I found an empty room and pulled Carter aside. The glass cases were full of shabti. A few days earlier I wouldn’t have given them a second thought. Now, I kept glancing at the statues, sure they’d come to life any minute and try to bash me on the head.
“What now?” I asked Carter. “Did you see any temple?”
“No.” He knit his eyebrows as if trying hard to remember. “I think there’s a rebuilt temple down that hall…or is that in the Brooklyn Museum? Maybe the one in Munich? Sorry, I’ve been to so many museums with Dad that they all get mixed together.”
I sighed in exasperation. “Poor boy, forced to travel the world, skip school, and spend time with Dad while I get a whole two days a year with him!”
“Hey!” Carter turned on me with surprising force. “You get a home! You get friends and a normal life and don’t wake up each morning wondering what country you’re in! You don’t-”
The glass case next to us shattered, spraying glass at our feet.
Carter looked at me, bewildered. “Did we just-”
“Like my exploding birthday cake,” I grumbled, trying not to let on how startled I was. “You need to control your temper.”
“Me?”
Alarms began to blare. Red lights pulsed through the corridor. A garbled voice came on the loudspeaker and said something about proceeding calmly to the exits. The French tour group ran past us, screaming in panic, followed by a crowd of remarkably fast old people with walkers and canes.
“Let’s finish arguing later, shall we?” I told Carter. “Come on!”
We ran down another corridor, and the sirens died as suddenly as they’d started. The blood-red lights kept pulsing in eerie silence. Then I heard it: the slithering, clacking sounds of scorpions.
“What about Bast?” My voice choked up. “Is she-”
“Don’t think about it,” Carter said, though, judging from his face, that’s exactly what he was thinking about. “Keep moving!”
Soon we were hopelessly lost. As far as I could tell, the Egyptian part of the museum was designed to be as confusing as possible, with dead ends and halls that doubled back on themselves. We passed hieroglyphic scrolls, gold jewelry, sarcophagi, statues of pharaohs, and huge chunks of limestone. Why would someone display a rock? Aren’t there enough of those in the world?
We saw no one, but the slithering sounds grew louder no matter which way we ran. Finally I rounded a corner and smacked straight into someone.
I yelped and scrambled backwards, only to stumble into Carter. We both fell on our bums in a most unflattering way. It’s a miracle Carter didn’t impale himself on his own sword.
At first I didn’t recognize the girl standing in front of us, which seems strange, looking back on it. Perhaps she was using some sort of magic aura, or perhaps I just didn’t want to believe it was her.
She looked a bit taller than me. Probably older, too, but not by much. Her black hair was trimmed along her jawline and longer in the front so that it swept over her eyes. She had caramel-colored skin and pretty, vaguely Arab features. Her eyes-lined in black kohl, Egyptian style-were a strange amber color that was either quite beautiful or a bit scary; I couldn’t decide which. She had a backpack on her shoulder, and wore sandals and loose-fitting linen clothes like ours. She looked as if she were on her way to a martial arts class. God, now that I think of it, we probably looked the same way. How embarrassing.
I slowly began to realize I’d seen her before. She was the girl with the knife from the British Museum. Before I could say anything, Carter sprang to his feet. He moved in front of me and brandished his sword as if trying to protect me. Can you believe the nerve?
“Get-get back!” he stammered.
The girl reached into her sleeve and produced a curved white piece of ivory-an Egyptian wand.
She flicked it to one side, and Carter’s sword flew out of his hands and clattered to the floor.
“Don’t embarrass yourself,” the girl said sternly. “Where is Amos?”
Carter looked too stunned to speak. The girl turned towards me. Her golden eyes were both beautiful and scary, I decided, and I didn’t like her a bit.
“Well?” she demanded.
I didn’t see why I needed to tell her a bloody thing, but an uncomfortable pressure started building in my chest, like a burp trying to get free. I heard myself say, “Amos is gone. He left this morning.”
“And the cat demon?”
“That’s my cat,” I said. “And she’s a goddess, not a demon. She saved us from the scorpions!”
Carter unfroze. He snatched up his sword and pointed it at the girl again. Full credit for persistence, I suppose.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
“My name is Zia Rashid.” She tilted her head as if listening.
Right on cue, the entire building rumbled. Dust sprinkled from the ceiling, and the slithering sounds of scorpions doubled in volume behind us.
“And right now,” Zia continued, sounding a bit disappointed, “I must save your miserable lives. Let’s go.”
I suppose we could’ve refused, but our choices seemed to be Zia or the scorpions, so we ran after her.
She passed a case full of statues and casually tapped the glass with her wand. Tiny granite pharaohs and limestone gods stirred at her command. They hopped off their pedestals and crashed through the glass. Some wielded weapons. Others simply cracked their stone knuckles. They let us pass, but stared down the corridor behind us as if waiting for the enemy.
“Hurry,” Zia told us. “These will only-”
“Buy us time,” I guessed. “Yes, we’ve heard that before.”
“You talk too much,” Zia said without stopping.
I was about to make a withering retort. Honestly, I would’ve put her in her place quite properly. But just then we emerged into an enormous room and my voice abandoned me.
“Whoa,” Carter said.
I couldn’t help agreeing with him. The place was extremely whoa.
The room was the size of a football stadium. One wall was made completely of glass and looked out on the park. In the middle of the room, on a raised platform, an ancient building had been reconstructed. There was a freestanding stone gateway about eight meters tall, and behind that an open courtyard and square structure made of uneven sandstone blocks carved all over on the outside with images of gods and pharaohs and hieroglyphs. Flanking the building’s entrance were two columns bathed in eerie light.
“An Egyptian temple,” I guessed.
“The Temple of Dendur,” Zia said. “Actually it was built by the Romans-”
“When they occupied Egypt,” Carter said, like this was delightful information. “Augustus commissioned it.”
“Yes,” Zia said.
“Fascinating,” I murmured. “Would you two like to be left alone with a history textbook?”
Zia scowled at me. “At any rate, the temple was dedicated to Isis, so it will have enough power to open a gate.”
“To summon more gods?” I asked.
Zia’s eyes flashed angrily. “Accuse me of that again, and I will cut out your tongue. I meant a gateway to get you out of here.”
I felt completely lost, but I was getting used to that. We followed Zia up the steps and through the temple’s stone gateway.
The courtyard was empty, abandoned by the fleeing museum visitors, which made it feel quite creepy. Giant carvings of gods stared down at me. Hieroglyphic inscriptions were everywhere, and I was afraid that if I concentrated too hard, I might be able to read them.
Zia stopped at the front steps of the temple. She held up her wand and wrote in the air. A familiar hieroglyph burned between the columns.