Tut's Trumpet

by Allie Burton

  With my back to the door, I sunk to the carpeted floor of a bedroom big enough to fit a small symphony. A pedestal bed built for a king, with white silk draped around a canopy, filled the center of the room. A blue quilt was covered in plush pillows and the headboard had a large Egyptian symbol carved into the wood.

  A bookshelf filled with books covered one wall. Antique dressers with more hieroglyphic carvings stood on another wall. And at the end was a large picture window guarded by bars.

  Jumping to my feet, I ran to the window and gaped. A big drop down to a brick patio, and a steep cliff overlooking ocean, ocean, ocean. If it wasn’t my prison, I’d be amazed by the view.

  But it was my prison.

  My knuckles tightened around the metal bars. I should’ve stayed with Falcon. A crack fissured in my heart. He didn’t know where I’d gone. The crack widened, became more distressed. No one would help me. I was on my own.

  The trumpet was in the Society’s hands.

  My grandfather was still missing.

  The door was flung open and Jeb walked in carrying the trumpet case. A sense of relief engulfed me. The trumpet was still nearby. His goons followed close behind taking positions by the door.

  I let go of the bars, moved to the center of the room, wondering what they wanted. They hadn’t given me time to even start thinking of a plan to save myself and my grandfather.

  Defiance was my best plan of attack. “You can’t keep me here.”

  “You don’t like your accommodations?” Jeb waved his free hand around. “Your grandfather wished he could be in a room this nice.”

  My heart leapt as if it could jump to Grandfather. “You have my grandfather? Is he here? I want to see him.” The contents of my stomach churned braiding with worry and anxiety. “Is he okay after what you did to his ear?”

  “I checked on him. Told him the joyous news of your arrival.” Jeb’s gaze raked over me. “He’s alive and you can keep him that way.”

  “What do you want?” I’d do anything to save Grandfather.

  Jeb set the case on the dresser. He clicked the buckles and flipped open the case.

  The trumpet of war lay gleaming in the black velvet cloth. The instrument called to me, urged me to play. I backed away resisting the urge. “You have the trumpet. What else could you possibly want from me?”

  But I knew.

  “Only for you to play the trumpet.” Jeb picked up the instrument and held it toward me. “You want to play, don’t you?” His tone coaxed, persuaded. Cajoled.

  Playing would be okay. It would make me feel better, stronger. It’s what I wanted.

  An alarm dinged in my brain. I shouldn’t. Falcon had warned me against playing. But he’d lied to me about his mission. He hadn’t gone to search for Grandfather. Did I trust Falcon’s information about the trumpet?

  He’d played the trumpet. Understood its effects. That I believed.

  “No.” I backed up. The back of my knees hit the bed.

  Jeb held the trumpet closer. “Yes, you do.” His smooth tone wove its way into my head.

  He stated what I needed. I needed to play.

  My fingers twitched. “I won’t.” I crossed my arms to stop myself from reaching out.

  “Not even for your grandfather’s life?” His eyebrows lifted in a sympathetic arch.

  Of course I wanted to save Grandfather’s life. And of course, I wanted to play. The urge to take hold of the trumpet and put it to my lips rushed like a wind symphony.

  I shook my head back and forth and back and forth, hoping the motion would set my mind to rights. I couldn’t play. The trumpet was a drug. An addiction. If I started, would I be able to stop?

  Jeb twisted the trumpet around, holding the mouthpiece an inch from my mouth. “The trumpet wants to be heard.”

  I heard the trumpet. Heard it call to me in my head and in my heart. The anger built in my veins, pulsing. My fingers itched to play. My desire to play was stronger than my will. “Play it yourself.”

  Jeb signaled one of the goons over. He grabbed my upper arms and pushed me onto the bed, holding me there in a sitting position.

  “Save your grandfather.” Jeb put the trumpet against my lips. “Play.”

  My lips tingled at the touch of the trumpet. My free will slipped away. I shouldn’t play. I wanted to play. I couldn’t play. I had to play. The arguing inside my head and my soul caused me to barely hang on to the edge of my sanity.

