The Red Pyramid (Kane Chronicles #1)

The Red Pyramid (Kane Chronicles #1) Page 38

“Wouldn’t you?” Thoth asked. “Wouldn’t you do anything to save your family, even if it upset the balance of the cosmos?”

His kaleidoscope eyes locked on mine, and I felt a surge of defiance. Well, why shouldn’t I help my family? Who was this nutter in a lab coat telling me what I could and couldn’t do?

Then I realized I didn’t know who was thinking that: Isis or me. Panic started building in my chest. If I couldn’t tell my own thoughts from those of Isis, how long before I went completely mad?

“No, Thoth,” I croaked. “You have to believe me. I’m in control—me, Sadie—and I need your help. Set has our father.”

I let it spill out, then—everything from the British Museum to Carter’s vision of the red pyramid. Thoth listened without comment, but I could swear new stains developed on his lab coat as I talked, as if some of my words were being added to the mix.

“Just look at something for us,” I finished. “Carter, hand him the book.”

Carter rummaged through his bag and brought out the book we’d stolen in Paris. “You wrote this, right?” he said. “It tells how to defeat Set.”

Thoth unfolded the papyrus pages. “Oh, dear. I hate reading my old work. Look at this sentence. I’d never write it that way now.” He patted his lab coat pockets. “Red pen—does anyone have one?”

Isis chafed against my willpower, insisting that we blast some sense into Thoth. One fireball, she pleaded. Just one enormous magical fireball, please?

I can’t say I wasn’t tempted, but I kept her under control.

“Look, Thoth,” I said. “Ja-hooty, whatever. Set is about to destroy North America at the very least, possibly the world. Millions of people will die. You said you care about balance. Will you help us or not?”

For a moment, the only sounds were ibis beaks tapping on keyboards.

“You are in trouble,” Thoth agreed. “So let me ask, why do you think your father put you in this position? Why did he release the gods?”

I almost said, To bring back Mum. But I didn’t believe that anymore.

“My mum saw the future,” I guessed. “Something bad was coming. I think she and Dad were trying to stop it. They thought the only way was to release the gods.”

“Even though using the power of the gods is incredibly dangerous for mortals,” Thoth pressed, “and against the law of the House of Life—a law that I convinced Iskandar to make, by the way.”

I remembered something the old Chief Lector had told me in the Hall of Ages. “Gods have great power, but only humans have creativity.” “I think my mum convinced Iskandar that the rule was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t admit it publicly, but she made him change his mind. Whatever is coming—it’s so bad, gods and mortals are going to need each other.”

“And what is coming?” Thoth asked. “The rise of Set?” His tone was coy, like a teacher trying a trick question.

“Maybe,” I said carefully, “but I don’t know.”

Up on the bookshelf, Khufu belched. He bared his fangs in a messy grin.

“You have a point, Khufu,” Thoth mused. “She does not sound like Isis. Isis would never admit she doesn’t know something.”

I had to clamp a mental hand over Isis’s mouth.

Thoth tossed the book back to Carter. “Let’s see if you act as well as you talk. I will explain the spell book, provided you prove to me that you truly have control of your gods, that you’re not simply repeating the same old patterns.”

“A test?” Carter said. “We accept.”

“Now, hang on,” I protested. Maybe being homeschooled, Carter didn’t realize that “test” is normally a bad thing.

“Wonderful,” Thoth said. “There is an item of power I require from a magician’s tomb. Bring it to me.”

“Which magician’s tomb?” I asked.

But Thoth took a piece of chalk from his lab coat and scribbled something in the air. A doorway opened in front of him.

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Bast said we can’t summon portals during the Demon Days.”

“Mortals can’t,” Thoth agreed. “But a god of magic can. If you succeed, we’ll have barbecue.”

The doorway pulled us into a black void, and Thoth’s office disappeared.

Chapter 24. I Blow Up Some Blue Suede Shoes

“WHERE ARE WE?” I ASKED.

We stood on a deserted avenue outside the gates of a large estate. We still seemed to be in Memphis—at least the trees, the weather, the afternoon light were all the same.

The estate must’ve been several acres at least. The white metal gates were done in fancy designs of silhouetted guitar players and musical notes. Beyond them, the driveway curved through the trees up to a two-story house with a white-columned portico.

“Oh, no,” Carter said. “I recognize those gates.”

“What? Why?”

“Dad brought me here once. A great magician’s tomb...Thoth has got to be kidding.”

“Carter, what are you talking about? Is someone buried here?”

He nodded. “This is Graceland. Home to the most famous musician in the world.”

“Michael Jackson lived here?”

“No, dummy,” Carter said. “Elvis Presley.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. “Elvis Presley. You mean white suits with rhinestones, big slick hair, Gran’s record collection—that Elvis?”

