Cass ran for it.
“If that boy goes another step,” came a voice from the jungle, “he will be pinned next to it by the throat.”
“Cass, stop!” I shouted.
He fell to the ground and then bounced back up with his hands in the air.
“Now come join the others,” the voice said. “I would like a proper welcoming committee.”
As Cass hurried to my side, Torquin instinctively pushed him and me behind his back. Out of the blackness stomped six guys who looked like the Massa Olympic weight-lifting team. They surrounded a wiry woman in a long toga-like garment. Her graying black hair was pulled straight back, giving her face a hawklike intensity.
“On your knees before Number One!” shouted one of the goons, unsheathing a dagger from his belt.
“Please, Manolo, the Hulk auditions are in Los Angeles.” As Aliyah stepped toward me, her eyes never wavered from mine. “You see, these young people are our salvation. Jack and I, in particular, have a trusting relationship. Isn’t that right, Jack?”
I was growing sticky with sweat. My eyes darted upward to Marco’s hospital window. “Please, Aliyah, Marco is—”
“Dying?” she said. “Pity. I know death well, having lost several of my best soldiers just in the last few hours. In case you haven’t noticed, the beach side of the island rose quite dangerously. But here is the odd thing. The other shore sank. The island is tilting. Curious, isn’t it?”
“Not . . . just rising?” Torquin said.
Her stare was knifelike. “It may surprise you to know that deep under this island we have a thriving nerve center, left to us by the Karai. In it is our team of seismologists. They are, to say the least, spooked. Something happened to destabilize the island. Something big.”
Cass shot me a nervous glance. But Aliyah was now face-to-face with Torquin.
“Perhaps you’re familiar with this nerve center, having served so well as Radamanthus Bhegad’s lickspittle,” Aliyah said. “Perhaps you know something of the precious sack that was stolen. A sack that looks remarkably like the one that hung from your ample neck.”
Torquin yawned. He flicked a massive fly off his nose, caught it in midair, and popped it his mouth. “Lick my spittle.”
Instantly Manolo and one other goon reached for their gun holsters.
With a loud grunt, Torquin threw his huge frame toward the men. His bare foot, which was roughly the size of an armadillo, connected with Manolo’s jaw. Without missing a beat, he brought his thick arm down on the other guy’s neck. Both guards thumped to the ground. But now I could hear rustling in the jungle, new voices. Other people were approaching. Torquin turned to face them.
“The rebels,” I whispered to Cass.
Cass reached for the sack. He yanked out the arrow, freeing it from the soil.
“Drop it!” Aliyah’s voice called out.
We turned. I took the sack and held it behind my back. Torquin was flat on the ground, surrounded by four new goons who must have emerged from the trees.
“Rebels, huh?” Cass murmured.
One of goons grinned at Aliyah. “Kill the fat guy?”
“Not fat,” Torquin said calmly. “Muscle.”
Aliyah circled Torquin, eyeing him appraisingly. Behind her, more Massa were emerging from the dark.
“I am not convinced this man is the culprit. Common sense would suggest someone rather smaller and quicker.” Aliyah glanced back toward the trees. “Say, perhaps, the young terror behind me.”
“Yeeeoowww!” cried a deep voice, as three more burly Massa guards came out of the jungle—or staggered, really. They were pushing Eloise, who was gagged and blindfolded. Her hands were tied together with rope, but she was landing some sharp kicks at the ankle level.
Cass lunged toward her, but I held him back. “You’re hurting her!”
“She’s hurting us,” one of the goons grumbled.
“Gentlemen, remove the gag from the girl,” Aliyah said. “Cass, you will be kind enough to drop that little bag of stolen goods right now, if you care about the well-being of your sister.”
His face red with anger and worry, Cass let go of the sack. Behind Aliyah, one of the goons was untying the gag from behind Eloise’s head. She spat at him, and he threw her roughly to the ground.
“Ow!” Eloise cried out.
“You leave her alone!” Cass said.
