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  PRAISE FOR

  WARDENS OF ETERNITY

  “Wardens of Eternity takes readers through an adventure in a different time period, in various locations across the globe, and into Egyptian mythology. Reading this book is like watching an action movie: fight scenes throughout the plot are carefully choreographed with both kicks and punches, as well as with magic spells. The story is told not only through the eyes of the main human protagonist, but also in snippets through the eyes of one of the gods. This duality emphasizes the nature of one single story that has different effects on both the human and the supernatural realms. The amount of research needed to write this story shows through detailed visual explanations of historical scenes, ancient landmarks, and otherworldly realms. Wardens of Eternity is a fantasy story that will stun readers with its plot twists and leave them breathless with its non-stop action.”

  —BOOK NERDS ACROSS AMERICA

  BLINK

  Wardens of Eternity

  Copyright © 2020 by Courtney Moulton

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Moulton, Courtney Allison, 1986-author.

  Title: Wardens of eternity / Courtney Moulton.

  Description: Grand Rapids, Michigan: Blink, [2019] | Audience: Ages 13+. |

  Summary: In the days leading up to World War II, orphaned immigrant Ziva must rely on her survival instinct and her magical abilities to outmaneuver ancient Egyptian gods and resurrect a revered queen to stop Nazis intent on global destruction.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019014408 (print) | LCCN 2019980023 (ebook) | ISBN 9780310767183 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780310767190 (ebook) | ISBN 9780310732327 (ebook other)

  Epub Edition November 2019 9780310767190

  Subjects: CYAC: Gods, Egyptian—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Nazis—Fiction. | World War, 1939–1945—Fiction. | Supernatural—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M85899 War 2019 (print) | LCC PZ7.M85899 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019014408

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019980023

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Any internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Blink, nor does Blink vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Blink is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Focus LLC.

  Interior design: Denise Froehlich

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  1920212223LSC10987654321

  For my agent, Allison Remcheck. Thank you

  for keeping my head above the water.

  Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.

  I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself. I pace the halls of the netherworld. I knock on the doors of death. The primeval gods are here with me. Their voices hum like flies in my ears.

  I am what I will.

  —AN EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER

  1

  NEW YORK CITY, 1939

  The only memory I had of my parents was also the last time I saw them. I’d replayed the scene over and over in my head if only to understand why they’d done it.

  My mother had clutched me to her chest as she ran through the crowded street, darting between people and automobiles, her footsteps and ragged breaths lost among shouting voices and beeping horns. I’d watched the world zoom by from beneath the blanket she had wrapped me in.

  We had slowed, and she’d set me down beside a vegetable cart. I’d been small, perhaps three or four years old, I wasn’t sure. I’d looked up at her, wondering when we would go home, because I’d wanted lunch. Mama’s dark, round, deep-set eyes had been wide, the same dark eyes I gazed into when I saw my reflection now. Her long, gently sloping nose had met full lips forming a defined cupid’s bow. The honey-and-olive skin of her cheeks had been flushed and damp. Had it been raining, or had she been crying? I would never know.

  “We’ll play a game, Ziva,” she’d told me, her voice high and soft, its calmness betrayed by the wildness in her gaze. “Wait here and don’t move until Baba and I come find you. Do you understand?”

  I’d nodded. Games were fun. Lunch could wait.

  Mama’s dense bounty of dark curls, the midday sun setting their reddish-gold highlights on fire, fell around me like a protective curtain. Sometimes, now, I wondered if her hair ever got curlier on misty, humid days like mine maddeningly did.

  She’d kissed the top of my head, drawn a long, deep breath, and stood. She had cast one last glance over her shoulder and vanished into the crowd.

  They’d abandoned me, like so many of the city’s children had been, whose parents couldn’t feed them. A single memory and my real name were all I had of my parents and my history. I had long been on my own—sixteen years now. Lots of the girls who worked with me at the textile company were alone and scarcely scraping by.

  If anything, New York was a city of survivors.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to pull my thoughts back to the present. My laced shoes tapped the cracked pavement and the frayed hem of my skirt swung above my ankles. My blouse stuck to my back beneath my coat and smelled sour with sweat and thread dye. The air was thick and carried a muddy, damp odor from an earlier rain. This route was lonely after dark, but it was my quickest way home.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, grabbed my arm, and yanked me out of the streetlight’s reach. My back thudded into the brick wall of a building. I found my balance and felt my fingertips heat and spark on instinct. When I looked up, I saw a white woman in dirty clothes, her brown hair chopped below her ears. She had a knife in one hand.

  “Hand it over,” she ordered. “Whatever you got. Hand it over.”

