Strange and Ever After (25 page)

I spun around . . . and jolted.

In the center of the chamber, hobbling with the aid of a cane, was a gnarled man with a stringy, white beard. His tattered gray robe was streaked with stains, and if not for the power oozing off him, I would have thought him nothing more than a beggar.

The Old Man in the Pyramids had arrived.

And the jackal now sat, tongue hanging out, by the room’s entrance.

My pulse pistol was ready as the Old Man shuffled toward us, and Daniel’s also stayed aimed at him—while Joseph held out his crystal clamp.

But then the Old Man paused ten feet away, lifting his chin to sniff the air like a dog.

His eyes landed on me—eyes that glowed golden. “Forgive
me, Emperor, if I do not bow. I am old and have been for millennia.”

None of us moved. None of us answered—until a sudden, incredulous laugh broke from Oliver’s lips. “You are a demon, aren’t you? Bound in this world?”

“Not quite.” The Old Man’s eyes shifted to Oliver. “I was once a man, and I looked just as you see me now. But then I was blessed—or some might say
cursed
—with a demon soul. If you stripped away my skin, you would find a spirit like yours.”

“But how is that possible?” Oliver frowned and approached the Old Man. “How can you have a demon soul?”

“In the same way that you could have a man’s soul, demon boy.” He bared a toothless grin. “All that separates man from demon is the
size
of our souls. When I was granted a
second
spirit, I stopped aging. Disease could no longer touch me.”

My breath caught—something about his words sent all the pieces twirling into place. “The Black Pullet,” I breathed. “That’s what it does, isn’t it? It grants a longer life by giving you a larger soul.”

The Old Man nodded, his beard wiggling. “A second soul, to be precise.” He flourished his hands like a performer. “I have twice the magic and twice the soul that you have. I can still be killed, certainly, but only if the injury is so vast I cannot heal. Disease . . .” He smiled. “It never ails me.”

“What of the endless wealth?” Joseph asked, his expression tensed and his body ready. “How does the Black Pullet provide that?”

“It is not a magical reason,” the Old Man answered. “Or even very interesting. Its feathers are made of gold.” He shuffled toward me, passing by Oliver. “But you are not here for immortality or wealth, are you, Pharaoh?”

I shook my head slowly. “We are here to find you—so that we may learn how to destroy the Pullet.”

“Hmmm.” The Old Man twirled a knobby finger in the air. “Well, you have found me. Your first step is complete.”

“Then tell me how we may dest—” My voice cut off, teeth chomping on my tongue. In a single, slamming heartbeat, rage crashed over me.

Oliver.

“It didn’t work,” he snarled, advancing on the Old Man. “Why didn’t it
work
? I have found you, so why am I still in pain?” He lunged at the Old Man, grabbing for his throat.

“Oliver!”
I shrieked.

Two of the statues dived off their pedestals.

Oliver stopped, fingers frozen at the Old Man’s wrinkled neck . . . and the statues’ spears frozen at Oliver’s.

“Oh God.” I stumbled toward Oliver, screeching at the Old Man, “Get the statues off!”

“Do it!” Daniel shouted, two pulse pistols now aimed at the Old Man.

“I did not call the guard.” The Old Man turned a bemused eye on Oliver’s fingers. “The girl is their pharaoh, and the mummies protect her. And you . . .” The Old Man’s eyes slid to Joseph. Then Daniel. “You should not even bother with your electricity.
It cannot kill an imperial guard.”

“Then how do I call them off?” I cried.

“Command them, Pharaoh.”

I wet my lips, tasting dust, and looked at the mummies. “Uh . . . leave Oliver alone?”

As one, the two guards jerked back in a clank of armor and marched to their pedestals on stomping, cloth-wrapped feet.

And all I could manage was a gawk.
I
had controlled them.

Oliver staggered away from the Old Man. His fury pulsed off him, and like a scorching sun, I could not dampen our bond enough to block what he felt.

