Book of the Dead (Gods of Egypt 2)

by Nadine Nightingale

  Without sweaty and piss-drunk kids, the Red Shed is nothing but a shabby, abandoned shithole. The hardwood floor is time-worn. Walls have been painted with the toss-a-bucket-of-paint-and-be-done technique. And the “furniture”—mostly stacked palettes with cushions and pillows—bear the scars of ballpoint pens, telling the world, “(insert name) was here.” Some of those who eternalized themselves—like Marie—will never return to the Shed. Their lives were cut short by lunatic, god-worshipping terrorists.

  We move to one of the palette couches and sit. No one has said a word since we left the hospital, but Shaggy is all set to change that. “What the hell happened after we left?”

  I eyeball Oz, waiting for him to break the news. I think it’s fair they hear it from him, considering they’ve been friends most of their lives.

  Minutes go by, and when I understand he’s in no shape to tell them the horrific story, I do it for him.

  They listen patiently, and shiver occasionally.

  Shaggy stares at me. “So…they’re….” He tries to shake it off. “What you’re saying is—”

  “Yes,” Oz cuts in. “And we have to get them back.”

  Shaggy throws his hands in the air. “Jesus, I’m never going to smoke again. This is the worst trip of my life.” He ogles his brother. “It is a trip, right? ’Cause none of this can be happening. Nisha isn’t a human torch, and the girls aren’t in—”

  Oz jumps to his feet. “This isn’t some kind of weed trip you’re on. It’s real. It’s….” He trails off, covering his face with both hands.

  Scooby sighs heavily. “What are we going to do now? I mean, this”—his gaze darts to the door—“is magic and shit. Stuff we know nothing about.”

  Stuff I didn’t even believe in until tonight.

  He says, “I mean, unless one of us knows how to open a gateway to another freaking world, I don’t see how the four of us can get them back.”

  “Scooby.” Shaggy sounds mad. “You’re not helping.”

  “But he’s right.” Oz stops pacing. “We don’t even know what really happened tonight. One minute we’re dancing. The next, everything is blown to hell.” He pauses, casting me a nasty glance. “I think it’s time you tell us what you know, Medjay.”

  Oh, no. Not him too. “I’m not—”

  “Cut the crap.” Oz is out of patience. “We saw your birthmark, Blaze.” He balls his hands into fists. I get the feeling he’s seconds away from aiming them at me. “I also heard what that dude with the scarf said to you, so don’t act as if you’re as clueless as we are.”

  My pulse beats against my neck. The control that won me my title dissolves, chased away by the temper that cost me my old life and brought me to Shepherdstown. “Do you honestly think I’d still be standing here if I knew how to get them back?”

  His chest swells. “I don’t know, Blaze. You tell me.”

  Deep fucking breath. “What are you insinuating?”

  He crosses his arms. “Just that it’s a helluva coincidence that you showed up here a few weeks before all this shit went down, determined to get Nisha to like you.”

  Whoa, what? “You think I’m one of those bastards?” I’m no longer talking, I’m raging. “That I wanted Nisha to go to Hell?”

  Oz shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  Screw control. I lunge, hands fisted, muscles tense. I’m going to swat him. I swear, I’ll—

  “Enough!” Scooby screams, stepping between us.

  Oz cocks a brow. “He—”

  “I said enough.” That shuts us both up. “Look at you.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “The girls are in trouble, and you guys have nothing better to do than fight?”

  “Scooby is right,” says Shaggy. “You aren’t helping. At all.”

  Deep down, I know they’re spot on. Beating Oz up isn’t going to make the girls magically appear. If we want to get them back, we have to push our guilt and fears aside so we can find a solution.

  I step back. “I’m sorry.” I meet Oz’s suspicious eyes. “I understand how you feel.”

  “Do you?” he grumbles, eyebrows raised. “Izzy and Nisha have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. They’re everything to me.” Saltwater leaks down his cheeks.