Eloise lunged forward and sank her teeth into the guard’s ankle. With an agonized scream, he fell to the ground.
The guards hovering over Torquin raced over to help out. Torquin bounced to his feet and followed them. Aliyah turned in bewilderment.
I lunged for the sack, scooped it off the ground, and ran for the hospital door. “Go, Jack!” Cass cried out.
“Get him!” Aliyah shouted.
I heard a loud craaack. And another. I felt one bullet whiz past my right ear.
And then I was sprawled in the dirt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CYRUS THE GREAT
I WAKE UP in the sand. I have—or someone has—built a protective wall of sand around me. The sun is still a bulge of pulsing orange on the horizon. But leading to that horizon is an orderly row of crops, fed by canals dug at regular intervals and flowing with water.
I shift my leg and feel that it is connected to a canvas sack. In that sack appears to be a Loculus. As I shake off the fog of sleep, I rub my eyes with both hands and slap the sides of my cheeks.
I nearly cry out in surprise. They are stubbled with hair.
I must be Massarym in my dream. Once again.
The sight of water makes me realize how thirsty I am. But as I stand and prepare to climb over the wall, I hear distant voices.
“Hello!” someone is shouting. “It’s all right, brother, come out and face me. We can work together!”
The wall is chest high, and I peer over the top to see a gaunt, dark-bearded man walking along the border between the crop and the desert. He is the last person I would expect to see.
Massarym!
I duck out of sight. I grab a hank of my scrubby beard and pull it forward from my chin. Looking down, I can see the tips of blond hair in my fingers.
Blond.
In this dream, I am Karai.
I have stolen this Loculus from my thieving brother.
I should know where I am, but I am half in this dream and half out. Something is not allowing me to fall completely asleep.
But I am also gaunt and hungry. My feet are swollen and blistered. I have been following Massarym great distances. And now he is hunting for me. “Working together” is the last thing he really wants.
I hear another voice, and I allow myself to peek out briefly. Following Massarym is a wizened old man in a plain white robe, with a blue sash around his waist and a simple cloth band encircling his head and tied together tightly in the back. “Young visitor,” he calls out, “is it not more likely the bandit has escaped to the city?”
Bandit? They are calling ME a bandit? When it was Massarym who snatched away the Loculi and hastened the destruction of an entire civilization?
Massarym spins around to the man. “If he is in the city, we may consider him gone. My brother is nothing if not crafty. You may be a wise man, old Ardashir, but your Persian leaders are dolts. It will be a matter of weeks, maybe days, that the Egyptians will regain control of their land. The cities are already being looted and they are the last places Karai would risk taking the . . . Atlantean treasure.”
Treasure, meaning Loculus, of course. He doesn’t want to give its name to the old Persian man.
I hold tight to the sack. My journeys have been fruitless until recently. But now things are beginning to turn. I will start with this orb. I have heard reports of the hiding places of some of the others—in Rhodes and Halicarnassus. I will not stop until I find them.
Massarym and Ardashir are walking to the edge of the field. As they disappear behind a furrow of growing plants—flax, I think—I cautiously stand.
&nb
sp; Slowly I look around. The sight directly behind me takes my breath away. Rising above the desert like sleeping giants, the three pyramids greet the sunrise. Their sides are mottled with a kind of creamy white material, as if a smooth wall has been eroding away to reveal the stones underneath. To the right, its back to the sun, the vigilant but bored-looking Sphinx watches over them. Its features are sharp and lifelike, and I almost sense that if I step too close, it will bite me.
I will lose myself there and then figure out a way to get to the sea—perhaps a kind farmer or merchant will guide me.
Strapping the sack over my shoulder, I hop the wall and begin to run. I cannot believe how weak I feel, and my sandaled feet sink into the sand. I make the best speed I can manage, but after a few moments I realize I am not alone. A young girl is walking out of another field, a small goat hopping at her side.
I stop suddenly but remind myself it is only a child, younger than I, and I have nothing to fear. So I look forward and continue.
A babylike cry makes me turn my head, and I stumble on my crude sandals.
