R. L. Lafevers Read online

  “What kind of curse was it, Danver?” Wigmere asked the injured man.

  “I d-don’t know, sir. We hadn’t gotten that far yet.” Poor Danver couldn’t take his eyes off his arm as the blisters and boils covered his elbow and continued upward.

  Wigmere exploded. “You mean to tell me you touched a cursed object without knowing the nature or power of the curse?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, worming my way forward. “Perhaps this might slow it down.” I reached up and lifted another of my amulets off my neck. Without touching Danver’s skin directly, I wrapped the leather cord with the amulet around his upper arm, like a tourniquet.

  The bubbling boil of the curse lapped up against the tourniquet, then pulled back, like a wave at the seashore. Again it surged forward, and again the amulet repelled it. In the background I heard voices murmuring, “I say, jolly good,” and, “Clever, that.”

  “This won’t hold all day.” My mind was scrambling, sorting through all the curse antidotes I knew. “Wax! We need wax. Do you have any?”

  “Wax?” Wigmere said.

  “Yes. Now, hurry. Please!”

  “How much?” one of the medics called out even as he began moving away.

  “Enough to cover his whole arm up to his shoulder,” I called back.

  People finally got the message and propelled themselves to action. I gave Danver my most confident look. “Don’t worry. This amulet should hold the curse off long enough for us to remove it.” I so hoped I was right about that.

  I turned to Wigmere. “We’ll need to melt the wax. Do you have an electric coil or a chafing dish or something?”

  He studied me closely, then nodded and barked out an order.

  Before long there were men scurrying everywhere, finding the wax, breaking it into bits so that it would melt quickly, setting it up to melt. As they made the preparations, I checked Danver’s arm to see how it was doing.

  A small sliver of the curse, like a fine thread, had just found its way under the tourniquet and was working its way to his shoulder. “We really need to hurry up with that wax!” I called out.

  “Ready in two minutes,” the medic called back.

  Danver’s eyes were practically rolling back in his head. “Don’t panic, please don’t panic,” I said. “Everything will be all right.” I think. I hope. I’d only done this twice, and only on artifacts, never on humans. But according to Hassam Fahkir in his ancient scroll on remedies for Egyptian magic, it should work.

  Finally they brought a basin full of melted wax. “Take off his shirt,” I told the medic.

  There was a general gasp at the thought of a man removing his shirt in front of a girl.

  “Oh, stuff and nonsense! Do you want to remove this wretched curse or not?”

  With a glance at Wigmere, the medic removed Danver’s shirt.

  “The wax will be hot, but, um, it shouldn’t be any worse than the curse,” I warned.

  Danver nodded. “Just get on with it,” he replied between clenched teeth.

  “Right.”

  I pulled the shallow dish closer. “Shove your arm in that, as far as it will go.”

  Danver took a deep breath and did as I instructed. (I do so love a grownup who can follow instructions!)

  He sucked in a breath, then the whole room fell silent as his arm sat bathed in the wax.

  Keeping my hands clear of the curse-infected arm, I pushed on his shoulder to help get as much of his arm down in the wax as I could. Glancing around, I spotted a letter opener on the desk. I picked this up and used it to spread the wax so that it completely covered the skin.

  After a few minutes had passed, I said, “Right. You can take your arm out now.”

  Slowly, Danver lifted his arm from the dish. His entire limb was encased in soft warm wax, all the way up to his shoulder. “Perfect,” I said.

  “Now what?” asked one of the medics.

  “Now we wait,” I said.

  Within minutes, the wax began to turn murky as it drew the curse from Danver’s skin. It quickly went from a dirty gray to a greeny-black color, and the smell of sulfur rose up into the air. As it hardened, it began to crackle, a soft sound that worked its way up Danver’s arm as the fouled wax crackled and peeled itself away from his skin, falling in a vile mess.

  I caught the wax bits with the dish, then shoved it at the medic. “This needs to be thrown on a fire immediately.”

