I didn’t listen to a word of Cyrene’s instructions, and I paid no attention to any of the others. My focus was solely on taking in absolutely every last detail around me.
European, American, and Asian couples and families headed to and from the planes and airships carrying their luggage or leading attendants carrying their luggage. Quite a few of them, people of all nationalities, spoke French. I saw a team of what could only be archaeologists. The men and women were dressed too practically and carried too much gear on their backs to be tourists. I’d need to pick up one of those wide-brimmed hats myself. Spending my life in the perpetual diesel smog of Manhattan had not prepared me for this strong sunlight.
A small hand snatched my suitcase from me, taking me by surprise. A boy, maybe nine or ten, seemed to hold it hostage with one palm open. “Baksheesh,” he demanded several times. “I will carry your bag for you. It’s too heavy for you.” Nasira swatted at him, speedily snarling something in Arabic, and won back my suitcase.
Someone shouted in German, grabbing my attention. I turned and saw two dozen or so uniformed soldiers marching away from a tethered zeppelin designed plainly like it was specifically for cargo, not luxury. The red sashes around the soldiers’ left arms were unmistakable. Nazis. Descending the cargo ramp from the zeppelin’s underbelly were several ten-foot-tall bipedal mechanical suits, spewing black diesel smoke, piloted by soldiers whose faces were protected behind reinforced metal mesh. Hydraulics hissed and made the suits jerk, rattling the automatic guns in their chunky hands.
“What on earth are those?” I asked, bewildered and a little nervous.
“I’ve never seen anything like them,” Sayer remarked, his voice dark and low.
Observing the troops and machines was a smartly dressed pair whose faces were concealed by sunglasses: a very tall white man in an officer’s cap, the tails of his decorated coat waving in the wind, and a slim civilian woman with blond hair curled and pinned impeccably behind her ears. She wore a lovely duck egg blue dress with fluttery sleeves and a matching cloche. Whoever she was, she was high society. Other soldiers arranged boxes and unloaded crates from the cargo platform that had recently been dropped from the airship’s belly.
Before I could wonder too long about why Germans would come here, considering how much was going on in their homeland, two soldiers in brown British uniforms approached the officer and his female companion. They were armed, but their rifles were secured in holsters behind their heads. After a few moments, the British soldiers walked away. I understood the British currently occupied Egypt and, though there was no official war yet between them and Germany, the relations had to have been tense.
“What do you suppose they’re here for?” Sayer asked, appearing beside me.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “From the looks of all they brought, they intend to stay a while.”
“Hopefully they keep out of our way,” Sayer muttered. “We don’t need to get caught up with Nazis or the British.”
I nodded in agreement and continued to watch the soldiers. The woman in the dress called to the team of archaeologists and they conversed rapidly in German over the contents of a canvas bag.
“That concerns me,” Sayer murmured low. “German archaeologists working by themselves—nothing unusual. German archaeologists working with soldiers is an issue. They’ve been digging all over Europe for Ancient Nordic artifacts, anything magical and related to their people’s history. I’m afraid to know what they’re doing here.”
The German woman turned her face toward me and lowered her sunglasses. Her red lips formed a tight line as she studied me in return. I wondered who she was and why she traveled with soldiers. One of them dropped a crate and she whirled on him hotly, barking orders.
“Come on,” Sayer said, and I started to follow him. “We’re off to the Pyramidion now. You’ll love it there.”
We climbed into cars along with the rest of the Medjai and drove away from the airport. The heat made the horizon dance and sway to the beat of Cairo’s urban bustle. Both swanky and rickety motorcars honked at donkey carts and camels packing the streets, which grew more cramped the farther into the city’s heart we roamed. The flat-roofed buildings shone gold in the sun and the infinite shades and colors of shutters, curtains, flowers, fruits, intricately designed rugs, and market carts were an exciting feast for the eyes.
I rolled down my window to see better—to experience Cairo. The aromas of spices and curing meats I’d once imagined in my head had come to life deliciously. It took everything in me not to open my door and leap out into the chaos, but I would remain where I was instructed and obey. For now.
Sitting at small tables outside restaurants and tobacco shops were jellabiya-clad Egyptians and Westerners in the latest European and American fashions. Men smoked fat cigars and women lounged beneath parasols and hats. People in every direction chatted in a variety of languages. I noticed the Western hairstyle of pinning up the hair in the front with longer curls in the back was popular among Egyptian women. Some of them even wore Western buttoned dresses with short, puffy sleeves. Common were thick lines of kohl around eyes, reminding me of the ancient style, and bold scarlet lips.
“Lots of Egyptian women don’t dress much differently than American women,” I observed.
“That’s due to European occupation,” Sayer said with a shrug. “Colonialism has . . . a smothering effect. The official language of Egypt’s government isn’t Egyptian Arabic. It’s French.”
As we turned a corner, I noticed the crowds on both our sides grew denser and gradually took up more and more of the street. Through the shouts, there came a rhythm—a chant, I was sure of it. I strained to make out exactly what the people chanted, but the words were lost among the blend of French, Arabic, and English outbursts. Our car slowed to a crawl as the people swamped us and barely let us pass. Their angry faces and balled fists filled my vision. Hands beat on the hood and trunk of our car and those in front of us.
