Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1)

by Nadine Nightingale

  It can.

  And it just did.

  When Blaze and I climbed up the stairs to the pool, we walked into hell. Yes, I know I claimed I don’t believe in heaven and hell, gods and devils—but this isn’t just the work of a psychopathic killer. This is the art of monsters. They turned water into blood. Stone into flesh. Halloween into a massacre.

  Bodies float in an ocean of crimson. Heads down, they’re resting in their watery graves. The floor is paved with glass and bones, pieces of flesh no longer attached to their meat-suits—a human jigsaw even DNA-testing might not be able to solve.

  Disgust leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My last meal is crawling up my gullet. I’m going to be sick, will empty my trembling stomach on the blood of the town.

  Blaze squeezes my hand. His skin is greenish. His lapis eyes so dark, they appear black. We stand beside the bleeding pool, gazing at our former classmates, teachers, and neighbors. Not one of us moves, not one of us speaks, the only sound the silence of the night.

  They say terror is an intense state of fear. I say terror is a second of numbness, a moment of pain, and a lifetime of demons haunting you in your dreams.

  White noise cuts through the quietness. I feel the radio of Soldier-Creature buzzing in my pocket. Then the bastard’s voice comes through. “Princess?”

  I pull the thing out, but my fingers won’t push the “speak” button.

  “Did you get here already?”

  Blaze’s gaze is glued to Mrs. Stevens, my biology teacher, aka vice president of the Hate Nisha Fan Club. Correction. Ex-vice president. She’s spread out on the ground. What used to be her chest now resembles a sieve. “We shouldn’t be here,” he whispers. It’s the very first time I hear something close to fear in his voice.

  “You better answer me,” the bastard barks. “Or else I’m going to have some fun with your cousin, here.”

  Izzy. Her name is like a slap across my face, waking me from this numb trance-like state. I will my fingers to move and push the dang button. “I’m here.” My voice is barely audible. I clear my throat. “I’m here,” I say again, this time louder.

  Devilish laughter rings out. “I knew I could count on you. Just can’t help the protective goddess inside, huh?”

  I shut my eyes, but the brutal images won’t leave me alone. “Just tell me where you are.” So this nightmare can come to an end.

  “Greystone Mansion. You’ve got five minutes left.”

  I shove the radio back and face Blaze. “You should go.”

  His gaze drifts from the bodies in the pool to me. “I won’t leave you.” He laces his fingers through mine. “Not now. Not ever.”

  A battle rages inside me. One side is grateful he’s here, selfish enough to let him come. The other is determined to save Blaze’s life, to make him go. “Blaze, please, you—”

  “This isn’t your decision to make, Nisha. It’s mine.” He kisses my forehead. “There’s nowhere else for me to be but by your side.”

  And so the tainted lamb will take the lion to the slaughter bank.

  We move through the double-glazed doors into one of the many dining rooms of the Bavarian Inn. The decorative pyramids have been torn down. Shattered glass is everywhere. Bodies are piling up. Costumes of Egyptian soldiers and priestesses have become funeral dresses. It’s a horror show par excellence.

  Careful not to step on any body parts, we maneuver through the corpses. Big chunks of cement block our path—parts of the ceiling have come down. I remember Kathy saying something about explosions. At the risk of sounding heartless, I hope some of these people died in the blast. It’s quicker, less painful than gunshots.

  “Nisha.” Blaze points to his left. “Is that—”

  “Marie.” I kneel down next to her disfigured body. Half her face has melted. There’s a gaping hole in the center of her chest. She was a mean bully and mostly a bitch, but she didn’t deserve this. No one does.

  As I stare at her, something hits me—I’ve heard Izzy and Oz. They’re alive. But what about Shaggy and Scooby? Or even Mole? Are they…? I scan the corpses. There are way too many. Some so disfigured, their own parents wouldn’t recognize them.

  Blaze pats my shoulder. “You okay?”

  No. And I’m pretty sure I never will be. “Let’s move.”

  We’ve reached the parking lot. Luckily, there aren’t more dead people around. Still sick, I draw several deep breaths, drinking in the chalet-style resort overlooking the Potomac River. From out here it looks so peaceful, so beautiful. It’s hard to believe what mayhem occurred behind these stone walls.

