by Allie Burton
Tut’s Trumpet
Soul Warriors Book 2
by
ALLIE BURTON
Her grandfather kidnapped.
An ancient instrument of death in her hands.
A warrior from the past determined to stop her.
When sixteen-year-old Aria York loses her parents, she thinks nothing worse can happen. But then her grandfather is kidnapped by a mysterious Egyptian sect and she is being hunted by two competing tribes. Both want King Tut’s trumpet of war and will lie and steal to obtain the legendary instrument.
When Aria plays the magical trumpet she forgets her grief. Instead, she feels triumph and greed and anger flow through her veins, and chaos erupts in San Francisco. She wants nothing more than to rescue her grandfather, but finds herself trusting a tortured warrior who insists she hand over the trumpet or risk enveloping the world in war.
Aria wants to believe him, but knows there’s something even bigger at stake. As each precious hour passes, she’s forced to ask: Is she playing the trumpet or is the trumpet playing her?
Reviews About Soul Warrior Series
“If you are a fan of Rick Riordan and his Chronicles of Kane series or even books about a quest, with some love and history thrown in…THIS BOOK IS FOR YOU!” – Hooked in a Book Reviews
“…fast paced excitement with romance a nice compliment to the action…This book is great for people who like action adventures with a bit of magic and mythology mixed in.” – Book Briefs
Dear Reader:
I hope you enjoy TUT’S TRUMPET! If you’d like to be the first to read the story about the second trumpet mentioned in this book sign up for my newsletter at www.allieburton.com where the latest news will be posted along with giveaways and contests.
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Allie Burton
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Other Books in Series
Soul Slam
Prelude
He’d watched the house in the Panhandle neighborhood of San Francisco for days. Waiting.
He’d seen the music professor come and go. A regular routine.
He’d noticed the changes to the older man’s habits when a teen girl moved into the house. He’d watched her, too.
The swing of her short hair as she walked with a slight limp. The never-present smile on her pretty face. The sadness surrounding her aura.
He’d seen the antiquities dealer bring the ancient case into the professor’s home and leave empty-handed. He’d sensed the power inside the case.
Power that could destroy. Power that could create havoc in the world.
Power he intended to possess.
Chapter One
Aria
Grandfather’s blue eyes widened in horror, his deep wrinkles smoothing out with the opening of his jaw. His expression was similar to my dad’s when I hit a bad note on my flute.
“Tut’s trumpets!” Grandfather clutched the phone with white knuckles.
Is that how university music professors swear?
“I’ll be at the police station in twenty minutes.” He ran shaky fingers through his scruffy, brown-and-grey beard. He hung up the old-fashioned house phone sitting on his large wooden desk in the study.
“What is it, Grandfather?” I held my breath, hoping it was news about the accident. The car crash where I’d been severely injured and my parents had…my heart stumbled on the word…died. The final investigation should be completed soon.
He dug his fingers into his beard again. His eyes shone. “Remember Mr. Gordon, the antiquities dealer I introduced you to, Aria?”
I nodded, remembering the nervous man whose gaze had never stopped roaming the room, whose hands fluttered continuously, who spoke with a stutter. “He brought an old trumpet for you to study.”
The ancient trumpet had called, seeming to send a signal meant for me. The instrument was begging for me to play music. Something I hadn’t done since…
“That’s right.” Grandfather wiped the palms of his hands down his brown pants. “Mr. Gordon is dead. Murdered.”
I froze at the cold word and Grandfather’s colder tone. Was he upset or angry? The chords in his voice sounded short and sharp, but his face showed sadness and possibly fear. I didn’t know him well enough to determine what he was feeling.
Placing a hand on his arm, I controlled the immediate emotional onslaught at the thought of anyone dying. “I’m sorry.” Having only lived with him a few days, I wasn’t sure how to console him or if he needed consoling.
But I did. My legs buckled and I let go of Grandfather’s arm to reach for the back of a chair, trying not to show I was upset. So much for controlling my emotions. More people dealing with sudden loss. More guilt. Grandfather had said Mr. Gordon had a niece about my age. What was she feeling?
My eyes prickled with the never-ending source of tears. My body warmed. The thought of Mr. Gordon’s death brought back the recent trauma in my life. Brought back the images of Dad speeding, of Mom yelling, of the car slamming—
“I’ve got to go to the police station and make a statement.” Grandfather grabbed his jacket and headed for the front door. “I was the last one to see Mr. Gordon alive.”
The vibrant images in my mind shut off with his words. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pushed back my sad and stabbing memories. My parents’ deaths had nothing to do with Mr. Gordon’s murder.
Tugging on the rounded collar under my sweater, I leaned against the built-in shelves in Grandfather’s study. The shelves were filled with books and plaques and replicas of musical instruments.
If Grandfather was the last one to see Mr. Gordon alive, I was the second to last. I sucked in a sharp breath. I’d answered the door and been introduced to Mr. Gordon. I’d showed him into Grandfather’s office. They’d started to inspect the ancient bronze trumpet before they’d shooed me away and closed the door.
