted the trumpet. Before doing anything else, before making any decisions about whether to call the police or not, I needed to find the trumpet.
Blood pounded through my bloodstream with the beat of urgency. I rushed to Grandfather’s office where I’d last seen the trumpet. Where I’d played it. Where he kept his university and research stuff.
Switching on the lights, I sized up the room. The windows were covered by dark shades so no one could see inside. His desk was clean. No beaten-up, brown-leather case on the shelves. No case on the ground.
Of course, finding the trumpet wouldn’t be easy. If it was, the kidnappers probably would’ve stolen the trumpet.
I dashed to the low, wood filing cabinets behind the desk and pulled on the handle. Locked. I pulled on another drawer and another. Every drawer was locked.
I sprinted to the closet and tried the knob. It didn’t move. The closet door was locked, too. Why? I placed my palm against the wood. My veins pulsed. The blood flow seemed to throb as if excited about going into the closet. Maybe finding the trumpet? Except how could I sense an inanimate object?
Remembering how I’d felt when I’d played the trumpet, I could imagine the instrument calling to me. With its storied history and its connection to King Tut, maybe bits of the lore were true.
Ridiculous. I couldn’t sense an instrument.
I wanted to find the trumpet to save my grandfather. That was all. I had no need to play the instrument. The urgency pounding through my heart was only fear that I wouldn’t find the trumpet in time to save him.
Pulling myself away from the closet door, I plopped into the desk chair and ripped open the top drawers. I found pens, a stapler, small pads of paper. Only normal desk things.
I shuffled around the contents. Something clanked.
Keys.
I sucked in a sharp breath. A plain round key ring held a bunch of normal keys. Could one of the keys open the closet door?
The keys jangled when I picked them up. The noise made me pause. The house had been so quiet up until this point, seeming to be on edge as much as me.
With shaky hands, I inserted the first key into the closet keyhole. It didn’t fit.
I inserted the second, and the third. There must be a dozen keys on the ring.
I inserted the fourth key. It fit.
Pausing, I stilled the pounding in my veins. I turned the key. The lock clicked.
The clicking echoed in my chest. This was going to be so easy. I opened the door.
Flicking on the light switch, I scanned the room. The closet wasn’t very big. It had more wooden shelves filled with more books. A bunch of instruments cluttered in one corner.
A French horn, a clarinet, a violin.
No trumpet.
Yet, my veins pounded harder. Blood soared through to the capillaries making my skin tingle. It was as if my body knew I was close to Tut’s trumpet, like an internal detection system.
Which was silly.
Then why did I feel this emotional connection in this closet? Could it be adrenaline? Fear? Anxiety over my grandfather’s disappearance?
I glanced around one more time, scouring every nook and cranny in the closet. “Okay, the trumpet is not in Grandfather’s office. It must be somewhere else in the house.”
Still, I paused. Listening, feeling, sensing. And feeling totally stupid.
Dangling the keys from my fingers, I hurried through the house. I switched on the lights in the living room and yanked every drawer in the side table, end tables, and coffee table. I overturned the cushions in the couch, chair, and loveseat.
Nothing.
Shivers splayed across my back. That feeling of being watched returned, similar to what I’d had at the restaurant.
Glancing out the large picture window at the front of the house, I knew the kidnapper watched or he wouldn’t have known about the police. No time for paranoia. I pulled the drapes closed to block their view.
Why make it easy for them? When I found the trumpet I didn’t want the kidnappers to know until I made a decision.
The eerie quietness put me more on edge. Muscles tense, I flipped on the CD player letting classical-guitar music fill the house. Searching the bureau and the closet in the hallway, I’d hoped the music would soothe me. It didn’t work. Which was sad because music had been the center of my life.
Music had been my life. Front, back, and center. Until the music died inside of me. Died with my parents.
I hurried toward the stairs. I didn’t want to think about my parents now. I had too many other things on my mind. Climbing the steps, each stair creaked like a warning. I shuddered, and icy shivers cascaded over my skin.
“You’re not familiar with the house’s idiosyncrasies and noises, yet.” I pep-talked to myself.
I passed my room, knowing the trumpet wasn’t in there, and went straight to my grandfather’s bedroom. I’d only stepped into his room once before, on the day I’d arrived and he’d given me a tour.