  “Which one is Greystone Mansion?” Blaze asks, scanning the different houses.

  “The one with the gray stones,” I say with a wink.

  He musters up a smile to award my failed mood-lifter attempt. “Reasonable, I assume.”

  We head down the narrow path leading to the old building. Pumpkins and candles are sitting to our left and right. One could say it’s poetic justice that a Halloween ball with an ancient-Egypt theme is under attack by a bunch of psychos who take myth and legend literally. Only, I don’t see any justice in the death of innocents.

  The fear of what’s about to happen, what I’m about to face, is killing me. Cramps squeeze my gut. I need a little distraction. “Why were you really arrested?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “At the police station, when we first met, what did you do?”

  He smiles. “I jaywalked.”

  “They cuffed you for that?”

  He shrugs. “Shepherdstown’s police take the matter of unlawfully crossing a road very seriously—those were the chief’s exact words.” We both laugh, and for that single moment, we forget we’re walking The Green Mile. Until—

  Another Soldier-Creature points an AK-47 at us. He looks exactly like the one Asim killed—at least, to me he does—I doubt Blaze spots the same ugly visage. “Freeze,” he yells.

  We freeze.

  “Hands up.”

  We lift our arms.

  “Don’t move.”

  We stay right where we are.

  “She’s here,” the creature radios in. “But she isn’t alone.”

  “Search them for weapons and bring them in,” the bastard, the one who threatened to kill my friends, orders.

  “Copy that.”

  Frisking us only takes a few moments. “All right.” He presses the barrel of his assault rifle against Blaze’s back. “Move.”

  Greystone Mansion is a quarter the size of the other building, but there’s equal horror lurking behind the door. The walls are riddled with bullet holes. We have to step over several bodies to get to the main dining room on the first floor.

  Blaze never lets go of my hand. “You’ll be okay,” he whispers.

  Soldier-Creature shoves him. “Shut up and move.”

  Blaze would much rather aim his fist at the guy’s face—it’s written in his eyes—but for my sake, he bites his tongue and keeps moving.

  We round another corner. The massive double doors of the dining room are ajar. Silent cries and sobs echo through the crack. I smell fear and panic. Total helplessness.

  Like the coward I am, I want to run. I push the door open instead, crossing the threshold to another part of hell. A European-style dining room. Some corpses are still sitting on their chairs, their heads resting on full plates. Others are on the floor, killed on the run. The survivors are cowering in the corner, guarded by at least ten heavily armed Soldier-Creatures.

  I search the faces of the survivors and breathe several sighs of relief when all my friends are amongst them. The chief, Mole, and Mr. Thornton made it too. They’re consoling Tarryn and Adrianne. Heck, I’m even happy to see Silvio is still with us. Though he’s so pale, he looks more dead than alive.

  “Nisha,” Izzy yells, jumping to her feet. “Why—”

  A Soldier-Creature slaps her so hard, she falls backward, right onto Oz’s lap. Shaggy and Scooby seize hold of Oz’s shirt when he attempt
s to get revenge.

  Another heatwave rushes through me. The energy returns, taking control. “Touch her again, and it’ll be the last thing you do.” Had I not brought upon an earthquake a while ago, I’d be terrified of the wrath in my voice.

  The man in the center of the room claps. He has his back turned to me and gazes out of the large window front. “You found your spark again,” he cheers, slowly turning. “Good for you, Princess.”

  The scar running from his left eyebrow all the way down to his lip catches my attention. I’ve seen that guy before. In the bookstore, talking to Amara. My gut feeling was spot on. He really is a psycho. “Let them go,” I demand, looking him right in the eye.

  He flashes me a devilish smile. “I don’t take orders from you, Nebt-Het.” He stalks closer. “But you don’t need to worry. They will live through this if you do exactly as I say.”

  I think I just learned why the USA never negotiates with terrorists.

  I inhale for a count of four and exhale for a count of four. Then I visualize my happy place—Mom, Dad, and me in Venice Beach, eating ice cream—and head straight for it. It’ll help you cope with stress and make you feel safe, I hear my shrink say. With the fire crawling into every fiber of my being, that sounds like a good plan to circumvent another quake, possibly worse.