  “But it will foul the hearth,” one man said.

  Wigmere shut him up with one look.

  I bent forward to examine the arm. The curse was gone. No lumps or bumps or boils or blisters, or—”I say, it took all your hair with it.” I stepped back and wiped my brow.

  Wigmere skewered me with a look.

  “You mean to tell me you’ve never done this before?” he said.

  I gulped. “Well, yes. But not on a man with a hairy arm.” I rushed to explain. “In his writings from the Middle Dynastic Period, Hassam Fahkir said it would work. And it did, didn’t it?” I braced myself for his anger.

  Wigmere’s sharp eyes studied me. “Rather quick thinking, that,” was all he said. Then he turned back to his injured operative. When he was satisfied the man was out of danger, he motioned for me to follow him to the infirmary.

  ***

  I was shocked by how pale Stokes was. He looked well and truly dead. I was afraid there’d been a blunder and someone had mistaken his death rattle as a call for Wigmere. (Really, if you mumble the name Wigmere, it sounds quite like a death rattle.)

  The man who’d been tending him stepped back from the bed. Wigmere pulled up a chair and eased himself into it. “Stokes? Wigmere here. They say you wanted to see me?”

  Nothing happened, and I began to worry that I’d been right. But then there was a sort of gasping sound, like I imagine a fish makes when he swallows the hook.

  “Steady now,” Wigmere said.

  Stokes’s eyes fluttered open. “Chaos,” he said. “It was Chaos.”

  He was right about that. The whole morning had been a madhouse, if you asked me.

  “Blast,” Wigmere said softly. “Do you know who?”

  Stokes nodded again, then fell silent. Once he’d gathered enough strength he said, “Von Braggenschnott.”

  “Von Braggenschnott!” exclaimed Wigmere.

  I knew that name! Where oh where had I heard it before?

  Stokes nodded and tried to continue.

  “What was that?” Wigmere leaned even closer.

  “Forces … of chaos … are rising … once more,” Stokes managed to get out.

  “Blast!” said Wigmere. He pushed to his feet and barked out orders regarding Stokes’s care, then headed back through Level Six toward the lift. I hurried to keep up. For someone who needed a cane, he could gallop along surprisingly well when he’d a mind to.

  “What does that mean, The forces of chaos are rising once more?” I asked when he finally paused to wait for the lift.

  He glanced down at me as if weighing whether or not he should tell me. “It means bad things are going to happen for a while, until we can sort this mess out.” He stopped and ran his hand over his face. He suddenly looked ten years older and infinitely more weighted down by the cares of the world. “This Heart of Egypt situation has the power to topple our entire nation if not handled properly.”

  The full implications of what he was saying struck me. “What exactly do you mean, topple?” I have found it always best to be absolutely clear on death-and-destruction stuff.

  Wigmere began pacing in front of the lift door. “The curse on the Heart of Egypt is designed to weaken a nation, to make it easy to conquer. It was very cleverly designed by Thutmose Ill’s minister of war—”

  “Amenemhab.”

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “Yes. Exactly. Anyway, it is extremely powerful. It was a way to guarantee the power and glory of Thutmose III’s kingdom, even after his death. Whoever lifted the Heart of Egypt from the tomb would bring down upon
their head famine, plague, pestilence. Destruction.”

  For once, I was speechless. I could barely fathom the enormity of it all. A little thread of worry began unraveling in my stomach. “It will topple the Germans now that Von Braggenschnott has it. Right?”

  “No,” Wigmere said, running his hands through his thick white hair. “It was removed by a British subject—”

  I squirmed as I realized the British subject in question was Mother.

  “—who brought it to British soil. It is Britain that is in danger. We must retrieve the Heart of Egypt and return it to Thutmose’s tomb. That is the only way to stop the bloody curse. Then we need to make sure it stays there!” He pushed the lift ringer with considerable force.