Standing there, I’d had the urge to move toward the instrument, to put it to my lips and play. Guilt had held me back. How could I make music when my parents were gone? Dead because of me and my music and my all-important concert schedule. The urge to make music should’ve died with my parents.
The sad melody in my heart skipped to a stop.
“I won’t be gone long, Aria.” Grandfather tucked a lock of my short blonde hair behind my ear, reminding me of how Dad had done the same thing. “We’ll finish unpacking your things later. Get you organized.”
Shaking the strand of hair free from my ear, I firmed my spine. “I’ll be fine. I’ll start unpacking.”
I hated how Grandfather acted like a conductor at his first symphony, worried about every aspect of my life. I was sixteen and more than old enough to stay home alone, responsible. Too responsible.
Four months had passed since the accident. Four long months of being in the hospital and rehabilitation. Four torturous months of facing the internal and external scars. Scars I’d live with for the rest of my life.
“You’re sure?” Angling his head, he put on a newsboy cap. “I’d ask you to come, except I don’t want the police questioning you. You were put through enough when…” His voice scratched with emotion I understood. “They don’t know you were here when my friend visited and you couldn’t add any additional information.”
A short pang at being deceitful hit my gut. His reasoning made sense. Grandfather was a professor. Everything he did made sense.
“I understand.” I was grateful to be left alone for an hour or so, even though I was scared to be with my thoughts and memories. Memories that haunted day
and night. Memories that were stuck on replay.
The door banged behind him in his hurry to leave.
My glance strayed to the trumpet case on the desk. The urge to play tingled on my lips and twitched in my fingers. Blame struck—a percussion of misery. I shouldn’t even want to play an instrument again. Any instrument. I told Grandfather I’d start to unpack and had to prove to him I was responsible. Forcing myself out of the study, I moved through the house.
The emptiness of the house reflected the emptiness inside me. I trailed my fingers across a shelf filled with musical memorabilia. Grandfather taught music theory, music history, and how to play several instruments. He loved everything to do with music and had passed that love down to my dad, who’d passed the love to me.
And now I hated everything to do with music.
The hate spiked, a crescendo of instruments banging in my head and in my heart. I picked up a small frame on the table by the stairs. The photo was filled with happy, smiling faces.
Mom. Dad. Me. There’d only been the three of us traveling the country for my concerts.
I’d never see their smiles again.
My chest squeezed tight, clutching my grief like a wailing bagpipe. People told me I smiled similar to my dad. I had Mom’s brassy blonde hair. Except hers was long, and I’d cut mine short to keep the strands out of the way when playing the flute. My eyes were the same cornflower blue as my dad’s and Grandfather’s. His twinkled when he was happy, which didn’t seem very often lately. And how could they? He’d spent the last four months traveling back and forth between San Francisco and the hospital in Chicago. He’d arranged to transport my personal things here. He’d dealt with the funeral arrangements.
I slammed the photo frame onto the table. The sharp whack vibrating through my fingers and soul. I couldn’t unpack now. The memories assaulted me, striking like the hard mallets of a xylophone.
I passed back through the homey living room with its cushy, flowered sofa and straight-backed chairs, books stacked on and under the coffee table, every shelf space cluttered. I went directly to Grandfather’s office and focused on the old leather case sitting on his desk.
The case was about three feet long and one foot wide. It had a large, metal, buckle clasp with no lock. And inside nestled the bronze trumpet.
Blood rushed to my pulse points. My nerves stretched like the strings on a violin bow. I felt how I did before every concert. Nervous. Anxious. Excited.
Grandfather had been upset about Mr. Gordon’s death and in such a hurry to leave, he must’ve forgotten to put the instrument away.
I’ll just look at the trumpet.
I stepped around the desk and placed my hand on the clasp. The clasp popped open.
The bronze trumpet lay on black velvet. The ancient metal gleamed in the modern fluorescent light. The long, linear horn appeared nothing like a modern trumpet, with its valve stem and caps, mouthpiece, and tuning slide.
This trumpet was narrow and flared at the end. Egyptian hieroglyphics were etched into the metal, showing artistic patterns and Egyptian gods. The images danced in my brain in a pounding rhythm. A nagging rhythm. A needy rhythm. My fingers itched to caress the shiny surface.
No harm in touching the trumpet.
I lightly ran my finger over the instrument. A zing zipped through my body. I traced the etched figurine with my nail. Invisible sparks shot from my hand to my heart, igniting a yearning.
My hands moved of their own volition, picking up the trumpet, holding it close to my mouth. I wanted to play the trumpet, and yet it was as if the trumpet was playing me.
One blow couldn’t hurt.
I was a musician. I knew how to handle an instrument. And this was the first time since the accident I’d wanted to make music.
Had the urge to play. A good thing, right?
Grief welled in my chest combining with the oxygen I’d need to play. If I played, would I be dishonoring my parents? They’d loved that I’d played the flute and I’d vowed never to play again since their deaths.
The psychiatrist would consider this progress.
