Seven Wonders 3-Book Collection

  “Yale,” I corrected him.

  “Whatever,” Marco said. “Now, I’ve got these special kids. I tell them they’re going to be superheroes. But I also know they’re going to die soon. So I figure out a way to keep them alive until they bring the seven Loculi back. I don’t explain how it’s done. It’s just some mystical procedure. This scares them. I’ve got them under my thumb now. I know they’ll do my bidding. Then . . . after those seven babies are returned? Bingo—thanks, guys, sayonara! Next stop, Nobel Prize.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. We go home. We’re cured.”

  “But what if that part—the cure—is a big lie?” Marco said. “What if there is no cure? What if it’s all a sham? It’s a perfect scheme.”

  I shrugged. “So what else do we do? If we’re going to die either way, there’s no difference. At some point you have to trust somebody. The KI is our only possible hope. Otherwise there’s nothing.”

  “But I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Marco said with a deep sigh. “You know as well as I do that the KI isn’t the only game in town.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Right, Marco. Of course! I forgot. The Massa. Those crazy monks who tried to kill us. Let’s fly on over there and join up.”

  Marco fell silent. In a fraction of a second, I could feel a change in the air pressure, like a fist squeezing the last bit of patience from me. “Wait. You’re not serious, right?” I snapped. “Because if you are, that is an idea so colossally ridiculous that it redefines ridiculousness.”

  “Whoa, don’t assume, dude,” Marco said. “My mom always said, when you assume you make an ass of u and me—”

  “Not funny,” I said. “Not remotely funny. Either you’re taking duh pills or that dust storm has affected what little was left of your brain.”

  Marco’s brown eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before. “Brother Jack, I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that to me. I’m trying to have a conversation, that’s all. You’re not even asking questions—like What do you mean by that, Marco? The way you would do to someone you respected. I’m not a goofball twenty-four-seven, dude. I wouldn’t treat you like that.”

  I stopped short and took three deep breaths. I could feel Marco’s confusion and desperation. He was bigger and stronger than any of us. He could climb rocks and battle beasts, and he’d literally given his life to save us. Marco had more bravery in his fingernail than the rest of us had combined. I never thought a kid like me could bully a Marco Ramsay. I was wrong.

  “Sorry,” I said, “you didn’t deserve that.”

  “Sssh.”

  Marco was standing stock-still. Quietly he reached around for his quiver. I saw a figure moving in the woods. A mass of brown-gray fur, a glint of tooth. A grunt echoed from behind the tree. “Don’t move, Jack.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. My knees were locked.

  Marco stepped away, closer to the beast. “Peekaboo, mushushu, I see you . . .”

  A bloodshot eye, about knee-high, peered from behind the tree.

  “Careful!” I whispered.

  “Careful is my middle name,” Marco said.

  Without a sound, an impossibly long body leaped toward Marco. Its eyes glinted with a hundred dark segments, and its tongue lashed like a whip. With a high-pitched screech, it lowered its two short, powerful horns. Marco jumped, spinning in the air and bringing the bow down like a club.

  He connected with the side of the beast’s head. The mushushu roared in pain, sliding into a thorny bush and uprooting it from the soil. Struggling to his feet, the beast turned toward Marco. His back was covered in matted, dirt-choked fur, his belly in scales smeared with slime. Blood dripped from his horns from what must have been an earlier kill. His back leg was tensed, its talons dug into the dry soil. He fixed Marco with red eyes, his thin red tongue whipping in and out of his mouth.

  Marco lifted an arrow to eye level. The bow creaked as he pulled back . . . back . . .

  With a flick of his finger, Marco released the arrow. It shot through the air with a barely audible whoosh and caught the beast directly in the shoulder. He flung his head back in agony, stumbled to the earth. “Dang, I meant to get his heart,” Marco said with disappointment, reaching back for another arrow. “These arrows must be bent. Hang on, Brother Jack. I’m trying again.”

  The beast’s movements were quick and slippery. With a bloodthirsty scream, he leaped again. Marco jumped back, but the mushushu’s razor-sharp horn sliced through the side of his leg.

  “Marco!” I shouted.