  We rode back up the lift in silence. I was in such turmoil over the news I didn’t even notice my stomach when it dropped down to my ankles.

  “And another thing,” Wigmere finally said, staring straight in front of him.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve got to keep quiet about all you’ve seen here today. We’re a very secret operation. Very few people know about us. You mustn’t tell a soul.”

  “No one? But surely Henry, since he’s been here.”

  “Not a soul,” Wigmere said firmly. “Not your brother, not your parents.”

  “But surely I can tell Mother and Father what’s happened to the Heart of Egy—”

  “No! It is of utmost importance that you tell no one.”

  “Very well,” I said solemnly, my heart sinking at all these new secrets I had to keep. “My lips are sealed.”

  No matter what it might cost me.

  A Sardine Trap

  THORNLEIGH AND HENRY WERE WAITING FOR US in Wigmere’s office. According to their report, Will never returned to the churchyard. Worried, I reminded myself that Sticky Will was very good at taking care of himself. He’d had lots of practice, and if he could survive the Seven Dials, he could survive anything.

  Wigmere sent me and Henry back to the museum in one of the Brotherhood’s coaches. Henry peppered Thornleigh with questions the whole way, but the man kept mum. He had the driver let us off at the corner so that no one at the museum would see the coach. “Bye, then,” he said, as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “Excellent job, saving Stokes and Danver.”

  “Who’s Danver?” Henry asked as the coach drove away.

  “Never mind,” I said. We climbed up the stairs to the museum’s front entrance, and just in time. Flimp was getting ready to lock up. He rocked back on his heels as he waited for us to clamber through the door. “Someone’s been looking for you two all afternoon, they ‘ave,” he chided us.

  Henry and I stood in the anteroom for a moment, trying to get our stories straight. We were still whispering, trying to think of a story that wouldn’t get us in too much trouble, when who should come thundering in but Fagenbush.

  He strode over to where we stood and peered down his long beak directly into my eyes, as if he were trying to read my mind. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “We went to visit the British Museum. To get out of the way. Everyone seemed extra busy today.” When fibbing, it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible.

  Fagenbush’s eyes narrowed until they were slits of malevolence. “I don’t belie—”

  “Theo! Henry! There you are!” Mum came hurrying into the foyer. “That was lovely of you to lay low today. Your poor Father’s got enough on his mind.”

  Why, she’d never even realized we were gone! But now I was committed to the partial fib I’d told Fagenbush, who continued to hover. So I told her the British Museum story.

  “Really, Theodosia. You know how your father feels about that place. Let’s not tell him, shall we? It will spoil his mood.” She paused, then added, “Even more.”

  A stab of regret sliced through me. I so longed to tell her what had happened to the Heart of Egypt. To tell her how close Henry and I had come to getting it back. But I couldn’t. In truth, none of that mattered anymore. It didn’t matter how clever I or Henry had been, not when the well-being of all Britain was at stake.

  ***

  Since Mother and Father were still distracted over the Heart of Egypt, they had dinner brought round. We all ate together in the sitting room, which should have been nice but wasn’t. Father’s foul mood infected us all, and I had plenty of worries of my own after talking to Wigmere. We all sat in a rather melancholy silence, our bleak thoughts circling around the dinner table like vultures.

  After we’d finished dinner, Henry curled himself up in the chair in front of the fire with his new book, The Treasure Seekers. Mother and Father retired to discuss their problems in private. Feeling guilty about all my secrets, I retired to my closet, one of my best thinking spots.

  Safely in my sarcophagus, I vowed to pore over Amenemhab’s Book of War first thing in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. Maybe there was a clue to solving the toppling problem in there. It was worth a try.

  But of course, I couldn’t sleep. After the day I’d had, I should have been out in minutes. Every fiber of my being was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t switch off. When I wasn’t worrying about the Heart of Egypt toppling Britain, I was marveling over a whole society of people who studied for years in order to do what I did without even trying. Who would have guessed such a thing? The idea made me uneasy, as if I were some kind of freak.