I put the trumpet to my lips.
And blew.
The discordant and haunting sound filled the room, filled my emptiness.
Power surged through me. I felt strong. In charge. Angry I’d done without music for so long. My grief disappeared.
I blew a second time, analyzing my emotions. I kept a soft stream of air pumping through the trumpet. My lung capacity enlarged. Became robust. I didn’t want to stop playing. It felt so good to feel good again, to forget my sadness and my worries, to be one with the music.
My hands glued to the trumpet.
A triumphantness, similar to what a soldier must feel after winning an important battle, soared through my bloodstream. The euphoria exploded like applause after a performance. Hearing the applause, the guns, the standing ovation.
Playing the flute was a delicate, ephemeral experience. Playing the trumpet, this trumpet, rushed and raged and roared.
There weren’t any valves to control. Playing this ancient instrument was about the amount and power of air blown into the mouthpiece. To change the pitch, I either relaxed my breath or blew harder or in patterns.
Short. Long. Short. Long. Short. Long. Long. Long. Loooooong.
“Aria! What’re you doing?” The fury in Grandfather’s voice broadcasted, the blaring of an entire brass section in the symphony.
I jerked and my shoulders scrunched high. Pivoting slowly, I kept the trumpet to my lips. How could I not have heard the front door? I’d been so lost in the music.
“Set down the trumpet. Now.” Grandfather’s cheeks flamed an angry red. His gaze narrowed to slits. He thumped across the Oriental carpet and snatched the trumpet from my hands. “Don’t ever play this instrument again.”
My body sagged. The disappointment of never playing the trumpet wrapped itself around me and I wanted to protest. “I’m sorry, Grandfather. I was lonely and sad and I had the urge to play.” My remorse flashed to anger, returning to the emotions I’d had while playing the trumpet. “I do know how to care for an instrument.”
He should’ve been at the police station for a couple of hours. What was he doing home? According to the clock on the wall, over three hours had passed. Had I played for that long?
My shaky arms showed I’d held the heavy trumpet for a while. My dry throat proved I’d been playing for hours. How had I not noticed the time?
“This isn’t any old trumpet. It’s fabled to have belonged to King Tutankhamun, the Egyptian boy-king.” Grandfather stroked the bronze with care. “Rumors and myth swirl around the pair of trumpets.”
Cool. I might’ve played the same trumpet as King Tut. “There are two?”
He pursed his lips and his eyebrows flattened into a line. “Never touch this trumpet again. Leave me alone while I think.”
Hurt pinged in my heart. Grandfather had never used that disciplining tone with me before. He’d always been sympathetic and caring, and willing to give me anything I wanted.
Sitting in his chair, Grandfather cradled the instrument, staring at the hieroglyphics as if they told stories. He didn’t realize I was in the room when he started muttering, “Can’t let them find it. Must be smart and strong. Need to hide Tut’s trumpet.”
* * *
That evening, dishes clanged at the small Italian restaurant where Grandfather and I ate. The tantalizing smell of tomato sauce and garlic tempted my taste buds, even though my curiosity was more hungry than my stomach.
Grandfather acted jumpy the rest of the afternoon. He’d stayed in his study with the doors closed. I hadn’t seen the trumpet again. A new kind of loss, different than the grief for my parents, drummed in my gut.
At the restaurant, he’d been greeted like family. He must spend a lot of time here. Except for tonight. He’d been in a hurry to leave from the moment we’d arrived.
He introduced me to the husband and wife team who’d owned the restauran
t for decades. They welcomed without prying into my past, but I could tell they knew because I felt watched. Cold tingles shivered down my spine the entire meal. Weird because the glances I’d catch from the owners appeared sympathetic, not morbid. I tried to shake the feeling off. People were naturally interested in death and those who’d managed to beat dying.
“Are you done?” Grandfather’s impatient tone demonstrated his actions all evening.
We’d barely sat down and he’d insisted we order. He’d asked the waiter to hurry with our meals, and he’d requested the check when our plates were delivered. He acted like he had some place to go, but we were only heading back to his house.
“Yes.”
My appetite hadn’t returned since eating hospital food for months. Grief threatened to suffocate. Pulling my shoulders back, I took a deep breath and forced my mind to go elsewhere. I didn’t want to think about that period of my life.
My mind switched back to the bronze trumpet and the feeling I’d had when playing the instrument. The thrill of excitement. The charge of power. The raw edge of anger.
“Can I see Tut’s trumpet again?” What I really wanted was to play the trumpet. I’d take one step at a time.
His movements froze, as he stared at me with a panicked gleam in his eyes. “No.” He leaned toward me. “Don’t mention the instrument in public ever again.”
“Why?”
The waiter dropped off a takeaway box and the check.
Grandfather slapped money onto the table and stood. “Because the trumpet is dangerous.”
His ominous tone boomed in my chest, a deep, dark drum. How could a trumpet be dangerous? Would it hurt my eardrums? I didn’t think so. I’d been around the symphony long enough and my hearing was fine.