The girl is covering her mouth and laughing. “One does not insult Cyrus the Great by ignoring him,” she calls out. Although she is speaking Egyptian, I understand every word. It is one of the abilities I was able to develop recently as a result of my experiments with the royal blood of my most magical homeland, Atlantis.
I know I should not talk to this girl. But I do. “Cyrus the Great?” I say.
She scoops up the goat and holds up one of its hoofs as if it’s waving to me. The animal looks like it’s smiling, and that makes me laugh. “The humble Karai bids good morning to Cyrus, King of Kings!” I say with a bow.
“And to me, Lydia, too?” she says.
“And to you, Lydia.” As a quick afterthought, I add, “The Great.”
She is so friendly and I am so lost and tired. I make the very quick decision that I can trust her (and Cyrus). So I speak up. “Dear one, I have traveled from a far land without friend or family, and I have a great need to get to the sea.”
She looked over her shoulder. “My father tells me the Egyptians have blocked the port. There is much fighting now. He believes it is a matter of days before the land is conquered.”
“Are you not in danger?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “We are Egyptians. We support the Egyptian rebels. And as we have been here for generations, we know of places to hide.”
With an impish smile, she begins to run in the direction of the pyramids. “Come, Karai! Come, Cyrus!”
With a bleat, Cyrus turns and runs the other way, back toward the fields. But I follow Lydia across the sand, until she stops at a column of stone about chest high. A stele.
It is covered with faded hieroglyphs, but miraculously I can read them. “‘Here will be the greatest monument of all, constructed to honor Cambyses the Second, Conqueror of Egypt.’”
Lydia laughs. “They started to work on it. But they will never finish. Now watch this.”
She runs her fingers down the side of the stele, tracing along some of the hieroglyphs but not others. After a few moments of this, she steps back.
I hear a deep groan from within the sands below, and the stele begins to fall backward slowly. Lydia is nearly jumping with excitement as the stele’s base lifts out of the sand and a square hole opens underneath.
Cool air blasts upward from the blackness. In the rays of the rising sun, I can see a small ladder leading downward. Lydia gives me an eager smile. “Want to see?”
“No,” I reply.
“I insist,” she says. “Because I know that otherwise you will go to the sea. And you will be taken by the soldiers, drawn and quartered, and the next time I see your face it will be atop a sharp wooden pole.”
I swallow. This is not my plan. I know I can turn the other direction from the turmoil and run. But the other direction is miles and miles of scorched desert. Here, at least, I can wait out the conquest. “You really think the battle will be quick?”
She nods. “Father has laid out stores of food. Also games to occupy our time and very comfortable quarters. Follow me.”
Turning around, she begins lowering herself into the hatch, stepping carefully on the ladder’s rungs. I wait until she is just out of sight before following.
I am three steps in when I hear Cyrus’s bleating again distantly. I look up to see him scampering toward us, with a group of men following.
“Karai!” one of them shouts.
It is Massarym!
As I hasten my descent, the sun glints off something in my brother’s hand. It is a scythe.
“Who is that?” Lydia calls up.
“Never mind!” I say.
“Father?”
She is climbing back up the ladder. “How do you shut this?” I ask urgently. “Lydia, please, someone is after me!”
She leaps down the ladder. A moment later I hear a deep groan. A shadow is forming over my head and I step down the ladder to avoid being crushed by the stele’s movement.
At the bottom rung, I see that Lydia is holding a torch at the end of a long corridor. I quickly remove my sack and throw it toward her. It lands with a thump at her feet. “What is this?” she asks.
“Go!” I shout. “Hide this where no one will find it. Just go! I will find you in a moment.”
“But—” she says.
I hear a loud clank of metal directly above me. I look up.
At the top of the ladder, Massarym has wedged the scythe between the bottom of the stele and the edge of the hole. His face, shadowed but recognizable, leers downward. “Good morning, my brother,” he says. “And thank you dearly. You have helped me more than you know.”
He swings his legs around and begins to climb downward.
