by Allie Burton
If he was trying to trick me, why didn’t he ask for the trumpet again?
“Take me with.” If he had any idea where my grandfather might be, I wanted to go.
“Too dangerous.” His gaze roved over me again and I wanted to get out of his spotlight. “You’re not in the right condition.”
I gasped. “I’m not out of shape. I’m injured.” Every hurt muscle and tendon throbbed. I’d done too much tonight. “I want to come with.”
“You’ll do more good by staying here and finding the trumpet.”
“For you.” I spat defiance. Not that I planned on giving it to him. “What about Grandfather?”
“We’re trying to find him and the silver trumpet.” His expression softened and his hand reached as if to stroke my cheek. He dropped his hand. “I’ll see you later.”
Leaning forward, I ached for his touch. And his presence. I didn’t want to be alone with this Society watching and the trumpet calling. He was a less-evil choice. Or was he?
And just what did Falcon mean by, I’ll see you later?
Was that a promise or a threat?
Chapter Six
Aria
After Falcon darted out the back door and disappeared into the darkness, I slouched against the counter. My body was exhausted. My mind spun in all directions. Unable to call the police, my only choice was to run outside and flag a police car.
If I told them about Falcon and the message delivered by rock, they’d watch me closer or take me into protective custody. I wouldn’t be able to search for the trumpet.
I left the kitchen and strolled through the living room and foyer, studying every piece of furniture. The urge to play the trumpet bloomed. Was the need real, or did Falcon plant the idea in my head? His suggestion must’ve seeded in my mind, a musical tune you couldn’t forget. Annoying, like the guy.
Grandfather would never hide a precious musical instrument just anywhere. He’d hide it someplace safe.
The desire to find the trumpet felt like an addiction. A need to play so sharp it took over my thought processes.
No. I needed to find the trumpet to trade for Grandfather. And while I waited to make the exchange, I could play the instrument. It’s what the kidnappers wanted.
It’s what I want. The thought nagged in my mind.
Back in Grandfather’s office, I searched his desk again. In the top drawer I found Mr. Gordon’s business card with his antique-shop address. It would be an interesting place to explore. I shoved the card aside. The only important thing was finding the trumpet.
Sitting back in the chair, I surveyed the room. My gaze connected with the closet door and Falcon’s words about sensing the trumpet returned.
My nerves jittered. I remembered feeling an essence or a power when I’d searched the office closet. Believed the trumpet was hidden inside. And yet, I found nothing.
I jumped to my feet, sending the desk chair flying backwards. Putting my palm against the closet door, I closed my eyes and tried to feel. The pulse point at my wrist throbbed. My veins expanded to accommodate the extra blood flow. My heart pounded to a presto beat.
With sweaty palms, I twisted the handle and opened the closet door. Anticipation thrummed through me like guitar strings. It looked the same. French horn, clarinet, violin. Miscellaneous music stands. An old recording device on the shelf. Empty file folders, reams of paper for the printer, a cup of pens. A metal rod for hanging clothes. Nothing unusual.
Moving farther into the closet, hot temperatures swamped my body as if I played that child’s game. I was getting warmer.
My breath grew shallow. I pushed the folders to the ground. I lifted the reams of paper and moved them over. I spilled the cup of pens and they clattered to the ground.
This need to see the back of the closet, to get closer, thrived inside. Something was back there. I could feel it. Sense it. Hear it call my name.
Which was absurd. An unplayed instrument couldn’t call me. Falcon almost had me believing in his magical theories.
I placed my hand against the back wall. My muscles twitched. Heat radiated from behind the chalky drywall. I wanted to punch at the wall to peek inside.
Forcing myself to withdraw my hand, I leaned back and grabbed the metal rod for balance.
Click.
Crank, crank, crank.
New sounds. Mechanical sounds came from behind the wall.
The wall started sliding. Opening.
I sucked in my stomach. My eyes were probably as wide as the door.
Grandfather had a secret passage in his closet.
