Book of the Dead Read online

  For S.S.G., eventually

  — M.N.

  Contents

  Scarab Amulet

  Awaken the Adventure

  Hieroglyphic Alphabet

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1: A Deadly Secret

  2: Ren

  3: The Weighing of the Heart

  4: Death’s Door

  5: Borrowed Time

  6: Darkness

  7: For Later

  8: The Lost Spells

  9: Awakening

  10: The Returner

  11: The Hyena

  12: Taken

  13: The Mission

  14: Sneaking Out

  15: The Stung Man

  16: The Book Club

  17: Amulet

  18: Scorpions

  19: Dirty Work

  20: Tracking the Enemy

  21: Into the Tomb

  22: The Final Showdown

  23: A New Path

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Online Game Code

  Sneak Peek

  TombQuest Game

  Copyright

  Deep in the Egyptian night, the crypt was once again alive with activity.

  Black candles cast an orange glow on the sandstone walls of the burial chamber, where row after row of ancient images and carved hieroglyphs detailed a history of trickery and triumph. A mix of beetle shells and bird feathers smoldered in a bronze pot. Animal hair and shed snakeskins burned slowly in another. A harsh, burnt smell filled the air. It was the stuff of life giving off the stink of death.

  For thousands of years, the same secret organization had gathered here. It was where powerful people went to avoid detection, to discuss — or to do — the unthinkable.

  The members of this secret society assembled around a massive stone sarcophagus. The ancient corpse entombed within was their founder. Everything they did was to serve him. Everything they did was to bring him back.

  One by one, they began a low chant in his honor.

  The first to start wore a dirty gray robe. It hung heavily on his angular frame, as if weighed down by grease. On his head was a mask in the shape of a fly’s head. Two large eyes bulged out from the sides and glistened in the candlelight. His voice was jittery and uneven.

  The next to pick up the ominous chant wore a flowing blue-green robe. His mask was the heavy iron image of a crocodile. Together, the robe and mask showed the powerful predator emerging from its hiding place beneath the Nile.

  The next chanter was so thin under her crimson robe that she might have only been a skeleton. Her voice was dry and scratchy. On her face was the pale image of a lioness, carved from bleached bone.

  The last to join in was a towering figure, a good foot taller than the others. His robe was as black as a starless sky and his mask was the stuff of nightmares. An Egyptian vulture: Part scavenger, part predator, it was a creature that dealt in death and wasn’t picky about the details. The beak turned from gold to iron as it hooked down to a brutal, deadly point.

  The vulture’s voice was strong, clear — and utterly without emotion.

  As the chanting reached a crescendo, the faintest traces of other voices chorused in. Raspy whispers played on a light breeze that had no place in the sealed underground chamber.

  The four stopped chanting abruptly. The phantom voices hung on half a beat longer, then faded back into the shadows.

  The meeting began. They didn’t bother with the usual topics: the grim business of disposing of a body, or the intricacies of expanding their vast wealth. There was only one topic tonight, something so legendary that it made everything else seem trivial.

  “They have them,” said the man in the fly mask.

  “Yes,” said the lioness. “They found them when we could not, in all our years of searching.”

  “They have something,” said the crocodile. “How do we know it’s really —”

  “I know!” the vulture cut in. The others fell silent. “The Lost Spells have been found. Now all that’s left is to get them ourselves. And use them.”

  The others shot quick, nervous looks at the sarcophagus. It was the lioness who spoke next. “They plan to keep them in plain sight; they have no idea how powerful they truly are,” she rasped. “Only the woman knows.”

  “We need someone there when they arrive,” said the fly.

  The vulture-headed man looked around the chamber, pinning each acolyte in place with his gaze. “It has already been arranged,” he said. “Al-Dab’u is there.”

  The leader raised his hand and closed it, and the black candles went out with an angry hiss. The lioness, the crocodile, and the fly melted away in the darkness. Back to the surface, back to the desert night.

  Once they were gone, the vulture stood motionless in the dark tomb. He’d sensed something in the room, practically tasted it in the air. Fear. These were his top lieutenants, carefully selected for their brutal efficiency. But now that the Spells were so close, even they were scared of what was to come.

  He rested his hands on the cold stone of the sarcophagus.

  They should be afraid, he thought.

  Everything they had done until now had been practice.

  But this — this was the real test.

  The doorway between worlds would soon be opened. The power of the dead was within his reach.

  Alex Sennefer was about to die for the first time.

  He was in the Arms and Armor section of The Metropolitan Museum of Art when the pain hit. The stabbing sensation was so sharp and sudden that for a moment he thought he must have accidentally walked into one of the medieval spears. The museum had closed an hour earlier, and as he stumbled forward, the slap of his sneakers on the polished tile floors echoed through the deserted room.

  He’d run out of medicine, and there was no one around to help him.

  Summoning all his remaining strength, he pushed through the wing’s dimly lit main hall, heading for the elevator that would take him to his mom’s office. He’d felt this way before, but never this bad.