  I raced toward him, but he staggered away on all fours, scrambling behind a tree. “Stay away, Jack!” he called out. “I’m . . . okay. Run for help!”

  His leg was gashed deep, spouting blood. The smell of it seemed to excite the mushushu, and he pawed the ground hungrily.

  With one hand, Marco clamped down above the wound. He was trying to stanch the bleeding, but it wasn’t working. Not by a long shot. I could actually see his face growing paler as the blood gushed out.

  With a snarl, the beast lowered its horns and charged Marco head-on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A TANGLE OF FANGS

  MARCO’S ARROWS SPILLED to the ground. All I could see was a flurry of hair, a tangle of fangs, limbs, and an uprooted bush. I ran toward him, scooping an arrow out of the dirt.

  The beast was enormous, his body completely obliterating Marco, a mass of ugly gray bristles and bloodstained scales. I drew the arrow back like a spear, aiming for the beast’s neck.

  I threw as hard as I could. The arrow flew out of my hand and embedded itself into a tree. “Marco!” I screamed, running toward him, ready to take on the beast with my bare hands.

  Marco’s face peered out from under the mass of fur. “Nice aim, Tarzan.”

  The mushushu lay stock-still. I edged closer. Three tiny, green-feathered darts protruded from the beast’s back. “Are you—?”

  “Alive?” Marco said, sliding out from underneath the giant body. “I think so. But not that comfy. Fortunately, it looks like Dead-Mouse-Breath lost interest and fell asleep.”

  Marco’s calf was bleeding badly. I ripped a section of hem off my tunic and tied it around his leg to stanch the bleeding. As he sat against a tree, sweat poured down his forehead. “That’s a bad cut,” I said.

  His eyes were flickering open and shut. “It’s just . . . a flesh wound.”

  I looked around for the shooters, but the place seemed empty. “Hello?” I called out. “Anybody there? Aly? Cass? Daria?”

  Marco needed care. Immediately. The makeshift tourniquet had stopped the heavy blood flow, but he’d lost a lot. And as brave as he was acting, he was fading in and out of consciousness. “Okay, Marco, I’m going to get you out of the woods,” I said gently, hooking my arm around his shoulder and struggling to stand.

  From deep in the woods I heard a voice. Then two.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Over here! Help!”

  I propped Marco against a tree. He gestured downward, to his stash of spilled arrows. “Take the weapon. Just in case. We don’t know who these voices belong to.”

  “But—” I protested.

  “Just do it, Brother Jack!” Marco said.

  Carefully I crouched down, reaching for the bow.

  With a sharp thwwwwip, a dart threaded the space between my fingers and embedded itself in the dirt. As I jumped backward, a face peered out from behind a tree—a woman, her dark hair cropped short and a scar running from ear to ear, circling just below her mouth as though she had a permanent eerie smile. She crept forward, holding a blowpipe in one hand. Behind her was another woman, older, with a broken-looking nose, and a man with a long black beard. They were wearing tunics of the same rough material and design as the other Babylonian wardum.

  “Look, I—I don’t speak your language,” I said, “but we have nothing to steal. My friend is hurt.”

  They looked at us warily. Marco craned his neck to see them and then groaned with the
pain.

  The woman knelt by him, looked at his leg, and shouted something to the others. As the man disappeared into the woods, she took Marco by the shoulders. Although she was an inch or so shorter than me, maybe just over five feet tall, she easily held his weight.

  I lifted his legs. Together we carried him to a flat place, soft with fallen leaves. After we laid him down, she brushed sand and dirt away from the wound. “I don’t think they’re thieves,” I said to Marco.

  “They’re not MDs, either . . .” Marco said with a grimace.

  The man came back with two crude clay pots. One was full of a greenish-gray liquid that smelled something like rotten onions, skunk, and ammonia. The other pot contained hot water, which he poured over the wound. As Marco’s leg instinctively kicked upward, the man held it down. Quickly his partner slathered the green-gray goo over three thin strips of bark, then placed them over the wound.

  “Geeeeaahhh!” Marco cried out.