  “Trust me”—I think of my sister—“I know how it feels when the most important person in your life vanishes, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Been through it twice now. “But”—I point at Scooby—“they’re right. Fighting is a waste of time. We have to be smarter than this.”

  Defeat settles over Oz. The lines of frustration make his face hard. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply truthfully.

  Scooby sits back down, elbows propped on his knees. “How about we start at the beginning? You tell us what happened before you waltzed into a hostage situation and why everyone seems to think you’re a Medjay or whatever. Then we try to figure out our next steps.”

  I nod, and we join Scooby on the palette sofa. Before long, I’ve shared the events leading up to tonight’s fiasco. How I went to Nisha’s place to talk to her, where she showed me the weird text from her boss that led us straight into a trap, set up at the bookstore. I even tell them about Asim, his Nisha-is-the-reincarnation-of-an-Egyptian-goddess theory, and the earthquake she caused.

  They listen patiently, not interrupting me once. “That’s it. Now you know everything.”

  “Except why they think you’re a Medjay,” Oz says.

  Shaggy nods. “Or what a Medjay even is.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Scooby frowns. “Better get started, then.”

  I tell them everything my grandmother once told me. It’s the same story Kathy told Nisha when she came over for lasagna. It goes like this:

  “There once was a boy who was born into a clan of warriors. He was faster and stronger than his peers. One day he asked his elders to join the war raging against the people of Nubia. They denied his wish, claiming the Medjay had a deal with the gods to never interfere unless the scale between good and evil was to be tipped. Stubborn as he was, he neglected the warnings of his elders and joined the war. He fought hard and well, but when the war was over, and the enemies defeated, he wasn’t allowed to return home. His people exiled him. After losing everything, he roamed the desert alone. One of the gods from neighboring Egypt found him and took him in. The warrior joined Egypt’s army and befriended the god. They fought battle after battle together. Then, one day, after they defeated the greatest evil of all—Chaos—the god changed. He became a power-slave, set to destroy the world. The Medjay, along with the god’s wife, stopped him.”

  “How did they stop him?” Shaggy asks.

  I blow out a pained breath. “Legend has it they lured him into the Chamber of Eternal Life, where his wife poisoned him with a toxin of the primeval waters. But in order to do that, she had to sacrifice her life.”

  “Back up.” Oz lifts his hand. “Are you saying that Nisha, our Nisha, was the wife of that mad god?”

  No. “I’m saying this is what my grandmother told me about the Medjay.”

  “And how is this going to help us?” asks Shaggy.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s got to be more to it,” Oz mutters under his breath.

  There is, and I need to tell them, no matter how stupid it sounds. “My grandmother and the other elders believed that the goddess blessed the Medjay with her last breath.”

  “Blessed him how?” Scooby asks.

  I shove my hands between my thighs. “Well, apparently she gave him the mark of the Bennu bird.” They look at me funny, and I add, “A phoenix. The symbol of rebirth.”

  “The glowing birthmark on your chest. It looks like a bird.” Oz’s eyes light up. “You’re the reincarnation of the Medjay.”

  “I’m no such thing.”

  “It makes sense,” Oz concludes.

  It does?

  “That guy with the scarf,” he
continues. “He said three people were cursed that day, but only one is here to solve the puzzle.”

  “So?”

  He looks at me, frustrated. “You said Nisha mentioned having visions of ancient Egypt, right?” I nod. “That she saw you but a you from another time.”

  Scooby and Oz’s gazes collide. Scooby, too, seems to understand what Oz is trying to say. “Damn.” He looks at me. “That could actually work.”

  I’m done with the riddles. “Just get to the point already.”

  “If you are the reincarnation of the Medjay,” Oz says, “you should have some sort of knowledge of the past. Maybe, if you dig deep enough, you’ll remember—”

  “What do you want me to remember? How to open a portal to the Underworld?” I sigh. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think warriors were much into magic. Besides, Asim said we’d need The Book of the Dead to get to them.”

  All the enthusiasm from two seconds ago leaves Oz. “He did say that.”

  “Got it,” Shaggy shouts.

