First, there were three more rectangles in the wall, lined up in direct proportion to the one I’d found, and the other canopic jars were destroyed. They’d been smashed; their broken pieces littered the ground. Second, the fine powder that had caused me to sneeze repeatedly was not sand, but a shimmery red dust. Third, the shabti now had a clear view of Amon, who, without his sword, arms raised in the air, and head lifted, was defenseless.
As I cried out, the servant rushed forward and plunged both of his red swords into Amon—one in his stomach, the other in his chest. Amon staggered back.
At the exact same moment the golden falcon burst into a billion fragments of light. The glowing particles of the bird were sucked into its body through its eyes and then were gone. Amon slumped to the ground, the gleaming red swords protruding from his torso.
The shabti cried out in triumph as I cried out in horror. He turned to me then, the sickening leer pasted on his face. But he didn’t see what I did going on just behind him.
Rising from the floor as if an invisible hand had lifted him, Amon yanked out the offending swords and tossed them aside. He opened his eyes, and in the dark cavern it looked like his hazel orbs were lit with a golden fire. As Amon took a deep breath, his body transformed. Where he had once stood, a large falcon now danced in the red sand. The giant golden creature flapped its wings and let out a screech that sent goose bumps shooting up and down my limbs.
The falcon was the most beautiful and the most deadly-looking creature I’d ever seen. I was mesmerized by it. Rising higher and higher into the air, it circled, keeping an eye on the shabti and me, and then, before I could understand what it was doing, it folded its wings and plummeted toward us.
The shabti shrieked and turned to run, but the falcon was upon him. Wings spread at the last second, its sharp golden talons grabbed the man, squeezing his torso mercilessly as the bird descended to the ground. Its beak snapped, ready to dismember the servant in an instant, but just before it could finish him off, the man screamed and disappeared with a puff of red smoke.
As I cowered in a corner of the catacomb, feeling nauseated, weak, and dizzy, the supersized falcon called out softly as it folded its wings and looked at me. I couldn’t help but cry out and move back several paces, though I knew instinctively it meant no harm.
The bird lifted its head, and then its entire body burst into a golden light that coalesced, re-forming into the Egyptian prince I knew so well. Though his body was once again lighting the space, darkness crept in around the edges of my vision. I fell to my hands and knees, stirring up the red powder, which rose in soft puffs around my face. It tasted like a low-burning fire, but it didn’t have a scent.
I managed to push myself upright and lifted my hands to examine them. They were coated up to the wrists in red dust. Though the back of my throat burned, I didn’t have the energy to cough.
“Amon?” I whispered. “I don’t feel so…” I pitched forward just as Amon caught me in his arms.
I could feel nothing.
I could hear nothing.
And a moment later, I could see nothing.
Images flickered at the edges of my consciousness, and though I tried to grasp them, they faded away before I could figure out what they meant. My body was floating between dream and reality. Gradually, I woke to the sound of voices. The fuzzy images took on focus and the bluish-whitish thing in my vision became an up-close-and-personal view of Amon’s shirt.
It was dark. I was lying on a bed or a table of some kind, and as I gradually became more aware of my surroundings, I realized I was staring at canvas. It was the middle of the night, and I was in a tent.
To my horror, I found that I couldn’t lift my limbs. I was paralyzed. It was like being buried alive. I started to panic, fear licking my mind and holding on with razor-like claws.
Before I began hyperventilating, assuming I was even able to do that, I focused on what I could do. Voices carried from outside, so I could hear, and my eyes seemed to work again. I attempted to blink, and after one or two tries it worked, though I still couldn’t feel anything. It was like my entire body was asleep, so I spent minutes concentrating on making baby steps. First it was wiggling my nose, then my pinky on one hand, then the other.
After what seemed like hours, I was able to move my head to the left. It was a painstaking process of trying to force the inert muscles into obeying my mind, but eventually it worked. At least I had a nice new view. Amon was seated next to me sound asleep, his head resting on his arms, which were folded over the edge of what I now realized was a cot.