  The problems before me were huge, and it seemed as if there was nothing I could do about any of it. Finally admitting that sleep was miles away, I crawled out of the sarcophagus and tiptoed to the door, which I had left open a crack. I checked my Isis lure (a tin of sardines stationed just inside the door) to see if she had snuck a nibble when I wasn’t looking.

  She hadn’t.

  I grabbed a blanket from the sarcophagus and wrapped it around my shoulders. Sitting down on the floor near the door, I leaned up against the wall. I would just sit here and will Isis to come, that’s what.

  I sorely missed her tonight. I needed the feel of that small, warm furry body next to me to chase away, well, everything. Then I had an idea.

  One of the cornerstones of Egyptian magic is the art of creative utterance. Which is basically a fancy way of saying, it’s all in how you say a thing. And the words you use. True names can be a very powerful tool. So, what if I tried to see if I could make it work for me? Wigmere said I had a unique talent and it wasn’t all about following recipes; maybe I could use that to my advantage!

  I reached over and traced the hieroglyphs for “Isis” on the floor near the sardine tin, then whispered, “Isis, come.” Nothing happened. Then another thought occurred to me. “Come, Isis,” I called again, only this time I used the ancient Egyptian I’d learned from my study of hieroglyphs.

  I did this quite a few times, stopping every now and then to check for signs of her. Nothing. As I sat there, my thoughts drifted to Wigmere and his Brotherhood. I wondered if they had all stayed up tonight in order to try out the Moonlight Test for themselves.

  I wondered if it would work for them.

  Then, of course, thinking about Wigmere got me thinking about Stokes. I was glad he was going to be all right. If I closed my eyes, I could see the cold flat stare of the German fellow as he shoved that knife into Stokes’s ribs.

  Germans. Knife. Stabbing. Stop it, you horrid brain!

  Why does one’s mind always think of the truly awful things in the middle of the night when there’s no one to talk to and nothing to distract oneself with?

  I heard a creak on the floorboards outside my door. Oh, please let it be Isis.

  I stood up as quietly as I could and tiptoed to the door, peering out into the gaping black of the hallway. There was nothing there.

  Uneasy, I sat back down against the open door. I had to come up with a plan. After everything that Wigmere had told me, it was more important than ever to find the Heart of Egypt. And more difficult. Just how was I supposed to retrieve the wretched thing?

  I shifted my
position, thinking I’d return to bed, when once again I heard a slight creak on the floorboards outside in the hallway.

  Which made me wish doubly hard I hadn’t just been thinking about bloodthirsty Germans and stabbings and such.

  Nonsense. Determined to be brave, I leaned forward and peered back into the dark hallway. “Isis?” I whispered.

  My heart kicked into a gallop when I saw a tall, slender woman standing in the hallway. “Mother?” I breathed, but even as I said the word, my brain registered that this was most definitely not Mother. The woman wore a linen sheath with a wide gold collar. There appeared to be a solar disk held between two horns on top of her head.

  I blinked to clear my eyes, and when I opened them again, she was gone. I slumped back against the door as relief surged through me. Perhaps Father was right. I really did need to get a grip on my imagination.

  Just then, two iridescent golden-green orbs appeared in the hallway. Isis! I pulled back behind the door, my hand ready to close it once she decided to come in.

  It took forever, but she finally nosed her way to the sardines, crouching like a panther and stopping every few inches to check for … something. I don’t know, whatever demonic cats check for.

  When she finally reached the sardines, Isis tossed all caution to the wind and tore into the things as if they were dangerous cat-hunting rats. She’d take one in her mouth and shake her head back and forth (flinging sardine juice everywhere) as if killing the sardine all over again. Only then would she settle down and eat it.

  While she was thoroughly absorbed in her meal, I reached forward and very slowly closed the door. As soon as she heard the click, she paused and looked up at me, a low caterwaul starting deep in her throat.