CHAPTER EIGHT
RESURRECTION
TORQUIN’S BREATH WOKE me up. On the negative side, it smelled like a freshly killed hedgehog. On the positive side, it was the first indication that I was not dead.
As I turned my head away from the stench, I realized five things:
1.I was out of my dream, where I was about to be attacked.
2.I was back in reality, where I had been attacked.
3.Old Until-Recently-Red-Beard-but-Now-Beardless was carrying me up the stairs. Fast.
4.The sack of shards was still wrapped around my right arm, and
5.As far as I could tell, my body was bullet-hole free.
“Landed very hard on you,” Torquin said. “Sorry. Bullet was close.”
Holding me like a loaf of bread, he crested the stairs and burst into the hospital room. Brother Asclepius was hunched over Marco, but he spun toward us, startled.
“Step aside,” Torquin said. “We cure him now.”
Behind us, footsteps clattered up the stairs. Asclepius blinked his eyes and stammered, “I—I’m sorry, but Marco is . . . he’s . . .”
Torquin set me down on my feet at the side of Marco’s bed. The guards were now at the door, but I didn’t care. As I stood over my friend, I felt as if the air had been squeezed out of the room. Marco was faceup, staring straight into the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. His skin was a sickly alabaster white. A tangle of tubes, bandaged to his arms, led to a bank of monitors. All of them were beeping angrily. And showing flat lines.
Which meant no heartbeat. No vital signs. His chest was absolutely still.
I was only vaguely aware of Aliyah ordering her guards to put their weapons away. Eloise and Cass were walking toward me now. “Is he . . . ?” Eloise asked.
Brother Asclepius put a hand on my shoulder. “I did as much as I could. . . .”
I wasn’t hearing them. Wasn’t listening. Instead I yanked open the backpack, dug my hands into the debris, and pulled out one of the shards. Its edges were sharp, and they cut my finger. But it was at least four inches across.
It was all we needed.
“Jack,” Cass said, “it’s not going to—”
I jammed the shard flat-side down, on Marco’s c
hest. “It’s bigger than the one we used on Aly,” I said.
“But Aly was alive,” Cass said, his voice muffled with falling tears. “The person has to be alive.”
Closing my ears. Not hearing this . . . not hearing this . . .
I pressed harder against the still chest. “Come on, Marco . . . come on . . .”
The doctor was trying to pull me back, holding my arm firmly. “Jack, listen to me. It’s too late.”
I felt a buzz in my head, maybe from one of the alarms. Sweat ran down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The shard felt warm now. The cut on my finger bled onto Marco’s shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Aliyah approach. I must have barked at her to go away, because she stopped short.
“How long has Marco been dead?” Aliyah asked.
“Almost two minutes,” Asclepius replied.
“Let go of the boy’s arm, Doctor,” she said. “Do not try to pull him away from his friend.”
“But—” the doctor protested.
“I said let go, Asclepius!” she snapped.
The doctor’s fingers loosened. Now Cass and Eloise were by my side. Cass put his hand on top of mine. My fingers were cramping. I felt like the shard was burning a hole in my palm. It was shrinking like the other shard.
“It’s . . . almost gone, Cass,” I whispered.
Cass tightened his fingers around my hand and lifted it upward. “We need it, Jack,” he said.
It went against every ounce of my will, but I let him do it. The shard had embedded itself in my palm. It was now the size of a nickel.
“It’s not going to work this time, Jack,” Cass said softly. “Marco’s gone.”
I slumped back. I turned from the sight of Marco, still and unbreathing. I knew it was something I could never unsee. Cass was right. This was a Loculus of Healing, not a Loculus of Resurrection.
But my brain was pulling up another image of Marco, just as painful. I’d seen him like this before. Worse, really. Crushed and damaged almost beyond recognition.
“Resurrection . . .” I whirled on Cass. “We can do that, Cass.”
“What?” Cass said.
“Think back!” I said. “Marco fell into the volcano. But we brought him back—and we can do it again.”