His blue aura flickered dangerously. I’d never been scared of my dad,
but I’ll admit I took a step back. “Well…it wasn’t just Anubis.”
“Thoth helped,” Carter said. “And some of it we guessed—”
“Thoth!” my father spat. “This is dangerous knowledge, children. Much too dangerous. I won’t have you—”
“Dad!” I shouted. I think I surprised him, but my patience had finally snapped. I’d had quite enough of gods telling me what I shouldn’t or couldn’t do. “Apophis’s shadow is what’s drawing the souls of the dead. It has to be! It’s feeding on them, getting stronger as Apophis prepares to rise.”
I hadn’t really processed that idea before, but as I spoke the words, they felt like the truth—horrifying, but the truth.
“We’ve got to find the shadow and capture it,” I insisted. “Then we can use it to banish the serpent. It’s our only chance—unless you want us to use a standard execration. We’ve got the statue ready to go for that, don’t we, Carter?”
Carter patted his backpack. “The spell will kill us,” he said. “And it probably won’t work. But if that’s our only option…”
Zia looked horrified. “Carter, you didn’t tell me! You made a statue of—of him? You’d sacrifice yourself to—”
“No,” our father said. The anger drained out of him. He slumped forward and put his face in his hands. “No, you’re right, Sadie. A small chance is better than none. I just couldn’t bear it if you…” He sat up and took a breath, trying to regain his composure. “How can I help? I assume you came here for a reason, but you’re asking for magic I don’t possess.”
“Yes, well,” I said, “that’s the tricky part.”
Before I could say more, the sound of a gong reverberated through the chamber. The main doors began to open.
“My lord,” Disturber said, “the next trial begins.”
“Not now!” my father snapped. “Can’t it be delayed?”
“No, my lord.” The blue god lowered his voice. “This is his trial. You know…”
“Oh, by the twelve gates of the night,” Dad cursed. “Children, this trial is very serious.”
“Yes,” I said. “Actually, that’s what—”
“We’ll talk afterward,” Dad cut me off. “And please, whatever you do, don’t speak to the accused or make eye contact with him. This spirit is particularly—”
The gong sounded again. A troop of demons marched in, surrounding the accused. I didn’t have to ask who he was.
Setne had arrived.
The guards were intimidating enough—six red-skinned warriors with guillotine blades for heads.
Even without them, I could tell Setne was dangerous from all the magical precautions. Glowing hieroglyphs spiraled around him like the rings of Saturn—a collection of anti-magic symbols like: Suppress, Dampen, Stay, Shut up, Powerless, and Don’t even think about it.
Setne’s wrists were bound together with pink strips of cloth. Two more pink bands were tied around his waist. One was fastened around his neck, and two more connected his ankles so he shuffled as he walked. To the casual observer, the pink ribbons might’ve looked like the Hello Kitty incarceration play set, but I knew from personal experience that they were some of the most powerful magic bonds in the world.
“The Seven Ribbons of Hathor,” Walt whispered. “I wish I could make some of those.”
“I’ve got some,” Zia murmured. “But the recharge time is really long. Mine won’t be ready until December.”
Walt looked at her in awe.
The guillotine demons fanned out on either side of the accused.
Setne himself didn’t look like trouble, certainly not someone worthy of so much security. He was quite small—not Bes small, mind you, but still a diminutive man. His arms and legs were scrawny. His chest was a xylophone of ribs. Yet he stuck out his chin and smiled confidently as if he owned the world—which isn’t easy when one is wearing only a loincloth and some pink ribbons.
Without a doubt, his face was the same one I’d seen in the wall at the Dallas Museum, and again in the Hall of Ages. He’d been the priest who sacrificed that bull in the shimmering vision from the New Kingdom.
He had the same hawkish nose, heavy-lidded eyes, and thin cruel lips. Most priests from ancient times were bald, but Setne’s hair was dark and thick, slicked back with oil like a 1950s tough boy. If I’d seen him in Piccadilly Circus (with more clothes on, hopefully) I would’ve steered clear, assuming he was handing out advertisements or trying to sell scalped tickets to a West End show. Sleazy and annoying? Yes. Dangerous? Not really.