Carter looked around nervously. He drew his sword, even though we seemed to be totally alone. “This is where he lived and died. He’s buried in back of the mansion.”

I stared up at the house. “You’re telling me Elvis was a magician?”

“Don’t know.” Carter gripped his sword. “Thoth did say something about music being a kind of magic. But something’s not right. Why are we the only ones here? There’s usually a mob of tourists.”

“Christmas holidays?”

“But no security?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s like what Zia did at Luxor. Maybe Thoth cleared everyone out.”

“Maybe.” But I could tell Carter was still uneasy. He pushed the gates, and they opened easily. “Not right,” he muttered.

“No,” I agreed. “But let’s go pay our respects.”

As we walked up the drive, I couldn’t help thinking that the home of “the King” wasn’t very impressive. Compared to some of the rich and famous homes I’d seen on TV, Elvis’s place looked awfully small. It was just two stories high, with that white-columned portico and brick walls. Ridiculous plaster lions flanked the steps. Perhaps things were simpler back in Elvis’s day, or maybe he spent all his money on rhinestone suits.

We stopped at the foot of the steps.

“So Dad brought you here?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Carter eyed the lions as if expecting them to attack. “Dad loves blues and jazz, mostly, but he said Elvis was important because he took African American music and made it popular for white people. He helped invent rock and roll. Anyway, Dad and I were in town for a symposium or something. I don’t remember. Dad insisted I come here.”

“Lucky you.” And yes, perhaps I was beginning to understand that Carter’s life with Dad hadn’t been all glamour and holiday, but still I couldn’t help being a bit jealous. Not that I’d ever wanted to see Graceland, of course, but Dad had never insisted on taking me anywhere—at least until the British Museum trip when he disappeared. I hadn’t even known Dad was an Elvis fan, which was rather horrifying.

We walked up the steps. The front door swung open all by itself.

“I don’t like that,” Carter said.

I turned to look behind us, and my blood went ice cold. I grabbed my brother’s arm. “Um, Carter, speaking of things we don’t like...”

Coming up the driveway were two magicians brandishing staffs and wands.

“Inside,” Carter said. “Quick!”

I didn’t have much time to admire the house. There was a dining room to our left and a living room–music room to our right, with a piano and a stained glass archway decorated with peacocks. All the furniture was roped off. The house smelled like old people.

“Item of power,” I said. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Carter snapped. “They didn’t have ‘items of power’ listed on the tour!”

I glanced out the window. Our enemies were getting close. The bloke in front wore jeans, a black sleeveless shirt, boots, and a battered cowboy hat. He looked more like an outlaw than a magician. His friend was similarly dressed but much heftier, with tattooed arms, a bald head, and a scraggly beard. When they were ten meters away, the man with the cowboy hat lowered his staff, which morphed into a shotgun.

“Oh, please!” I yelled, and pushed Carter into the living room.

The blast shattered Elvis’s front door and set my ears ringing. We scrambled to our feet and ran deeper into the house. We passed through an old-fashioned kitchen, then into the strangest den I’d ever seen. The back wall was made of vine-covered bricks, with a waterfall trickling down the side. The carpet was green shag (floor and ceiling, mind you) and the furniture was carved with creepy animal shapes. Just in case all that wasn’t dreadful enough, plaster monkeys and stuffed lions had been strategically placed around the room. Despite the danger we were in, the place was so horrid, I just had to stop and marvel.

“God,” I said. “Did Elvis have no taste?”

“The Jungle Room,” Carter said. “He decorated it like this to annoy his dad.”

“I can respect that.”

Another shotgun blast roared through the house.

“Split up,” Carter said.

“Bad idea!” I could hear the magicians tromping through the rooms, smashing things as they came closer.

“I’ll distract them,” Carter said. “You search. The trophy room is through there.”

“Carter!”

But the fool ran off to protect me. I hate it when he does that. I should have followed him, or run the other way, but I stood frozen in shock as he turned the corner with his sword raised, his body beginning to glow with a golden light...and everything went wrong.

Blam! An emerald flash brought Carter to his knees. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d been hit with the shotgun, and I had to stifle a scream. But immediately, Carter collapsed and began to shrink, clothes, sword and all—melting into a tiny sliver of green.

The lizard that used to be my brother raced toward me, climbed up my leg and into my palm, where it looked at me desperately.

From around the corner, a gruff voice said, “Split up and find the sister. She’ll be somewhere close.”

“Oh, Carter,” I whispered fondly to the lizard. “I will so kill you for this.”

I stuffed him in my pocket and ran.

The two magicians continued to smash and crash their way through Graceland, knocking over furniture and blasting things to bits. Apparently they were not Elvis fans.