And what he felt was a high-pitched, digging rage. He had fulfilled his command to Elijah—he had found the Old Man—yet the boiling in his gut had not lessened.

I clutched my hands to my ears and staggered to the nearest mummy, trying to stay in the moment. The dirt and armor had made it seem carved from stone, but up close, I could see its desiccated skin.

The mummies that guard many of the tombs are meant to protect
any
of the pharaohs
. Those had been Professor Milton’s words only the night before—and here I was, facing them. Controlling them.

“Empress.” Daniel laid a hand on my shoulder. “Empress, are you all right?”

“Yes. No. I don’t reall—”

No time.
The jackal’s voice sliced through my thoughts.
You must hurry.

I gulped. I had to hurry, so with a nod at Daniel, I forced myself to face the Old Man once more. “Why am I the guards’ leader?”

He blinked. “You do not know?” At my glare, he hastened to add, “You wield the clappers of Hathor. The ivory artifacts made to look like hands.”

Daniel stiffened behind me as Joseph repeated, “Ivory artifacts? She has no such things.”

The Old Man’s eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Yes, she does. Stuffed into her boots, she has two ivory clappers that were once gifts from a Hittite king to an Egyptian pharaoh. Whoever possesses the clappers possesses the power to control the imperial guards, the power to control
me
. And,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “the power to raise the Black Pullet.”

“Eleanor,” Joseph said, his voice low. “Please tell me he is wrong.”

I clamped my lips tight. What could I possibly say right now? Even when Daniel whispered “Is this true?” I simply replaced my pistol in my belt and slid the ivory pieces from my boots—before holding them out for Daniel and Joseph to see.

Daniel choked, the blood draining from his face. “No.
No
, Empress.”

“How?” Joseph began, just as pale. “That fist was atop the Marquis’s cane. How did you get it?”

“Madame Marineaux.” It was all I could say right now. They could scold me later, but the jackal had said to hurry—and I knew I needed to listen. So, twisting back to the Old Man,
I thrust the clappers toward him. “You said Hathor had these. Who is Hathor? And why do
I
have his artifacts?”

“
She.
Hathor is a she, and
she
is one of the Annunaki.”

“The what?” I demanded.

“The Annunaki,” Oliver murmured nearby. His eyes flicked to me, a dull yellow. No anger keened off him now. Only defeat. “That was the magic Elijah told me about, El. The one even darker than necromancy, remember? I told you of it in Paris. Elijah called it the magic of the Annunaki.”

“The Annunaki are not darker than necromancy.” The Old Man wagged his head. “You should know that better than anyone else here, demon boy. They come from the spirit realm.
Your
world, and they wield
your
magic. It is simply stronger than yours or mine or any magic ever seen. They possess the purest energy of all: the power of life and death.

“So now you must see that
this
is how an ivory artifact can steal a man’s soul. The power over life is inside Hathor’s clappers. Which is why a closed fist”—he flourished his cane at the clappers—“can contain a soul. Or part of it.” He flashed his white eyebrows at me. “Someone has been using the energy.”

“What?”
My voice cracked out. “I don’t understand.” Except I
did
understand. The ivory fist had held a person’s soul inside; and every time I had touched it, stroked it, or gazed upon it, I had taken some of that soul. The ivory fist had made me feel strong because it was
bolstering
me—giving me power.

And I knew whose power I had
used
—whose power the fist had stolen.

The Marquis’s.

We had found his body, shriveled and drained of life in Madame Marineaux’s sitting room.
That
was when Oliver had referred to the Annunaki as a magic darker than necromancy.

“The fist holds the Marquis’s soul,” I rasped. “It sucked the life from him and
killed
him, didn’t it?” My breathing turned shallow. I grabbed at my stomach. Of course the fist had killed him. It made too much sense to be anything else. And then . . .

I had
used
the Marquis’s soul. I had touched it. I had even
savored
the feeling as I used up bits of that soul. As the fingers had begun to unfurl once more.