  The man was sitting on Marco’s leg now. Tiny tendrils of smoke rose from the wound. Marco’s head lolled to the side, and he went unconscious.

  From a distance I heard a sharp, piercing whistle. Three notes. The woman answered identically. A moment later I heard a thrashing through the wood. And a cry.

  “Marco!”

  I spun around at the sound of Daria’s voice. She raced over to the other three. She seemed to know them, talking urgently in a flurry of words. A moment later she knelt by Marco, her eyes brimming with tears. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Dead? No,” I said. “These people saved him. Who are they?”

  Daria took a moment to think. “Wardum. But . . . I do not know the word.” She pointed to her head.

  “Very smart,” I guessed. “Um . . . scientists? Is that what you mean?”

  “Scientists,” Daria said. “Zinn, Shirath, Yassur.”

  Marco’s eyes fluttered open. “Maybe . . . they can invent anesthesia for next time,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Daria leaned over and gave Marco a hug. “I hear the noise. I run here. Bel-Sharu-Usur not be happy with me. I cannot stay long.”

  She carefully reached toward his injured leg to lift one of the pieces of protective bark. Underneath, the mushushu’s gash had become a raised red-brown welt.

  I could barely keep my jaw from dropping open. “That’s . . . unbelievable.”

  “You walk soon,” Daria said. “Zinn is best . . . scientist.”

  “What the—?” Marco tested his leg, bending it. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Thank you so much!” I said. “But how did they find us, Daria? If they’re wardum, why are they in the king’s forest? Shouldn’t they be in the palace?”

  Daria looked nervously over her shoulder. “We are . . . how do you say? Push back. Defy the evil Nabu-na’id.”

  “So you guys are like rebels?” I said.

  “King Nabu-na’id maked Marduk to be angry,” Daria said. “King not go to Akitu—this is great insult! Marduk caused bad things happen to Bab-Ilum. Many years ago. This one . . .” She waved her fingers frantically in the air, as if they were swarming around her face.

  “An attack happened?” I said. “Bats? Birds? Insects? A plague of locusts? Bzzzzz?”

  “Yes,” Daria said. “Also big water. From Tigris.”

  “Flooding,” I said.

  “Persians wanted to make Bab-Ilum part of Persia,” Daria said carefully. “Maked big army to defeat Nabu-na’id.”

  “Made,” I corrected. “We have to teach you past tense.”

  “I don’t blame the Persians,” Marco said through gritted teeth. “I mean, no offense, but your king is kind of a toad.”

  “Our king is lucky man,” Daria said. “Persians no longer. All the bad things gone—after Sippar. Sippar comes all around us.” She smiled ruefully. “For King Nabu-na’id, Sippar is new god. Is Protector of Bab-Ilum.”

  “Convenient,” Marco said. “Sippar nukes all your neighbors, and now Nabby doesn’t have to bother defending his kingdom anymore, like a king is supposed to.”

  “But Nabu-na’id is afraid of forest, because of mushushu,” Daria said. “So we . . . Zinn, Shirath, Yassur, and more . . . we hide here. We meet. Plan.”

  “But the mushushu’s dead,” I said. “So there goes your hiding place.”

  Daria looked nervously behind her. “Mushushu is not dead. Sleeping.”

  “Whaaat?” Marco said.

  We all looked at the beast. Its back was rising and falling very slowly, the feathered darts riding with it. “Those must be tranquilizer darts,” I said.

  “Anybody got a baseball bat?” Marco asked.

  “We leave mushushu here,” Daria said. “We say prayer at Esagila. Ask Marduk for forgiveness. For hurting sacred mushushu. Marduk will listen.”

  “Wait,” Marco said. “Remember what Ol’ Follow-the-Bouncing-Pupils promised? We could see the flower show if we nuked Mooshy!”

  Daria looked at me curiously. “This is English?”

  “Translation: Bel-Sharu-Usur said we could see the Hanging Gardens if we killed the mushushu,” I said.

  “We think of way to see gardens later.” Daria looked again over her shoulder. Quickly she added, “Zinn says you are very brave, Marco. Very strong. And you, too, Jack.”

  “I didn’t really do anything,” I said.