Air whooshed from my lungs. Why did Grandfather need a secret room? The outside of the house seemed bigger than the actual square footage. Where most of the houses had a garage, Grandfather’s house had a blank wall. I’d wondered, but didn’t ask.
Balancing on the edge of the secret passage, I peered in. A set of wooden stairs led down into a basement. Dampness and mold wafted from the secret room. The room must never be used. Except now. To hide the trumpet.
I knew I was right. I felt the call of the trumpet. Felt the fire and the desire. Felt the power.
Was Falcon right, too? Had he been telling the truth about the significance of this trumpet? About the power and the magic?
As I descended, the stairs creaked. Dust and cobwebs filled the air. The dark room below was only slightly illuminated by the light from the office closet.
At the bottom step, I glanced around. Bare, concrete floor. Brick walls. Cardboard boxes looking as if they’d been here for decades. And towards the back, sitting on an empty wooden crate, was the trumpet case.
Hallelujah! I darted over, unbuckled the case, and lifted the bronze trumpet.
My body zinged with recognition. The trumpet understood me, knew me, belonged to me. A sense of euphoria sung in my blood.
Without thought, I put the trumpet to my lips and blew.
The harsh blare sounded like music to my ears. The sound flowed into my body and filled my heart. Power hummed. And the grief over my parents and the worry about Grandfather disappeared. With the trumpet I could do anything. Be in control. I’d be triumphant in any battle.
The delight at being one with the trumpet zipped along, making my blood bubble with joy. This was what I wanted. To play the trumpet and be happy. No grief or worry or anxiety. Only power.
Why did I feel these emotions? Why didn’t Grandfather want me to play if he knew playing the trumpet would make me feel so good?
Grandfather.
Something nagged at the back of my mind. Something I was supposed to do.
I pulled the trumpet from my lips and took a deep, deep, deep breath. Concentrate. What did I need the trumpet for?
Grandfather.
His name slammed into my chest, squeezing the air out. His comfort, his caring, his current circumstances bumped my brain. The kidnappers wanted the trumpet in exchange for my grandfather. No, now they wanted me to play the trumpet. Which I just did.
Glancing at my watch, I noticed about an hour had passed and it had only felt like a few minutes. If the trumpet had no other abilities, the speeding up of time was a definite possibility.
I was giving the kidnappers what they wanted without a guarantee for Grandfather’s safety. My mind puzzled through the intricacies. I didn’t understand why the kidnappers wanted me to play the trumpet. I knew this trumpet was different. Did I believe Falcon and his claims of magical abilities?
Possibly.
In order to bargain with the kidnappers, I needed to learn more about the trumpet. And the silver trumpet the kidnappers thought I had. Maybe Mr. Gordon had the silver trumpet.
Even though my instincts resisted, I forced myself to put the bronze trumpet back in the case. I went up the wooden stairs, closed the secret passage, and put the office supplies back in place. I took the business card from the desk and ran to my bedroom, not feeling my injuries. It had to be adrenaline and the rush from playing the trumpet that made me forget about my torn muscle
s and bruises.
Switching on my computer, I tapped my fingers against the keyboard as the machine warmed. The computer dinged. I typed Gordon’s Antique Shop into the search engine. A map popped up showing its location. It was within walking distance of the house.
I blew a ragged breath. The question was, how did I get out without the cops or the kidnappers seeing me?
The kidnappers or the Society obviously had access to the back of the house. They might’ve been scared away from the front since I’d called the police. If I peeked out the front window, I could watch when the next patrol car drove by and leave immediately after. That was the plan.
And it worked. Internally, I fist bumped myself. I’d waited twenty minutes for the cop car to cruise by, then I snuck out the door, and down the street to the closest alley. Maybe the darkness of night had helped me go undetected, or maybe I should become a spy.
From there, I’d followed the map and now I stood in front of Gordon’s Antique Shop. It had been too easy. I didn’t feel my unhealed injuries. I didn’t feel breathless. I didn’t feel afraid. I felt invincible. The thick fog made me invisible.