  We stare at him. “Got what?” Scooby asks.

  Shaggy shoves his phone in his twin’s face. “The Book of the Dead.” He smiles proudly. “It’s on Amazon.”

  Had this night not been paved with corpses and loss, I’d actually laugh. Instead I pat Shaggy’s shoulder and sigh. “We need the original book, which, according to Asim, was lost thousands of years ago.”

  “Let’s just—”

  The door flies open. “Blaze Bartholomaios Boswell,” Kathy says. “What the hell were you thinking, leaving the hospital after everything that happened tonight?”

  We stare at my furious guardian. “We’re screwed.” Shaggy blurts out what every single one of us is thinking.

  “You better have a damn good reason for all of this.” She pauses. “And you better share it quickly before you need more stitches.”

  Amazing how life can always get worse.

  Chapter 7

  “Speak up,” Kathy orders, her patience worn thin.

  “Why should we tell you anything?” Oz challenges her. “You didn’t believe me the first time around, did you?” He’s got balls, I have to give him that. To push an already mad Kathy is suicide.

  I expect Hurricane Kathy to hit any second, but she regains her composure. “Look.” She draws a deep, tired breath. “I understand you kids have been through a lot. But running from the hospital?” She casts me a disappointed glance. “That’s just not right. Neither is claiming the missing girls—”

  “They have names,” Scooby says.

  She eyeballs him, flustered. “Huh?”

  “The missing girls,” he says. “They have names. Izzy and Nisha.”

  Her shoulders fall in resignation. “I’m aware of that. I want to find them, but I can’t do it unless one of you tells me what the hell is going on here.”

  “You won’t believe us,” Oz mutters.

  She crosses her arms. “How do you know if you don’t give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  Hate to admit it, but she’s right. We haven’t given her a fair chance. She pretty much walked into a room full of slaughtered people, and Oz told her the girls are in hell. Why would she take us seriously?

  She’s got deep, dark circles under her eyes. Her ponytail is a mess, and her uniform is covered with blood and ashes. But she’s still the woman who tosses salt over her left shoulder for good luck. The one who believes in the tribe’s old myths. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to have another brain to solve the riddle we clearly can’t figure out on our own, right? Why shouldn’t we put our trust in Kathy, hoping she’s a whole lot wiser than we are? It’s not like we have anything to lose.

  Except maybe our freedom.

  Being locked away in a psych ward is a risk I’m willing to take. “Okay.” They all look at me. “I’ll tell you everything that happened, but you have to promise to hear us out before you have us committed.”

  She sighs. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse,” Shaggy whispers.

  “Well.” She takes a seat on the sofa. “I doubt anything could be worse than what I just saw at the Bavarian Inn.” She makes herself comfortable. “I’m all ears.”

  I swallow the golf-sized ball in my throat and fill her in, talking faster than I ever have.

  “An army of cats?” she says before I finish. At least she didn’t burst into laughter. Which is exactly what I would have done if someone told me a story about cat soldiers.

  Sweat rolls down the back of my neck. It reeks of frustration and a hint of fear she might not believe us after all. “You said you wouldn’t interrupt,” I remind her.

  She gestures for me to continue. “Won’t happen again.”

  About five minutes later, I’ve shared every gory detail with her, painting a picture of insanity with barely a passing relationship with reality. “That’s it. Now you know everything.”

  Kathy stares at me as if I told her I’m the new prime minister. I don’t like it. “I’m done.” I state the obvious. “You can say something now.”

  But she doesn’t.

  Not for a long time.

  Eventually she narrows her eyes and says, “You believe that?”

  “I saw it.”

  Silence.

  More silence.

  I can’t take it anymore. “Are you just going to sit here and stare at us, or are you going to help us?”

  She searches my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for. Evidence I made all of this up? Proof I’m telling the truth? Whatever she sees changes her attitude. “Tell me again what Asim and his friend said.”

  Seriously? Fine. Why not? “Something about three people being cursed but only one of them being here to solve the puzzle.”