  The pain that had started as a sharp stab in his center fractured into a million pinpricks, spreading out into his limbs. Along the walls, six-hundred-year-old suits of armor watched his struggle through empty eyeholes. A troop of knights gazed down on him from replica horses, immobile, indifferent.

  He shook his arms out and tried to breathe deeply, tried to relax and let the pain pass through him. Sometimes the doctors said the problem was his circulation; sometimes they said it was his digestion. But the truth? Nobody knew what was wrong with him.

  With every step, he was afraid another wave of pain would come and level him. He slowly entered the American Wing and saw the elevator.

  Almost there, he thought.

  Breathe.

  He’d been stupid not to ask his mom to order more medicine as soon as he’d run out. But he’d thought he could bear it, and he was afraid his mom would get worried and take him to the hospital. He hated the hospital. HATED it. And his mom was seriously stressed out with work this summer. The last thing she needed was to have to worry more about him.

  That seemed unavoidable now, though. He needed the spare bottle of meds that she kept for an emergency.

  If he could even make it to her.

  Alex reached the elevator and palm-smashed the DOWN button. After what felt like fifteen years, the elevator arrived. He fell into it. The words STAFF ONLY were printed alongside the button for floor G, but he flipped through his keys and found the little one that unlocked the elevator. He crumpled against the wall as it began to move. The cool metal felt good against his flushed face.

  Alex didn’t pass a single person on the way to his mom’s office.
It was a beautiful summer evening, and no one wanted to work late unless they had to.

  I have to tell Mom, he thought. He couldn’t see any way around it now. The hum of pain in his body made it hard to focus, but thoughts of the hospital flashed through his head: the tests, the needles the size of Magic Markers, and the stupid paper robes. They’d been poking and prodding him for all twelve years of his life.

  There was the name tag outside his mom’s office: DR. MAGGIE BAUER. The door was open. The lights were on.

  “Mom?” he said … but she wasn’t there when he walked in.

  Panic shot through him. The thoughts came one after another:

  The museum is huge.

  She could be anywhere.

  I need the medicine now!

  Just as he began to turn back around, he saw her purse on a chair and felt a massive surge of relief.

  He tore the purse open. A wave of nausea made him squeeze his eyes shut, but he pushed his hand around inside, feeling for the smooth plastic sides of the bottle of meds she always carried for him.

  Got it!

  His fingers closed and he tugged the familiar orange bottle out of the purse. His stomach clenched and fluttered in anticipation. He twisted the cap off and threw two pills into his mouth — no time for water. He put the cap back on, shoved the bottle back down where he’d found it, zipped the purse, and sank to the floor, exhausted.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  For about ten minutes, all his body could do was

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  “How long have you been here?” said his mom from the doorway.

  Don’t let her know.

  Don’t let her see me like this.

  Alex pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that remained.

  “Couple minutes,” he said, trying to sound casual. He ran his hand through his hair, using the gesture to wipe some of the sweat off his forehead.

  “Are you okay?” his mom asked.

  Alex shrugged.

  She looked at him closely, not convinced. Alex made glancing eye contact and regretted it immediately. His mom’s eyes were an intense blue gray, still penetrating and clear despite all the days she spent reading dense academic papers. Alex knew she could read him just as easily. He shifted his gaze and stared blankly at the pile of dark brown hair on the top of her head. It was pulled up and back severely. Dr. Maggie Bauer had no time to worry about her hair.

  “Why’re you down here, hon? Do you need something?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he said. He tried to think of some way to change the subject. “How much longer are you going to be?”

  “A while,” she said. “I’ve got to head back to the Egyptian wing. The dead are very demanding, you know.”

  “Are you working on the Stung Man?” he asked, genuinely interested despite his lingering dizziness. The sarcophagus of a famous mummy known as the Stung Man was the first part of a special new exhibition his mom was curating. Alex was fascinated by it.

  “No, something new,” his mom answered vaguely. She usually loved to tell him all about her new projects.

  “Can I come?” The Egyptian wing was Alex’s favorite — not just the new show but all of it: the tightly wrapped mummies, the stone tombs, the statues of animal-headed humans and of human-headed animals, the gold and jewels and all the other treasures the ancient Egyptians thought they could bring with them to the afterlife. It was the only place in the museum where he never got bored.

  His mom thought about it. “Not today,” she said. “Go find Ren.”

  “Ren’s here?” said Alex, his mood improving enormously.

  “I just saw her,” said Alex’s mom. “I think she’s on the second floor.”

  “Okay, cool.” He looked down at his feet and considered the level of pain in his body. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Almost forgot. Can you order me some more medicine?”

  His mom’s radar clicked back on, her X-ray eyes refocused. “Did you go through it all already? Didn’t we just —”

  “No, no, I think I lost it.” The excuse popped out of his mouth.

  “You lost it?” She frowned. “You have to be careful. Just because you feel okay now …” He could tell she was trying to get him to realize how important the pills were without worrying him. It was a game they both played, each trying to spare the other.