  When I’m absolutely certain I won’t erupt like Mount Etna, I turn my attention to Scarface. “I know what you want,” I say calmly.

  The edges of his thin lips curve up. “Is that so?” You’d have to be deaf not to hear the mockery in his voice. “Well, Nebt-Het, do tell. What do you think it is we want from you?”

  I need several seconds before I can speak without breathing fire in his ugly face. “I’ll perform your stupid ritual,” I grumble, without mentioning Seth. My friends, and everyone else in this room, are freaked out enough as it is. No need to bring up the looming apocalypse. “But first,” I continue, pointing at the cowering hostages. “You’ll let them go.” I need them out of here before Asim’s back-up plan kicks in.

  Scarface studies me long and hard. “I’m a man of my word,” he assures me, arms crossed. “You do as I say, and they’ll walk out of here unharmed.” Translation: the hell I’ll let them go.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Blaze mutters beside me.

  I cast him an annoyed glance. “Thanks for the reminder, Mr. Know-It-All.” Deep down I was aware it wouldn’t be as simple as walking in and trading my life for those of the others. Terrorists don’t ever play by the rules. And fanatic members of a secret society hell-bent on bringing the Ruler of the Underworld back into this world? Let’s just say I doubt they even know the meaning of the word.

  “You can trust me,” he says, winking at me.

  I shouldn’t be laughing, but I just can’t help it. “Trust you?” He and his people slaughtered a hotel full of guests, tortured and killed Amara, and took my parents away from me. Sorry, but him implying he’s trustworthy? Hilarious. “I’d have more faith in Ramsay Bolton.” And that counts for something, considering he’s the most deceiving, mass-murdering Game of Thrones character ever.

  Scarface doesn’t seem offended by the comparison. He’s gloating as if it were a compliment. “Ah, Princess.” He runs the back of his hand over my cheeks and down my neck. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “How about you take your hands off her for starters?” Blaze growls, muscles flexed, face like granite.

  For the first time, Scarface’s attention shifts to him. Recognition flickers across his eyes—he knows him. And there’s more to it. The longer he drinks in Blaze’s appearance, the more fear creeps into his nasty features. “Well, well, well…” He approaches Blaze. “If it isn’t the mighty Medjay.”

  Did he just refer to Blaze as Medjay? Every alleged hallucination I ever had of Blaze as the mighty warrior who helped the princess—me—take out Seth comes crashing down on me. Every memory I have of him suddenly turning into an Egyptian warrior in the middle of a situation or conversation takes hold of me. Was it all real? Pieces of the past, returning to me? That’s insane. As insane as folks believing me to be the incarnation of a goddess and a hotel full of dead people? Yeah, pretty much.

  “Mate,” Blaze says, not once breaking eye contact with Scarface. “You should seriously consider some therapy. I hear they have great headshrinkers in the States.”

  Scarface smiles. “You’ve always been an arrogant arsehole. Some things just never change.” Then, he nods at the creature behind Blaze. “Hold him.”

  The dude obeys immediately, securing both Blaze’s arms behind his back. At first Blaze struggles, but when his gaze skirts over the terrified faces of the survivors, he gives in. “What, you can’t do shit yourself?”

  Scarface ignores the sassy comment. He rips Blaze’s shirt apart, exposing the burning woman with neon green eyes inked into his incredibly well-built chest. Whispers roar through the room. Even the remaining gunmen are startled by what they see. And I’m not talking about Blaze’s abs, or his tats. I’m referring to the birthmark beneath all the ink, glowing like burning charcoal. “The mark of the traitor.”

  Blaze furrows his brows. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your chest,” I croak, most definitely rocking the same expression Blaze had when my eyes began glowing.

  He looks down. “What the—”

  “Take him down,” Scarface yells at the creature.