  “And that you can only change the future if you understand the past,” Oz adds.

  “Right.” I’m still pissed I can’t make sense of it. “Problem is I can’t remember shit.” I pull my hair so hard, a few strands come out. “Hell, I don’t even believe that whole Medjay business. And even if it was all true, it happened in another life, for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to recall what happened thousands of years ago when I can’t remember what I had for breakfast?”

  “What if you could, though?” Her question surprises us all.

  Shaggy squints. “Remember what he had for breakfast?”

  “No.” Kathy eyes me from across the room. “What if you could remember your past life?”

  Scooby’s eyes gleam. “Can he?”

  “Let me make a few calls.” She’s out of the shed in a heartbeat.

  “I hope she isn’t calling the psych ward.”

  Wouldn’t blame her if she did. Any other cop would blame our madness on trauma. Kathy, however, isn’t just any cop. She is foremost a Traveler, and my friend.

  Kathy marches back into the Shed. “Come on, boys.” She holds the door for us. “We’ve got to go.”

  Maybe she called the authorities after all. “Go where, Kath?”

  A smile tugs at her lips. That smile, that cheeky, up-to-no-good smile, speaks of worse things than straitjackets. I’ve seen it before—back when Kathy came to stay with us for a while, and she marched into Jade’s room, announcing she’d convinced my grandmother to let the girls join the annual call-upon-the-dead ritual. “Do you remember Ethelinda?”

  “Crazy Ethel?” The woman pinched my cheeks so hard, they bruised, and she told me how one day I was going to fight for something bigger than a title.

  Kathy nods. “She’s in Martinsburg, visiting extended family. She called yesterday, and I invited her over for dinner.”

  “And you think she can help?” I can’t hide my doubt. She’s five feet, two inches of madness, laced with the stubbornness of every tribeswoman I’ve ever met.

  Kathy blows out a frustrated breath. “She’s an elder and gifted.” By gifted she means psychic readings, talking to ghosts, and all the other supernatural stuff people pay good money for. Stuff I purposefully kept Jade away from, though everyone, my parents incl
uded, was convinced she, too, is gifted.

  The last thing I need is a supernatural Traveler show. “She’s a fraud, Kathy.”

  “Says the guy who just told me he was rescued by an army of cats and almost killed by the disciples of a god who’s taken Nisha and Izzy hostage in the Underworld?”

  Well, if she puts it that way. “Fine.” I move toward her. “But if she comes near my cheeks—”

  “Don’t be a baby,” she utters, shoving me out of the shed.

  The problem is I always feel like one when I’m near Crazy Ethel.

  The boys and I get into Kathy’s police cruiser.

  “Do you think she can help us?” Oz whispers as she backs out of the parking lot.

  “I hope so.” God, I really do.

  The River

  Chapter 8

  Nisha

  “Nisha’s Journey through the Underworld” begins when the light lifts like an old theater curtain. I blink the colorful flashes away, waiting for my eyes to adjust to their new surroundings. I’m a nervous wreck, unsure what to expect of this new role I find myself in. Am I going to rise to the challenge of survival like a true heroine? Or will I fail as bitterly as I’ve failed in life? If I were to believe my gut, it’d be the latter.

  My sight returns, exposing a familiar landscape.

  The mighty Nile—or Iteru, as the Egyptians used to call it—stretches before me. Colors as rich as a drowned forest bloom beneath the sunlit surface, drawing one’s attention. Thick reeds once used to produce papyrus grow alongside it. The earth is a thick, rich mud, black silt, excellent for growing crops.

  Across the water, the land stretches far and wide. Sycamores and palm trees bend in the gentle breeze—an oasis in the midst of sand and dust. What lies beyond the trees, however, takes my breath away.

  Three pyramids—identical in shape but not size—climb high into the orange sky. Even a history-hater could easily identify the stunning constructions as the infamous pyramids of Giza. Built by three generations of Pharaohs—Khufu, his son Khafre, and Menkaure—they represent every aspect of Egyptian life as it used to be.