More framed photos sucker-punched m
e and I bent over. My parents’ wedding picture sitting on Grandfather’s dresser. My baby photo with Mom holding me hanging on the wall. Me holding my first flute when I was five years old on the bedside table.
The memories assaulted with the caramel scent of Grandfather’s favorite candy. My knees buckled and I grabbed onto the doorframe. Weakened by a new fear, the grief struck me harder. I pushed the burning sensation in my eyes back. Gathering my strength, I moved into the room. Most of the drawers would be too small to hold the trumpet. I walked to the closet and opened the door.
Clothes hung from the rod in the center. The floor held a shelf filled with Grandfather’s shoes. I rifled through the clothes and found nothing except empty caramel wrappers. Fresh tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them away. I couldn’t lose Grandfather. I had to find the trumpet.
Getting on my knees, I searched behind the shelf.
“Not here.” Getting up, I walked into the hallway.
There was only one other room to search. A room I’d refused to go into since moving here. Not because of mementos and memories, but because of the lost possibility of my future. A room that would’ve once drawn me like candy before the accident, and now repelled.
The music room.
All my panicked searching slowed to a crawl as I strolled with dread. My heart picked up its pace. My mind became a maelstrom of mixed emotions. Passion, sorrow, grief. I stepped to the door and put my sweaty hand around the brass handle. Taking a deep breath, I twisted and opened the door.
The room was painted white, with large windows to bring in the natural light along the back wall. A black, baby grand piano sat below the window where Grandfather would teach. An acoustic guitar perched against a stand for other students to use. A percussion drum lay on its side on the floor.
There, in the center, sat my old black music stand, gathering dust. Brand new sheet music balanced on the top of the stand.
A low bench behind the stand held a brand new music case. My heart stuttered until I realized the black case was too short and narrow to hold Tut’s trumpet. Plus, it was too modern, with its Velcro strap and bright metal buckles.
The case was similar in size to my old flute case—the one that had been damaged in the accident. The stuttering changed into an uneven rhythm.
I took a long step forward and opened the case. Inside was a shiny new flute. The uneven rhythm fluttered into a lighter beat. The silver instrument shone. It appeared to be unused.
A brand-new flute.
My body warmed at Grandfather’s thoughtfulness. He must’ve purchased it with hopes I’d play again.
Weird I didn’t feel the same pull to play the flute as I had with Tut’s trumpet.
A door snicked closed downstairs. The noise echoed up the stairs and into the music room. The classical-guitar CD I’d put on was silenced.
All the warm, fuzzy feelings fled. I froze in place. Panic pulsed and thrummed to a wild beat. My ears perked, trying to hear more over my internal rock band. My brain swarmed with scenarios. The biggest one—the only one—the kidnapper had snuck in the house.
My gaze darted around the room. No phone. No escape.
I picked up the biggest thing I could carry, a guitar, and raised it above my shoulder. If I could get to Grandfather’s room I could use the phone to call the police. They said they’d be in the neighborhood.
Rushing to the music room doorway, I peeked down the hall. The lights were on. I didn’t hear anything or anyone.
I tiptoed down the hall, holding the guitar above my head. Maybe I’d been imagining the noise. Maybe with the excitement I’d thought I’d heard something.
The steps creaked.
I stopped. Anxiety sizzled, causing the hairs on my body to stand on end. The steps always creaked when someone was coming up the stairs.
Maybe the kidnappers had gotten impatient and they’d come to search for the trumpet themselves. Maybe they’d already killed my grandfather. Maybe they were going to kill me.
Each maybe led to a more terrifying scenario. My body trembled and my muscles tightened with the decision of fight or flight.
The stairs creaked again.
Whoever was there was taking the stairs one step at a time. Sneaking in. They knew I was here and didn’t want to be discovered.
Too late.
I sped into my grandfather’s room, reached for the phone, and lifted it to my ear.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Not a dial tone. I jammed the disconnect button several times. The same sound. The phone wasn’t working or was disconnected.
Horror screeched through me. The internal screaming reached a pitch no opera diva could hit. My organs shriveled and I fought against complete and total panic.
I took stock of the room. The windows were too high to jump from. The bed had drawers fashioned underneath with no place to hide below.
The top step squeaked in its own special way. The intruder was in the upstairs hallway.
Raving fear shredded my lungs. I found it hard to breathe. I couldn’t stand in the middle of the room like a sacrificial pheasant.