Oh God.
Nausea rose in my chest. I never wanted to touch the fist again. I wanted to fling it away and pretend I had never seen it.

But the jackal’s voice blasted in my skull.

If you drop the clappers, then you are no longer Pharaoh. You will lose control over the Old Man.

I paused . . . and I grasped the clappers more tightly.

But Joseph stalked toward me, a furious Daniel at his heels. “Why did you not tell me of these artifacts?” he demanded. “How long have you
carried
them? It is one thing to lie about your magic, but to hide something that belonged to Madame Marineaux—”

“Enough,” Oliver interrupted, appearing at my side. “Eleanor did what needed doing. You wish to stop Marcus, and she has led you to that.”

Joseph’s lips parted, but I spoke first. “
Please
. We can argue
over this later, but not here. And not now. First”—I pointed at the Old Man—“he must finish his tale.”

Joseph’s nostrils flared, but he remained silent. Daniel would not even look at me.

The Old Man’s lips twisted into a smile. “It all began some three thousand years ago. There was a foolish Annunaki named Hathor. Because she doted on an even more foolish mortal, she created a gift for her human lover: an enormous serpent with wings of gold called the Black Pullet. This creature would not only guard Hathor’s lover, but it would grant him an immortal life and endless wealth. Yet as I said”—the Old Man lifted a hunched shoulder—“her mortal was a foolish man. As king of the Hittites, he cared only for gathering more land. He hoped to use the Black Pullet to conquer Egypt.

“So he asked Hathor to craft two sets of clappers. One pair would go to the Egyptian pharaoh; one would go to the Egyptian queen. And these clappers were beautiful—they begged to be touched. They also sucked away the wielder’s soul with each caress, and through this the Hittite king could use the clappers to kill the pharaoh and his queen. Then the Hittite king would lay waste to Egypt with the Black Pullet at his side.

“But the Egyptian queen was clever. She realized the power of the clappers and had her necromancer tweak the magic. The clappers could still take the soul of whoever held them, but they also gave the queen power over the Black Pullet. She let the pharaoh’s clappers kill him, and then when the Pullet arrived to destroy Egypt, she used her own clappers to control it.

“And because her necromancer was so adept, she became the
new master of the Black Pullet and crushed the Hittite king.”

“You.” I frowned. “
You
were that necromancer, weren’t you?”

“Of course.” The Old Man grinned, a wicked mask of shadows. “But for all my powers—even after I claimed the Pullet’s gift of a demon soul—I could not kill the creature. Only another Annunaki can claim the creature’s life. So I mummified it, exactly as I would any other being that wished to return to life one day. I removed its organs and bound its soul in eternal sleep.”

“Where are the organs now?” Joseph asked. “If they are destroyed, then the Pullet cannot be raised.”

The Old Man motioned to the empty chest. “Its organs used to rest here, but they were removed long ago. They now reside in the Valley of the Kings. A different pharaoh tried to bring the Pullet to life, but if you wish to raise the creature, you must have two human souls. The clappers must be filled, and both fists must be closed.” He shrugged dismissively. “Right now you only have a single fist
partially
closed.”

“We do not,” Joseph growled, “intend to summon it. Eleanor told you; we wish to destroy it.”

“And I told
you
.” The Old Man sneered. “Only an Annunaki has the power to judge and kill the Pullet. Yet I can feel it. Someone here
does
wish to raise it. This person will travel to the Valley of the Kings today.”

I opened my mouth to protest—but then a wave of static shivered over me. It prickled deep within my ears and laid over my tongue.

Run
.

I blinked.

RUN.

Terror shocked through me. I dropped to the floor, and the clappers skittered from my hands. . . .

A pistol shot cracked—explosive in the small chamber. Blood burst from the Old Man’s throat. He fell, and I crawled behind the nearest pedestal.

Then a rich Creole voice sang out, “I am the one bound for the Valley of the Kings.
Mersi
for telling me where to go.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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