  Her voice was calmer than most thieves’—she’d been at this a while. But today was payday and I knew well to keep my wits about me, watching for whoever might be hungry for the measly few bucks I’d worked for all week. There was no way I’d let anyone take it from me. She wasn’t the first who’d tried.

  “No,” I told he
r.

  The woman waved the knife close to my face. Metal glinted. I stepped away from her. She snarled and leapt at me, grabbing my wrist with her free hand. Her fingers dove into my pocket and I swung a fist in protest, but she darted out of my reach.

  “Give it back!” I shouted, and my fingertips burned. I clenched my fists, and sparks bit into my palms. “Leave me alone.”

  She examined the limp scrap of fabric she’d stolen—the only contents of that pocket—in the sickly glow of the streetlamp. She muttered a curse and tossed the scrap. It fell to the damp ground and I lunged for it and patted off the dirt before stuffing it back where it belonged.

  She shot at me while I was on the ground, knife poised high. I threw up my hand, palm out, and the thief screamed when my power slammed into her, wrenching her up off her feet and into the air. Her limbs flailed wildly, and she landed on her back with a crack in the middle of the street. She writhed for a few moments, mouth opening and closing, her voice lost when the wind was knocked from her.

  I hadn’t meant to hit her so hard. Honestly, I hadn’t.

  I stood slowly and marched toward her with a smooth gait. Although I tried to appear indifferent, I hoped she was all right. But I had to appear ruthless to people like this, people who were as hungry and desperate to survive as me.

  Standing above her, I watched her expression turn from panicked to fearful as she found her air. She rolled over with a groan and pushed herself shakily to her feet. She retrieved her fallen knife and raised it to me again, the entire length of her arm trembling.

  “What was that?” she rasped. “What did you do?”

  “Move along,” I told her, my tone frigid. “Or you’ll end up a lot worse.”

  She crept away, step by step. “Why do you work all day in a hot factory when you have power like that? You can take what you need.”

  I said nothing as I went on my way.

  “You and I would make a great team!” the woman shouted at my back.

  I wasn’t a team kind of girl.

  As I continued on my way, another movement in the darkness triggered my attention. If too many people saw my power, there would be problems. I maintained my pace but kept watch in that area. My nerve endings screamed with alarm. The feeling was all too familiar for me. I was hunted by predators all the time.

  When I saw the shadow again, I froze. This was no mugger or street urchin. The body was long and moved like a cat, but it was the size of a lion or tiger I’d seen at the zoo. It lifted its head and I could make out the silhouette of enormous, coiled horns.

  My heart hammering, I squeezed my eyes shut, certain I’d imagined this shadow. I opened my eyes again and it was gone.

  I ran.

  “Extra! Extra!” A teenage newsboy carrying a stack of papers shouted his headlines from the corner of an intersection. “Blackouts in Prague continue as the Reich marches toward Poland!”

  I couldn’t afford to buy a paper, so I slowed my pace, hoping the newsboy would say more. Last week, I’d heard the Czech people were now forced by the Reich to carry documents declaring they weren’t Roma or Jewish. The only shops open now were the ones hanging signs in their windows proclaiming they were Aryan-owned. Europe was halfway across the world, but Americans seemed so afraid of what was happening—what could happen again. The end of the Great War hadn’t been all that long ago; the sharp blade of that memory still lingered in the hearts of many.

  I hurried toward a regular payday stop for me—a bakery close to home. Before I spotted the awning above the heads of passersby, I could smell the baked goods. My mouth watered as I inhaled deeply, imagining the taste of warm muffins, bagels, and baguettes. All day I’d managed not to think about how I hadn’t eaten since the night before. Now my hunger was a ruthless force kicking around my empty insides.

  Ducking behind the stoop of a launderer, I unbelted my skirt and reached inside the band to the secret pocket I’d sewn there. I deftly unbuttoned the flap and felt around for my money. After taking what I needed, I stuffed the rest of the cash back into its hiding place.

  Before I entered, I needed to make myself appear a little more alive and less like the walking dead. I pinched both my cheeks and gave them a few sharp slaps to add some color to my blanched complexion. Then I emerged onto the sidewalk and crossed the street to the bakery. A bell jingled when I opened the door and stepped inside. The air was dry and warm and thick with the heady scents of bread and the sweet icing of pastries. The man behind the counter cast me a smile as he placed rolls from a tray onto the shelf beneath the counter.

  “Miss Ellison,” he said with a tip of his white cap. “How are we this evening?”

  “Just fine, Lou, and yourself?” I asked.

  “Hoping to sell what I have left before I close up for the night.”