  I clamped my mouth shut.

  He brushed the mouthpiece against my closed mouth sending a jolt through my body. I was losing control.

  “Play.” The word echoed in my head.

  Play. Play. Play.

  Was that my voice inside my head, urging me to play? Jeb’s? King Tut’s?

  Another jolt shocked my body. My lips pursed near the mouthpiece. I couldn’t control my body. My lungs filled with oxygen and energy bursting from my chest through my mouth. Without thought, I blew.

  The trumpet of war blasted.

  The discordant notes swirled around the room with a sharp bass and jagged trebles.

  Half of me was horrified at the noise I was making. This wasn’t music, but to my soul it was a majestic symphony. I rejoiced at the feelings of triumph and power filling my soul.

  The feelings built and morphed. Annoyance and greed. Jealousy and paranoia. Triumph and fury. I had every right to play the trumpet. It was my trumpet. My arms uncrossed and my hands took hold of the long bronze horn. Touching the brass ignited additional power.

  “Good.” Jeb’s pleased tone barely cut through my maniacal mood.

  Doubt dug in my subconscious, wanting me to stop. Warning me. There was a reason I wasn’t supposed to play the trumpet. I ignored the doubt. Jeb said playing was the only way to save Grandfather. Playing was a selfless act.

  My new alter ego butted in. Who cared if it was selfless? Playing the trumpet was what I want to do. What I had to do. What I was meant to do.

  Jeb and his goons left the room. The buzzing from my lips continued.

  The bedroom grew dark as the sun set. The flow of air from me into the trumpet went on and on and on.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Curiosity at the commotion had me gazing toward the window. It was dark. Nighttime. That didn’t induce me to stop playing.

  The euphoria pumped through my bloodstream. The grief over losing my parents forgotten. A powerful anger stormed in my soul. Worry about Grandfather and Falcon disappeared. I enjoyed this all-consuming power.

  I was indestructible. Unstoppable. Powerful.

  Ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt. Ruler of the world.

  My lips chapped from blowing in the mouthpiece. My chest ached from the constant exhalation of air. My lungs felt ragged and worn, like an overused bagpipe.

  I kept blowing.

  Blowing for the power, for the control, for the ultimate high of calling people to war.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Falcon

  Torturous agony ripped through Falcon’s skull and zigzagged down his spine, causing outages of his nervous system. Tumbling, he grabbed onto the stair railing, trying to stop his spill. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell, hitting the hard concrete floor of the warehouse.

  Someone was playing the trumpet of war.

  A strike of fear added to his musical torture.

  “Focus.” He took a heaving breath and thought of his focus object.

  Bringing the leather ball to mind, he concentrated. He quietened his breathing and willed the pain away. His Sebekkah training helped minimize the misery to a dull roar. A level he could deal with and still function.

  The striking and pounding hit his chest and passed through to his heart. Aria must be playing the trumpet. She’d succumbed to the call of Tut’s curse.

  Which meant Falcon’s continued search of the warehouse was frivolous. He didn’t hear the trumpet—he felt its control. Aria wasn’t here anymore. For some reason, she’d left. Left him.

  A burning in hi
s chest inflamed his pounding heart.

  After getting back from his dead-end mission with Math to follow a lead on the silver trumpet, Falcon had reported his findings to Olivia and then immediately went in search of Aria. He’d asked her to wait for him in the warehouse. He should’ve known better.

  She was frustrating and obstinate and tended to do as she pleased. She was also determined and talented and wrinkled her nose in the cutest way. And the trumpet controlled many of her actions.

  The pressure continued, pulsing in his head.

  Aria continued to play.

  One time, she’d played for hours without realizing how much time had passed. Without realizing the damage she’d caused. He hadn’t told her all she needed to know about the power of the trumpet. About the curse. How, if it wasn’t disposed of properly they’d suffer for eternity.

  His inflamed heart torched with the thought of Aria being enslaved by the trumpet, walking through the flames of the underworld.