Besides the antique store, there was a travel agency, a pet shop, and a Mexican restaurant. It was after midnight, so even the restaurant was closed. No lights shone in the large storefront windows of the block of shops. The streetlights were bright—spotlights highlighting my future crime.
Anxiety trickled inside me. Breaking in was probably a bad idea, but I didn’t know who to trust, who to believe. I had to research Tut’s trumpets and how Mr. Gordon came to possess them on my own. Discover my own truth.
I swung around to the back alley and counted the back doors to the correct store. The antique store had a short loading dock with a rolling garage-like door, a small back door, wooden steps leading to a second story door, and a small window to the left of the landing.
Taking a quick glance around, I heard nothing except the occasional car on the street. Nothing suspicious or unusual. Well, except for me.
I jumped onto the loading dock and tried to lift the garage door by its handles. No luck. I tried to turn the door handles. Locked, of course.
Glancing around again, I quieted the nerves coursing through me. No one seemed to be around. I climbed the rickety stairs similar to climbing the scales on a badly-written composition. Shaky and unsure. The door had a police sticker slapped on the edge. If I opened the door, the police would know someone had gone inside. I wondered if the Society or Falcon had searched the premises and how they’d gotten inside.
Placing my hand on the door handle, I twisted.
The handle didn’t move.
My body sagged. What had I expected? An open door?
I peeked into the small window. Inside, sat an antique desk cluttered with papers and small boxes. This was Mr. Gordon’s office. Surely he kept notes on how he’d procured the trumpet, the trumpet’s history, and possibly information about the other trumpet.
My gaze caught on the window to the left of the stairs’ upper landing. The window was large enough for me to squeeze through and situated about five feet from the four-inch-wide wooden railing.
I measured the distance with my eye. My gaze went back and forth and back and forth. I picked up a wooden broom sitting outside the door and twisted off the brush.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed onto the railing. With my arms holding the long pole, I stood. My body wobbled, balancing on the rail. I’d taken gymnastics classes when I was younger. This wasn’t that different.
Except I was at least twenty feet off the ground. Below me wasn’t a soft mat, but the hard concrete of the loading dock.
A bolt of fear struck. This was stupid, yet it didn’t feel stupid. I needed to do this. To find the silver trumpet and learn about the bronze trumpet. I was here now. No going back.
Holding the pole in front, I poked at the open window.
The window swung wide open, as if I’d said the words, open sesame.
I stilled. I’d only poked at the window. It should’ve been harder to move.
This was a sign. A sign I was doing the right thing. The conquering-the-world feeling powered inside me. My chest swelled and my head swam with success.
Thinking about my next move, I wiggled my shoulders and lost my balance.
My stomach tightened and internally I screamed. I waved my arms, trying to stay upright on the thin rail. My body swayed back and forth. My mind wavered with the possibilities—all of them bad.
I started falling. Imagined hitting the hard concrete below. The agony. The broken bones.
I reached out. Grabbed the window ledge.
My feet slipped from the rail. My fingers dug into the cement ledge. My body dangled.
My muscles stretched with the pull of gravity and fear. A hanging musical note, dangling out there on my own for everyone to notice.
Lifting my right arm, yet never losing contact, I crooked my elbow over the ledge. I did the same with my left arm. This seemed easier than it should be. I was a music geek. I wasn’t in great shape after the accident.
I could see the bathroom beyond the small window.
Bracing my feet against the wall, I scrambled higher, letting my hands pull and my feet push. My waist draped over the ledge. My head hung down the tiled wall of the bathroom.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I hung for a second, savoring success. I’d done it. Guess I was in better shape than I thought. Maybe holding a flute had strengthened my arm muscles.
I pulled myself forward with my hands. My body thunked onto the tile floor.
“Ouch.” I rubbed my shoulder, even though there wasn’t pain.