  He knew he should tell her what had just happened, but he couldn’t. That was the other thing about her eyes: They were ringed with dark circles and surrounded by deeply etched lines. That wasn’t from all the reading; that was him. His energetic, adventure-loving mom deserved a kid who could walk through the park in the summer without passing out from the heat.

  Anyway, he was sure the pains would stop. They had before. He just needed a little more medicine until then.

  “I know,” he said. He reached up and knocked on his head, as if it were made of wood. As if he’d just done something really dumb.

  But then another wave of pain pushed through the medicine and made his head swim. His mom could see the pain in his expression, he was sure, and she would realize how sick he was —

  There was a knock at the door frame.

  Oscar, one of the museum guards, poked his head in. His usual relaxed smile was replaced with a look of grim concern. “Hey, Dr. Bauer. Mr. Duran says they need you right away in the Egyptian wing. Sounds like it’s pretty important.”

  His mom spun around. “Thanks, Oscar. Alex, you’ll hang out with Ren, right?” And then she was gone.

  So he wouldn’t have to tell her. It would be his secret.

  His own deadly secret.

  “Hey, string cheese!”

  Alex had officially found Ren. She was standing in front of some angry angels in one of the European Paintings galleries. Her full name was Renata Duran, but no one called her that. Her full height was not quite four and a half feet, but it was best not to mention that, either. Her hair was dark brown and not quite shoulder length — lighter and longer than his own shaggy black hair — but her brown eyes were a mirror image of his own.

  “Hey, snail trail,” he replied, forcing a smile.

  He was happy to see her, but the medicine had only dulled the pain, not erased it.

  “I was looking for you today,” said Ren. “I checked Egypt.”

  Alex and Ren had been best friends since forever. They both had parents who worked at the museum, and they both went to the same school on the Upper East Side — or they had, back when Alex was healthy enough to go to real school. Now his mom homeschooled him.

  “Bet I know why your mom’s working late,” said Ren.

  “Bet I know why your dad is,” said Alex. Mr. Duran was a senior engineer, the go-to guy when the museum needed a new security system or display case. “The big exhibition in the Egyptian wing. It sounds like something is going on there, but my mom won’t show me.”

  “My dad won’t, either!” said Ren. “He said, like, lot of work to do, blah, blah, blah. I wonder if it has something to do with all those trips your mom took this year. Think they were for this exhibition?”

  “Probably,” said Alex. “She never really said, which is weird.”

  Ren was getting close to something that had been bothering Alex. His mother had been so mysterious about this exhibition. Usually, she told him way in advance where she was going, but some of the trips she’d made lately had been completely without warning — just a phone call in the middle of the night and the next thing Alex knew he’d be in a taxi to his aunt and uncle’s place and she’d be on a flight. Usually, she brought him souvenirs from wherever she went — a snow globe from the Sahara desert, where it never snowed, or a T-shirt from a Cairo bazaar with a rock band’s name spelled out in Arabic. But with these recent trips, if he got anything at all, it was something picked up in an airport — a Toblerone bar that could have been bought anywhere.

  “Where were you?” he’d ask.

/>   And every time, she found a way not to answer.

  Alex thought about it some more. “Mom is really stressed out about this one. The way she sprinted over there … It wasn’t like usual.”

  Ren grinned. “Want to go see what they’re up to?”

  “Think they’ll let us?” he said.

  “Think we’ll ask?”

  It went without saying that she meant spying. Alex considered it: the walk, the stairs. It was no small commitment for him, even on a good day, which this was not.

  He glanced at Ren. She’d never push him to do something he couldn’t handle, but what kind of friend couldn’t even do some low-speed indoor spy work? How long until she got bored and gave up on him?

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They crept down the stairs and went the back way to the Egyptian wing. Alex appreciated how slowly Ren walked when she was with him. He knew it defied all her instincts as a native New Yorker, but he told himself it was better for their mission. Stealth was key, after all.

  They slipped quietly into the massive room housing the Temple of Dendur. As always, Alex paused a moment to take it in. It was an entire ancient temple, brought over stone by stone from the bank of the Nile River, and reconstructed next to a reflecting pool in a massive glass-walled room.

  And right now, after hours, there was not a guard in sight.

  They entered the maze of cool, dark rooms beyond the temple. The display cases, their gleaming treasures lit dramatically from below or above, provided the only light. Alex and Ren slowed down and listened carefully. Their parents could be anywhere.

  Alex and Ren traveled hundreds of years back in time with each doorway they passed. They made it all the way from the late eighteenth dynasty to the early twelfth before they came to a floor-to-ceiling curtain blocking off the next room. It was printed with pictures of a mummy’s golden death mask and an ornate scroll. Beneath the pictures it read: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS: NEW EXHIBITION COMING SOON!

  “Here it is,” Ren whispered. “Let’s see what we can find — or hear.”

  The prickling pain was returning to Alex’s body, but he flashed Ren his best confident-spy smile. Together they slipped through the curtain. As soon as they were inside, they could hear faint voices a room or two away. Very quietly, they began looking around.