I couldn’t speak, but at least I was able to look at his handsome face while I slowly regained the use of my limbs. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing when we entered the tomb, and though he’d washed his face and arms, there were clumps of dirt in his hair.
Long lashes fanned out over his bronzed cheeks, and I realized that though there was no denying Amon was a beautiful sun god, I actually preferred him this way—a smear of dirt on his neck, exhausted from a hard day of work, and utterly…human.
I didn’t even realize I’d been stretching my arm, until my fingers made contact with his hair. Immediately, Amon opened his eyes. “Lily?” he asked, wiping the sleep from them and scooting closer. “Can you hear me?”
As he took my hand, now cleaned of the red powder, I nodded, nearly imperceptibly. He caught the movement.
“Good. Dr. Hassan said you would awaken soon. I will retrieve him.”
My throat closed off with my attempt to call him back. I wanted it to be just the two of us for now—I had so many questions—but I had to acknowledge that there would be time for questions later, and honestly, there wasn’t much chance of me uttering a syllable, let alone a full question, any time soon.
There was a shuffling of tent flaps and two men came in with Amon. The older of the two set a lantern down on the table next to me and pulled a stool over to my cot, then took off his white fedora and set it on the table.
“There’s my girl,” he said with a clipped accent, lifting my eyelids to get a better look at my eyes. “I knew you’d be returning to us soon.”
I liked his soothing voice. He seemed to be near retirement age, with a full head of white hair. His eyes were shiny brown, like melted chocolate, and his skin was darkly tanned from the sun. When he grinned I noticed he had not one but two dimples. Amon knelt next to him, peppering him with questions, worry obvious on his face. The man nodded sympathetically and answered patiently before turning in my direction.
“My name is Dr. Osahar Hassan, but most of my American friends call me Oscar,” he said. Picking up my hand, he patted it and flashed the aforementioned dimples. “I am especially fond of the moniker when used by attractive young ladies such as yourself. Now, let’s see how much progress we’ve made, shall we? Can you try to squeeze my hand?”
I tried, but could barely feel my hand in his, let alone give it a squeeze. Still, he smiled and said, “That’s good! Excellent! She is much further along than I’d thought she’d be after the level of toxin she inhaled.”
As my mind processed the word toxin, Amon nodded worriedly and asked, “How much longer until she is fully recovered?”
Dr. Hassan cupped his chin and stroked it as if he had a beard, a sign he’d probably had one at some time but now was rewarded with the rasping sound of a rough palm against skin that needed a shave. “I would say she should be recovered enough by morning to leave. The two of you are welcome to stay in the tent tonight.”
Clasping the man’s arm, Amon replied, “Your hospitality shall not be forgotten, Doctor.”
With a sly but kind expression, Dr. Hassan hinted, “Perhaps while we wait, we can further discuss your insights on a few things.”
“It would be my honor to oblige,” Amon answered.
Little alarm bells clanged in my mind, but there was no way for me to warn Amon to zip it. From the small glimpses I’d gotten of the tent, when I wasn’t distracted by Amon, I surmis
ed that we were in an archaeologists’ camp.
Dr. Hassan was likely not a medical doctor but a doctor of Egyptology. If Amon shared too much or said the wrong thing, Dr. Hassan might figure out that he hadn’t been born in this century, and with me in a state of paralysis there wasn’t much I could do to prevent them from carting him off for further study or, Egyptian heaven forbid, an autopsy.
Amon seemed attuned to my worried mind and turned to me. Touching my shoulder, he whispered, “We are still in the Valley of the Kings in a tent outside the temple of Hatshepsut.” When I formed a mental protest, he added, “Hush, Nehabet, all will be well.”
We are anything but well! Everything was wrong, horribly wrong, and now we were facing the enemy to all who were alien and different—scientists. We’d somehow gotten the attention of a person who could potentially be the most dangerous human on earth—a man who could figure out who and what Amon was.