No time for pain. And yet, I should be aching and sore all over. I always ached after physical therapy, and this was so much more physical than the exercises they gave me.
I scrambled to my feet, closed the window, and left the bathroom, walking right into Mr. Gordon’s office. My knees quivered and my tummy tied in impossible-to-play chords. I had to be quick.
Three walls had bookshelves filled with small, open boxes, books, small-knick-knack type of stuff. I didn’t know if it was valuable or junk.
I went to the fourth wall behind the desk and opened an old metal filing cabinet. Thumbing through the files with trembling hands, I searched for anything to do with trumpets or musical instruments or even King Tut. I knocked a stack of files off the top of the cabinet. Papers scattered and I bent down to pick them up.
Invoices, history of who owned the item in question, photos. I shoved them back in a file not caring if it was in the proper place. I continued to thumb through the files.
Nothing about Tut or trumpets or even Egypt. Maybe the police had confiscated the information.
My shaky breath fluttered the file tabs. A handwritten tab marked Society jumped out. Something with the single word wouldn’t have been taken by the police. But Falcon had used the term.
My heart beat into a crescendo. All my effort culminated here. Could this be it?
I flipped through the papers. No receipts. No bill of sale. No history of procurement of the trumpets.
Only scribbled notes. Hieroglyphic translations. And newspaper clippings.
The trumpets were important enough for modern era reporters to write about. I couldn’t believe it. I could’ve researched this on the internet.
Picking up a copy of a newspaper article, I read: “Tut’s trumpets, one of sterling silver and one of bronze, were found by Howard Carter in 1922 in the burial chamber of King Tutankhamun.” I skipped a few sections. “Five months after the live BBC broadcast of Tut’s trumpet being played, Britain entered World War II and the war in Europe began.”
My stomach hollowed. Falcon had said the trumpet caused discord. One coincidence did not make the trumpets magical. Although hadn’t I sensed the magic?
Refocusing, I continued to read.
“The trumpet was again played before the 1967 Six-Day War, and before the 1990 Persian Gulf War.”
Okay
more than one coincidence. Just lore to make the instruments more valuable monetarily.
“Most recently, the bronze trumpet was played one week before the Egyptian Revolution of 2011 by a Cairo museum staff member. This same trumpet was stolen from the museum during the riots.”
A clicking noise caught my attention. I froze. Listened.
The front shop door opened. My head clanged with the sound, louder than the door, louder than whoever entered downstairs.
My gaze swung around. Blue and red lights swirled outside in the alley.
Panic swirled in my belly, churning the acids of horror and terror. The police were here. Right outside Gordon’s shop.
The office door rammed open. Two men in blue entered, guns drawn. Pointed at me.
Every one of my organs shriveled. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would break out of my ribcage. I felt no triumph or victory. I only felt fear.
“Freeze! Put your hands up!”
Chapter Seven
Falcon
Falcon couldn’t believe Aria had gotten herself arrested.
He ran frustrated fingers through his hair.
She’d found the trumpet and played. He knew because he’d felt the agonizing pain and the urge to play as well. Then, she’d hidden the instrument again in a place he couldn’t find. He’d tried.
“Aria being arrested is perfect.” Xander’s gleeful tone only accelerated Falcon’s frustration and anxiety. “Go back to the house and search more.”
Falcon’s gut dropped. Xander made it sound so easy. Standing in the large warehouse the Soul Warriors used as their base, Xander didn’t understand the trumpet of war was hidden inside the house. Hidden deep.
He had the same dark hair and green eyes as Falcon. Their builds were similar. From ancient times until modern days, the Society of Aten had picked similar-looking boys for the role of Xander.
Olivia stood beside Xander, partners in everything. She had her long, brown hair tied in a braid down her back. The understanding in her brown eyes was wise beyond her sixteen years.
They were a golden couple, touched by Tut’s soul. When Falcon had awakened from being a stone shabti he’d pledged his allegiance to these two. Now he had to beg for their help.