  Falcon would have to release his control and concentration, let the sharp jabs and piercing anguish free inside his body, and follow the pain to Aria’s location. The exercise would weaken him. Hopefully, he’d have enough energy at the end of the trail to save Aria.

  Save her from herself.

  Save her grandfather from the torment.

  Save both of them from the Society when they realized she played the trumpet.

  Save the city from Tut’s revenge.

  After gathering supplies, Falcon let go of his focus, welcomed the suffering, and left the safety of the warehouse. Night had fallen, and the air had chilled. Sirens sounded constantly as he left the warehouse district and leapt north toward downtown.

  Leaping between alleys, he landed on a dirty patch of asphalt. Garbage littered the area and unhealthy stink stifled the air. Pieces of broken glass splayed on the ground.

  Something sharp pricked his back, digging through his T-shirt. He froze.

  “Don’t turn around,” a hard-edged voice demanded.

  Lifting his hands, Falcon opened his palms to show he didn’t have a weapon. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Whatever the man held in his hand sliced, ripping his shirt and skin. A knife or a shard of glass?

  Falcon’s back twinged. Blood dropped and soaked into his cotton shirt. He didn’t have time for this crap. He had to save Aria, and in the long run, save this man, too.

  “Give me your wallet.” The point jabbed Falcon for emphasis.

  The poke barely pricked the raw aching in his head from the trumpet playing.

  “My best advice for you is to go home.” Falcon ground his teeth.

  The man’s scratchy laugh broadcasted his disbelief.

  No time to school this thief.

  Falcon whipped around with a roundhouse kick. He tried to pull back on his power, but the man flew across the alley and hit the ground. His shocked face was white like the Society’s tunics.

  “Nothing good will come from being out tonight.” Falcon ran toward the man.

  The man’s eyes grew wider and wider.

  Falcon leapt over him, leaving him lying in the gutter.

  Was the man more surprised at his high jump or the fact he hadn’t been injured by Falcon?

  Falcon continued following the painful passion. Once someone played the trumpet it was a love-hate relationship. A battle against the demons released every time someone played.

  Letting the path of piercing agony take control, he let it lead him to Market Street. The traffic was stopped dead. Horns blared. Crowds rushed the cars, rocking them back and forth on their wheels.

  These weren’t violent gangs or angry sports fans. These were normal people influenced by the trumpet. They couldn’t hear the blast of the instrument, yet the powers flared in the air, bringing their anger to the surface. A simple slight would set off the most pacified person.

  Falcon leapt and ran, dodging the chaos. The pain led him on. The torture exhausted him, mentally and physically. His legs and arms weakened and his head swam.

  The caustic misery led him to the Sunset District.

  Dread darkened his soul, subduing the severe wretchedness. The Society of Aten had their headquarters in a mansion by the cliffs. He knew exactly where the house was located, didn’t need to follow the pain. He did need to find where Aria was in the mansion, though, so he let the suffering continue to wreak havoc on his body.

  One final leap to the mansion’s backyard and he collapsed onto the patio.

  The fence surrounding the brick patio had a gate leading to wooden stairs that climbed through the cliffs to the ocean below. An amazing location with an incredible view.

  Falcon breathed in, letting the familiar smell of ocean cleanse him inside. Focusing on his leather ball, he pushed back the throbbing and burning while staring at the twinkling night sky. San Francisco didn’t have a lot of clear nights. Fog usually covered the stars.

  Breathing in and out, he rested, regaining the strength the trumpet had zapped. He listened to the sounds of the waves hitting the cliff below and to the wailing sound of the trumpet.

  The power of the trumpet tried to infiltrate his mind. He blocked it using his training. He knew if he gave in completely, he’d be as angry as the crowd downtown.

  With a final deep breath, he got to his feet and jumped to the third-floor window.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Aria

  A scratching noise at the window caught my attention. I didn’t care. I couldn’t be distracted from blowing the trumpet. From playing Horus’ music.