My theory about the nature of the doctor’s field of study was confirmed when Dr. Hassan introduced his assistant, Dr. Sebak Dagher. The younger man, who was clean-shaven and wore a colorful headscarf instead of a hat, seemed friendly enough, but there was something hungry in his expression. Maybe it was just that he was young and had something to prove.
Seeing the two of them together made it official. They were definitely archaeologists. I should’ve guessed that when I saw the white fedora. Indiana Jones wore a brown one, and probably every archaeologist owned at least one.
The two men chatted amiably with Amon. They hadn’t called the Egyptian-tourist version of the police to escort us off the premises, but that made me even more suspicious. Why hadn’t they called a real doctor to examine me? Surely there was a first-aid station somewhere in the Valley of the Kings.
But even if there wasn’t, they had to have access to a hospital, and yet here I was all decked out like a fallen Egyptian queen, hands placed gently over my chest as I “recovered.” The men talked in English, but then switched to the language of the locals, which caused me to constantly strain to understand what they were saying from just the tone of their voices.
The two men seemed fascinated by Amon, but I couldn’t sense any hesitation or fear in him, so I eventually stopped trying to understand and just focused on regaining the feeling in my limbs. From time to time Amon reached out and wrapped his fingers around my arm, sending little waves of energy pulsing through my body.
The men didn’t notice except to exclaim over my quick progress. Dr. Dagher—which sounded too much like dagger for me to free him completely of suspicion—came to my side at one point and explained what had happened. He told me that I’d been the unfortunate victim of an ancient booby trap designed to prevent tomb raiders from taking artifacts.
I wanted to find out what kind of toxin I’d inhaled and why it hadn’t been removed yet from a recently excavated tomb. And I really wanted to know, if Amon had been discovered there, why had he been transported to the U.S. so quickly? Why were the canopic jars still there? Why had Amon been moved from his original resting place, and who had done it? But I knew those questions couldn’t be brought up to these strangers.
I could tell from Dr. Dagher’s shifting eyes that he was keeping secrets. The way he kept looking toward Amon and his mentor, I got the sense that he’d much rather be listening in on their conversation than babysitting a mute American girl.
After leaving us for an hour or so, Drs. Hassan and Dagher returned to my side to check on me. Thankfully, they switched to English when they saw that I was alert.
“How did you come to be in the closed-off section of the temple?” Dr. Hassan asked Amon. “And where did you come in contact with the toxin?”
Amon lied smoothly, but his hand gripped mine so hard that even I could feel it; the muscles in his forearm were rigid. “We were inspecting the tombs closest to the temple when Lily ran her hand over a wall and it came away coated with the dust. Neither of us knew there was any danger. When she began to feel the effects, I carried her through several passages in my haste to escape the tombs, and then we emerged in the temple.”
“I see.” Dr. Hassan lifted his hat and ran his hand through his thick white hair before repositioning it on top of his head. “You must have emerged from the Anubis upper chapel, then.”
“Your observation is likely accurate.”
“Then you carried the young miss down to the first court. The one with the columns,” he clarified.
“Yes,” Amon replied easily.
Dr. Hassan’s eyes glinted as he considered Amon, and I knew immediately that he knew Amon was lying.
“You do not believe what I have told you,” Amon said.
“No,” Dr. Hassan replied with an affable grin. “I was working in the upper terrace when I noticed the red dust footprints coming from the royal family chapel. Since that section is currently closed off and there are no outside passageways leading into it, I must admit that I am hoping you will tell me what really happened.”
“I have told you what you need to know.”
I flinched inwardly, waiting for the grin to disappear from Dr. Hassan’s face. I imagined that in his anger at our uncooperativeness, he would summon the authorities and have us thrown in a dank cell reserved especially for those who disrespected important historical relics. Instead, the Egyptologist, his protégé at his side, sat back and changed the subject.