With shaky legs, I dashed inside the closet with the guitar. My only weapon of defense. I closed the door most of the way and peered through the crack. A shadow emerged against the wall. Tall, male, determined.
The figure moved to the center of the room. Close to six feet and around one hundred and sixty pounds. Full lips positioned above a strong, pointy jaw with a dimple in the middle. The jaw was a perfect foil for the prominent cheekbones. Messy, dark hair, long on the top and sticking out at odd angles as if he’d run his fingers through it. Broad shoulders in a tight, black T-shirt. Trim waist. Tight jeans molding to strong thighs.
The specific inventory was only so I could describe him better to the police.
His sharp emerald gaze scanned Grandfather’s room. Perused the closet door.
My muscles tensed, ready to attack if needed. I held my breath. Didn’t move. From this angle, he couldn’t see me. Could the intruder sense I was here?
Raising the guitar in slow speed, my arms shook. The weight of fear pushed down with tripled gravity.
The intruder stalked toward the closet.
Pure terror stoked a fire inside me.
His strong hand grabbed the door handle. Pulled.
The door swung open, exposing me.
My internal fire exploded into action. Without thought, I swung the guitar down on top of the intruder.
Thwack.
The acoustic guitar cracked over his head. The base bonged and the strings strummed. A symphony gone wild. The neck broke in two and the strings sprang free. Sadness plucked. I’d destroyed the beautiful instrument.
Quit mourning the guitar and move!
Chapter Four
Falcon
Agony rocketed through Falcon’s head.
The guitar smashed into pieces. The strings plunking. The neck broken. The sound cringe-worthy.
The girl had smashed a guitar into his skull. The smarting sting wasn’t as bad as the agonizing pain she’d caused earlier, pain lasting for hours while she’d played Tut’s trumpet of war.
He should’ve crept into the house earlier, ripped the trumpet out of her mouth, and broken the bronze instrument over his knees. That wouldn’t solve his problem. A problem she’d now inherit.
The cursed girl pushed against his chest. Her touch caused a raw intensity to rip through him, burning his skin and paralyzing his body for a second. He gasped. The unexpectedness of the torture reminding him of his past life.
She paused and glanced at her hands with wide, scared eyes. Then, stared back at him. She’d felt the power and the punishment, too.
The punishment for playing the instrument of a god and a king.
Their gazes connected, and for a second, time seemed to stop. He didn’t remember his past of mayhem and murder. He forgot his future and his goal. All his thoughts centered on this present, this moment in time, this shared look.
His soul lock
ed onto hers. His heart beat in simpatico. His mind whirred with what ifs.
Her short, blonde hair flipped to one side, almost appearing boyish. Her heart-shaped face featured classically full lips, a straight nose, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Blue like the Nile River he remembered from home.
She looked away, breaking the trance, glanced past his shoulder, toward the door. Dodging around him, she ran.
He leapt, wrapping a hand around her skinny leg and yanking her down. The pain crashed into him again. He refused to let go. He couldn’t let her touch the trumpet again.
Her body slammed into the floor and he winced, not wanting to hurt her. He didn’t blame her for torturing him just by contact. She didn’t realize the elements of the trumpet’s power.
Her fingers dug into the carpet as she tried to claw her way out of the room.
Rotating her body to face up, he pulled on her leg, and her body slid across the floor toward him as if she wore silk instead of jeans and a sweater. Some of Tut’s magical powers might reside inside of her, but she wasn’t as strong as him and his combined strength.
She kicked, trying to get her leg free, and her foot connected with his cheek. An ache shot through his jaw.
“Ugh.” Frustration pulled taut and knotted inside him. “Aria, stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her kicking stopped, for a second, and then she kicked with more strength, probably angry he knew her name. In ancient Egypt, knowing a person’s true name was akin to having power over them. He wished it were so in the modern era.
He grabbed the ankle of the kicking leg, bracing himself for more discomfort. Using her legs similar to a rope, he put one hand on top of the other, pulling her underneath him and pinning her down with his body. The pain should’ve been worse. Instead, electricity shocked him and hot tingles spread across his skin.
She continued to jerk both legs and twist her body, trying to fight him off. “Ahh!”
The scream pierced his eardrums and he cringed, lying on top of her wriggling form. His legs covered her legs and he held her two wrists together with a fist. She wiggled and squirmed beneath him. Her rose-water scent infiltrated his senses. Not an attack, but a way to damage his defenses.