  “You dragged me to safety,” Marco said. “Jack is the definition of awesomesauce.”

  Daria nodded. “Bel-Sharu-Usur thinks you have magic. The king will want you. For soldiers.”

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not.”

  “Good,” Daria said. “Because Zinn and her people work for good things. Will use magic for the best future. For fairness in Bab-Ilum . . .”

  She was looking at us closely. So were the other three rebels.

  “Daria,” I said, “are you asking if we’ll join you? We can’t. We have to return —”

  “We’ll consider it!” Marco blurted. “Show us the Hanging Gardens, and we’ll think about it.”

  A rebel. Somehow that label only made Daria seem even more awesome. As if that were possible.

  Singer. Freedom fighter. Spy in the king’s court. Language genius. She was brilliant wrapped in amazing.

  Marco was leaning on her, limping. His white lie—saying we would think of becoming rebels—had made Daria optimistic. It was unfair. You know what else? He was pretending to be more injured than he was, just so he could have his arm around her.

  I knew she was nervous about seeing Bel-Sharu-Usur. I was also starting to worry about Cass and Aly. So we went as fast as we could. Daria sang to keep our spirits up, and the birds joined in. The sun seemed to brighten, too, and my spirits lifted. After the song she insisted on learning more English, so over the following few minutes here’s a list of what Marco and I taught her:

  1. Past tense.

  2. The difference between tree and three. Also two and too.

  3. The basic rules of basketball, demonstrated by Marco with a large rock and an imaginary basket.

  4. Two hundred twenty-nine vocabulary words, including war, layup, peace, peace out, footsteps, body odor, pathway, Cheetos, dilemma, awesomesauce, condition, and toilet.

  I will let you guess which of those were Marco’s and which were mine.

  Soon Marco was acting out the rules of basketball, bouncing around, making fake jump shots. “Marco is recovering,” I said. “He is making a recovery. This is another way of saying he is getting better.”

  Daria quickly repeated those words, but her eyes were riveted on Marco. “Marco, please, I do not understand this three-point play?”

  Some guys have all the luck.

  “He breaks downcourt . . .” Marco darted among the trees as if they were defenders, pretending to dribble a large rock. “The girls in the stands are crying out, ‘Awesomesauce!’ He stops at the semicircle exactly twenty-five feet from the basket, and he—”

  He froze with his hands in mid–jump shot. “Whoa,” he said softly, his
eyes fixed on something distant. “Time out.”

  We ran toward him. As we pulled up alongside, I squinted due to the brightness across the river. The air had changed, from the stink of burned wood and putrid flesh to a blast of cool, sweet air. The aroma was so intoxicating I felt light-headed.

  Through slitted eyes I beheld something that took my breath away.

  “Is that—?” I stammered.

  Daria grinned. “Awesomesauce.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  HEROES

  BREATHE, MCKINLEY.

  The Hanging Gardens rose on the other side of the Euphrates. They were more like an explosion of greenery than a stately ziggurat. If color were sound, the flowers would be screaming at the sun. They thrust through every columned window, draped the shoulders of every statue, obliterating the fine carvings on the walls. Their vines waved in the breeze like the hands of ballet dancers, and water rushed through marble gullies like distant applause.

  “You say—said—Hanging Gardens, yes? We say Mother’s Mountain,” Daria said. “After Amytis, wife of King Nabu-Kudurri-Usur the Second. Like mother to all wardum, so kind and gentle. But always sad. She comed—came—from the land of Medea, where are great mountains, big gardens. Nabu-Kudurri-Usur built first Mother’s Mountain for her, in Nineveh. To make her happy when she visit.”

  “Wait,” I said. “The first Mother’s Mountain?”

  Daria nodded. “This is second. Built many years later. But Nabu-na’id has closed it. The people may not go there now.”

  I walked closer, eyeing the surroundings. Beyond the Hanging Gardens, a huge park extended as far as I could see, surrounded by a brick wall. Outside the wall were dry, rubbly roads and small houses, but inside was lush with flowering trees and greenery. “Daria, we need to go there,” I said. “As soon as we all can.”

  “Why?” Daria asked.