  I moved along the counter, my eyes wide and feasting on what my tongue couldn’t taste: rich angel cake, chewy raisin tarts, creamy strawberry shortcake, crisp chocolate chip cookies, and dainty custard-filled cupcakes. Once, I’d spent everything I had on a plate of shortcake. It was heaven. I’d managed to make it last for three days, eating a scoop at a time, and it had left me four days without any food at all.

  It’d been worth it.

  Lou stepped out from behind the counter to wipe the display glass with a rag. “I saved a half-price day-old loaf for you.”

  “That’s swell, thanks,” I told him. “I’m really grateful. How about that job too?”

  He sighed and frowned at me. “I couldn’t pay you.”

  I flashed him a bright, lively smile. “I’d take food instead.”

  “Then who would pay your rent?” he asked soberly.

  Reality had a sharp bite. “Well, let me know if a spot opens up.”

  “You bet, kid,” he replied, his voice a little sad.

  I walked toward the day-old rack and a dark thought came back to me. “Why do you work all day in a hot factory when you have power like that?”

  I paused, my gaze lingering on the row of bread loaves. How easy it would’ve been to push my power at one and knock it into my hand without anyone seeing. Lou would probably sell a loaf cheaper than half-price if it fell onto the floor.

  My heart pounded, and my stomach tightened with hunger and nerves. Shadows seemed to creep around my vision, tunneling my mind, leaving only the bread in focus.

  “You can take what you need.”

  But I liked Lou. He always made sure he had something to sell me. Times were tough for him too. I didn’t want to stoop to the same level as the thief. I wasn’t terrible enough to hurt someone else for what I wanted.

  My teeth clenched until they squeaked and hurt. Before I could let myself think any longer about having extra food this week, I grabbed a day-old loaf from the rack, paid for it, and was out the door with a brief good-bye.

  CHAPTER

  2

  As far as tenements went, the one I lived in wasn’t the worst I’d seen. The city had tried to fix up a lot of the immigrant housing, but this one seemed to have been missed so far. I climbed the stoop, carefully avoiding the man who’d slept on the bottom step for the past two nights and walked in the front door. Once safely inside, I pulled out all the rest of my money to count out what I owed my landlord.

  The narrow entry was taken up mostly by the staircase, which circled four floors high. The hallway runner beneath my feet was dirty and tattered, and the faded floral wallpaper was torn in streaks and around corners. This might have been a fine house in the days of carriages and bowler hats, but that was a long-forgotten dream now. If I looked closely enough, I could see the hallway runners were spun with gold thread, reminding me of Rumpelstiltskin.

  I felt a hollow pang of loneliness in my middle. I wound up at an orphanage where a woman named Jean worked and she would read fairy tales to us from moldering old books. Thinking of her made me miss her and I resolved to visit her tomorrow after work. Jean was likely the best thing to ever happen to me. She’d even taught a few of us how t
o read, a skill I’d cherish the rest of my life. Reading opened infinite doors to infinite worlds.

  “Rose Ellison!”

  Ziva. My name is Ziva.

  The voice came from the first room on the right, which always had its door open, so our landlord, Mr. Boyle, could spot us as we came in.

  “Yes, sir?” I replied with a cringe. Nearly everyone called me Rose Ellison, the name the State gave me when it took me in. The name my parents gave me, Ziva, didn’t sound “American.” It didn’t sound “white.” This world had rejected my real name, rejected who I was. I would always remember my name, and now it was all I had.

  Mr. Boyle appeared in the doorframe, his suspenders loose and the top few buttons of his white shirt open. A patchy, five o’clock shadow stained his jib and jaw. He had a long nose, a sallow olive skin tone, a messy mop of black hair on top of his head, and watery, even blacker eyes.

  “Rent’s due,” he said flatly, his hands on his hips. He snorted, catching a gob of mucus in his throat and swallowing.

  “I know,” I replied, sorting through the folded bills I’d already taken from my secret purse. When I handed half of it over, he counted greedily and gave me a pointed frown.

  “You owe me twenty.”

  I could hardly understand him through his thick Irish accent. “But I don’t have twenty.”

  He snatched the rest of the cash in my hand. “This’ll do.”

  “Wait!” I tried to follow him, but he’d turned and slammed his door shut in my face, making me jump back.

  “Good night, Miss Ellison,” he called from the other side, his voice muffled and dismissive.

  I could bang on his door, demand my money back, but I owed him more than he’d swiped.

  “You can take what you need.”

  And I needed my money.

  My power could break open that locked door without a doubt. I’d seen it do worse—because I couldn’t control it. There was a terrible certainty I could do more damage than I intended. Mr. Boyle could be hurt. His apartment could be destroyed. This building could be damaged. It could fall. More people could be hurt.