  The following things happen in a matter of seconds: the creature slams the buttstock of his rifle against the back of Blaze’s head. Blaze goes down, landing on his knees. Blood pours out of the wound, dripping over the glowing birthmark, down the inked woman’s face. Screams ring through the room. Izzy, Oz, Shaggy, Scooby—they all watch in utter horror as the gun-wielding creature gets ready for another hit. The buttstock is inches away from Blaze’s temple when, in one swift move, Blaze sidetracks the blow and elbows his assailant in the knee, taking him down.

  “Damn it,” Scarface hisses as Blaze demolishes his assailant’s face.

  Some survivors cheer Blaze on. Others—amongst them Tarryn and Adrainne—cry, terrified of what’s happening. The remaining Soldier-Creatures point their assault rifles at them, ordering them to shut up. Some listen. Others, like my friends, couldn’t care less about what the attackers want.

  Blaze’s knuckles are covered with the creature’s blood. The soldier no longer moves. He groans like an injured Grizzly. Doesn’t stop Blaze from doing more damage to his face. Neither does the fact that we’re outnumbered by at least ten more Soldier-Creatures, all armed to the teeth.

  “Enough,” Scarface yells, aiming his semi-automatic pistol at Izzy. “Get off him, or so help me, Seth, I’ll shoot the bitch.”

  The instant Blaze realizes how serious Scarface is, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Don’t,” he pleads, slowly getting off the battered and bloody creature.

  “Tie him up,” Scarface orders one of his other lackeys guarding the door.

  The creature pulls zip-ties out of his vest and approaches Blaze with care. “Hands on your back,” he orders, voice trembling.

  Blaze’s gaze drifts from Izzy to Scarface’s gun. He’s not one to give up easily. Yet he understands it’s either obey, or get my cousin killed. He chooses the lesser of the two evils, putting his hands behind his back and allowing the jerk to cuff him.

  Scarface shoves his pistol back in his holster. He stomps toward Blaze. Balling his fist, he aims it at Blaze’s jaw. The impact swings his head from one side to the other. “Fucking traitor,” he shouts, spitting at him.

  Blaze uses his shoulder to wipe the salvia off. “What the fuck, mate?” And for that, Scarface delivers another hit to Blaze’s temple. The skin above his eyebrow bursts, spilling blood into his gold-blue eyes.

  Blaze doesn’t even flinch. “C’mon, is that all you’ve got?” he mocks him. “My eleven-year-old sister hits harder than you.”

  If he keeps this attitude up, he’ll be dead before Asim�
��s back-up plan is set in motion. Gee, sometimes I wish Blaze were a coward rather than a suicidal MMA fighter.

  Scarface wipes Blaze’s blood off his knuckles. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” The hatred and contempt in his voice gets stronger by the second. He definitely holds a grudge.

  Question is, why? Blaze doesn’t seem to know him at all. But I—or should I say, my subconscious—does.

  “You’re slow,” Blaze, the Medjay, teases me.

  I curl and uncurl my fists. “Am I?” I say innocently before bringing him down with a sweep kick.

  In one fluid motion, he rolls backward, swings his legs up near his head, presses his elbows against the ground, and lifts himself off the floor. “Slow and un—”

  “Medjay?” a dark voice floats through the training chamber.

  Blaze keeps his gaze on me. “What do you want?”

  The soldier moves closer. His body is a canvas of scars—burn marks, cuts from swords and whips—it’s bad. “Our Lord wants to see you.” He respects Blaze, but there’s something else flickering in his eyes. An emotion that favors neither gods nor humans, but can destroy them equally—jealousy.

  “I’ll be there in a bit,” Blaze replies. Judging by the way he treats the soldier, I’d say he doesn’t like him much. Neither do I. There’s something dark and dangerous about him.

  “He wants to see you now.”

  Blaze’s face stays emotionless. “Are you my superior, soldier?”

  He shakes his head. “No, but—”

  “Am I your superior?” Blaze asks, coolly.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you will walk away before I show you why I’m the one in charge. Understood?”

  The soldier bows to me and walks out.

  “What is it, Princess?” Blaze asks, catching me staring.

  “Nothing.” I play it down. “I just never saw you abuse your power like that.”

  He closes the gap between us and narrows his eyes. “It’s not abuse if it keeps evil in check, Princess.” Then, he tries to surprise me with an uppercut, but I see it coming before he’s thrown it.