“The temple you wandered into is arguably one of the most famous monuments in Egypt. It was constructed by a female pharaoh named Hatshepsut. Do you know of her?”
Amon shook his head. “Not specifically. I do not know of any pharaohs who were women.”
“There are a few, though it was very rare to have one rule as long as Hatshepsut. She reigned nearly twenty-two years, fostering the arts and erecting beautiful buildings, but after her death other pharaohs tried to erase the signs of her rule. Statues were destroyed and monuments were defaced.
“Many theorize that this was done to discourage people from remembering that Hatshepsut, a female, had led Egypt successfully, but I believe the cult of Seth was responsible for corrupting Hatshepsut’s accomplishments.”
I could tell that Amon was immediately curious. “Do you have evidence of this?” he asked.
“Yes and no. Most Egyptologists dismiss the idea that there is or was a cult that worshipped the god of chaos, Seth, but they do agree that Hatshepsut had a fascination with lionesses. In fact, the story of her birth has her born in the bed of a lioness.”
“What does an affinity for lions have to do with the god of chaos?”
“Ah.” The Egyptologist’s eyes twinkled. “That is the question, isn’t it?” he answered cryptically before continuing, effectively ignoring Amon’s query.
“My research indicates that she might have joined a secret faction after a trip to northeast Africa to visit with the king of Punt. She returned bearing many gifts, including ivory, gold, myrrh and frankincense trees, and ebony. But I think there was another reason she visited, and it wasn’t political. You see, when she prepared to go home, she was gifted with a pair of female lion cubs, which she raised as pets.”
“She was a brave woman, then, but I am afraid I do not understand how this would lead you to conclude anything out of the ordinary,” Amon said.
“Quite right. Normally, I would agree. Hatshepsut was certainly not the first or the last Egyptian royal to develop an affinity for a dangerous creature. But I say that there might be more to the story.”
“How so?” Amon inquired coolly.
“It is disputed, but I have found signs indicating that Hatshepsut had special ties to the sphinx. We know, for example, that there was once an avenue of sphinxes that lined the path leading to her mortuary temple. Certain records discovered in Africa speak of the lionesses gifted to Hatshepsut, but one of them unmistakably said that ‘The Lioness’ came from Africa.
“This is in reference to the mysterious leader of a secret group called the Order of the Sphinx, a seldom-talked-about, highly c
ontroversial sect that many scholars dismiss as a fairy tale. I think not only that the order did exist, but that Hatshepsut might have been appointed their leader during that trip to visit the king.”
Amon rubbed his cheek. “Interesting. Why do you think she was the leader and not simply a member?”
“Well, the sheer number of statues that graced the avenue of sphinxes was an indication of her respect for the creature. Then there’s the fact that her temple was once surrounded by myrrh and frankincense trees, a sign that proves just how important that trip to Africa was.” Dr. Hassan looked at me. “There is a statue of her as the sphinx in your Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”
I sucked in a quick breath. The need to kick Amon and tell him we had to hightail it out of the tent was urgent, but all I could get out was a little moan. Amon squeezed my hand and asked if I was in pain. I shook my head, mentally screaming at him that we were in danger, but if he got my message, he ignored it.
My rational mind told me it was highly unlikely that Dr. Hassan would know anything about where I came from. It was likely a simple coincidence that he’d brought up the Met, but my suspicions were hard to ignore. He seemed to know more about us than we knew about him, and that made me very uncomfortable.
“Please continue, Doctor,” Amon encouraged him.
“The statue in the New York museum depicts Hatshepsut as the sphinx—her beautiful face is marked by the ceremonial false beard and headdress symbolizing her might; her body is that of a lioness. She was a powerful and handsome woman. One of the inscriptions in the temple says that ‘to look upon her was more beautiful than anything; her splendor and her form were divine. She was a maiden, beautiful and blooming.’ ”
“Is she now”—Amon hesitated—“under the glass?”
“Ah, you are asking if it would be possible to see her?”