  A damp breeze swept through the bedroom. The sirens sounded louder. The floor-length curtains shifted. A dark-dressed person swung over the threshold and landed on the carpeted floor.

  Falcon.

  He wore black jeans and a ripped black T-shirt. Red scratches marred his bare arms.

  Yearning spiked through me. I wanted to get to my feet and greet him, but I couldn’t stop playing the trumpet. Anger squashed my gladness. I was mad at him, although I couldn’t remember why.

  What did it matter? My muscles clenched and I let the anger consume me, and kept playing.

  “Aria. Stop.” He took a cautious step forward.

  How dare he order me to stop making music? He had no right. I glared over the rim of the trumpet. If looks could kill then I’d be a murderer. And I was okay with that.

  A chill slid down my spine. Wickedness crept over my soul. Confused thoughts wrestled in my head.

  Falcon lunged forward, grabbing for the trumpet.

  Like a big-band trombone player, I swung the ancient instrument out of reach. The angry musical notes blared from the horn and shot through the room and out the now-open window.

  “You have to stop.” He held his hands up in a non-confrontational manner.

  I couldn’t be bothered to answer him. I wasn’t going to stop playing. Not ever. This rush, this exultant feeling, this power soared through me. I could do anything. To anyone.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Aria, but I will force you to stop.” His lips flattened, as if he was controlling his temper.

  The intensity of his emerald orbs seared my soul, sending me a private message, making me want to stop playing—as if he’d found my will, my own free will. Connected to the real me, deep inside this trumpet-playing monster.

  My hands shook. My lips tensed. My tongue poked into the mouthpiece trying to separate myself from the instrument.

  Another force, a stronger force, pushed into my mind, taking control. I wanted to play. I did not want to listen to Falcon. I hated Falcon. He’d lied.

  But he was here. To save me. My soul melted at his heroic actions. He cared.

  Clenching my arm muscles, I fought with myself, forcing the trumpet from between my lips.

  “Falcon.” His name sounded breathless. Probably because I was out of air after playing the trumpet. “I can’t—” Stop.

  I shoved the trumpet back to my lips. My disappointment in myself wrestled with tr
iumph.

  I didn’t want to stop.

  But I did.

  No, I didn’t.

  The argument raged in my head, in my heart, in my soul.

  “Aria, look at me.” Falcon kneeled in front of me so we were at the same level. “Concentrate on my eyes.”

  Staring into the hypnotic green, I let his calmness penetrate my soul. I saw his sympathy and understanding. Saw his strength and determination and let it fill my consciousness. Saw his attraction to me.

  A warmth sprinkled, bringing me back to true awareness.

  “Keep staring.” His soothing tone relaxed me. “Your lungs are weak. You’ve been blowing the trumpet for hours. You deserve to rest.”

  I did deserve a break. Stretching my shoulders, I analyzed my body. My arms ached from holding the long, heavy instrument. My lungs deflated. My lips had dry cracks.

  “I’m going to hold the trumpet for you.” He used the same calm voice. “While you rest.”

  Falcon wrapped his hands around the long, bronze tube. He tugged the trumpet away from my mouth.

  “Falcon.” I dragged air into my chest. “I couldn’t stop. Even now, I want to rip the trumpet out of your hands and play again.” I twisted and locked my fingers together to stop the need.

  “I know.” Still using his calming voice, he limped over to the case on the dresser. The back of his T-shirt was slashed, and blood had soaked into it. His blood. “We need to get out of the mansion.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Got attacked. There’s a lot happening in the city tonight.” He placed the trumpet in the case, closed the lid, and snapped the buckles tight.

  My chest clamped tight, too.

  “Let’s go.” He limped to the window, carrying the case and I followed, not sure if I was following Falcon or the trumpet.

  I glanced out the window through the bent bars and spotted a fire a few houses down. “How did you do this?”

  “I bent the bars—”

  “They’re metal.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I used super-strength.” He’d talked about the warrior powers.

  I peered over the ledge and straight down three stories. “How did you get up to this window?” And how were they going to get down?