A woman’s furious shouts crashed through my window: “Egypt is ours! Get out! No British!”
Sayer put a gentle hand on the back of mine. “Protests against British occupation grow worse every year,” he explained. “Britain returned Egypt’s independence years ago, but their military presence remains. The treaty was a meaningless piece of paper. They’ll never give up Egypt, especially after the Great War. They need control of the Suez Canal. Britain doesn’t have the land to farm enough food to sustain its population, which is why they invaded and seized so many countries. The Suez is their primary trade route and strategically important passage between the West and the East. Britain can’t afford to lose it, especially now.”
I nodded, understanding. “And the Egyptian people want control of our own country and resources, which we deserve. With war imminent once again, I understand why the British won’t leave.”
“The situation is frightening,” Sayer admitted. “Different kingdoms have fought over Egypt since the beginning of its history.”
We pulled onto a quieter street where off to our right rose a fifteen- or sixteen-foot solid stucco wall. Above it draped heavy branches thick with leaves. The acacia trees and their heavy yellow flowers towered over the road, but I caught glimpses of the massive building they concealed. We rounded the curb and approached an iron gate, which parted wide for us to pass through and became enveloped in dense bushes of pink Egyptian star clusters. Their blooms brushed the side of our motorcar as we pulled forward toward an incredible courtyard. The walls and dense foliage made this place seem quieter, as though we’d wandered into another world altogether.
The Pyramidion itself turned out to be a magnificent palatial estate. Two wings of long, beautiful colonnades guarded both sides of the courtyard. The second-story windows, twice the height of the average man, boasted elegant shutters and breezy linen curtains. Each sat in its own arched alcove with a small, private balcony overlooking the gardens. We rolled in front of the palace’s main wing, where an incredibly long portico spanned the entrance’s entire length. A trio of gigantic doors, shuttered and topped with half-moon transom windows, greeted us beneath a wide balcony. A couple of Medjai waved at us from its balustrade.
We stopped by a glittering fountain filled with gigantic blue lotus blossoms, the color reminding me of Anubis’s eyes. When I opened my door and stepped out, I deeply inhaled the fresh air, fragrant with flowers and earth. The temperature was very warm, but dry and bearable, and the courtyard patio was made of a variety of flat stones fitted together like a puzzle. Pots of flowering white jasmine and rich dragonwort sat in corners and on steps, and green vines coiled and hung from trellises over iron patio tables and chairs. Medjai emerged through bright turquoise-painted and natural-stained wooden doors to welcome their visitors. The sounds of footsteps blended with the tweeting of birds and human voices.
“Baba!”
I turned my head in the direction of Nasira’s shrill, gleeful cry and saw her burst out of the crowd and leap into the arms of a bearded man halfway down the steps of the portico. He squeezed her tightly as though the wind might carry her away if he loosened his grip. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t make out what he said to her. Sayer slipped past me and when his father saw him, he raised an arm to grip his son’s shoulder and tug him into their embrace. They grieved together for the first time over their loss and I grew slowly aware of how quiet everyone else had become.
When they parted, Nasira’s father kissed her on top of her head. He was a handsome man with a kind gaze and warm, umber skin. He hadn’t spoken a word to me yet, but I saw where Sayer got his gentleness.
Sayer came to my side and placed a hand on the small of my back. “Father, this is Ziva Mereniset,” he said.
His father’s eyes widened and then grew so very, very sad. “You look like your mother. I’m honored to meet you. My name is Tariq Bahri.”
“I can’t even begin to express how terribly sorry I am over the loss of your wife,” I said, trying not to think about Nasira’s biting words after I’d offered my condolences. “Haya was kind to me.”
“Your words are appreciated,” he replied. “Please, follow me to your suite. Your belongings will be dropped off there shortly.”
As soon as I began to follow him, I felt a tug at my hand. I turned. Nasira offered me a kind smile. It was the first time she’d looked at me since that night. Perhaps she felt more at peace now that she was home and reunited with her father. Of course, I forgave her for shutting me out. Her grief wasn’t about me. I was glad, though, to see her smile, weak as it was. However she was able to heal, I hoped she did. I knew from experience, even if she’d been right and I’d never loved anyone before, I still knew pain—the pain of loneliness and fear and abandonment. She would heal, like I had, but that deep, deep wound would scar, like mine had.
I smiled back at her, offering as much kindness as I could with a simple look. Then I followed Tariq into my home.
My home.
The rose granite floor of the foyer was complimented with geometric mosaic designs, each tesserae shining with gold leaf. A soft current of perfumed air flowed from the main doors and through the perimeter of lotus columns around an open peristyle. The garden within was a lush refuge and reminded me more of an original Egyptian peristyle than a Greek or Roman one.
In the foyer, plush leather and upholstered furniture with brass hardware sat around polished and glittering wood coffee and buffet tables. Limestone extracts carved with Egyptian hieroglyphs were mounted on the wood paneled wall, and it took everything in me not to reach out and run my fingers over the faces of beautiful rose granite busts of kings and queens sitting on pedestals. I marveled at framed displays of glossy faience amulets, gemstone-encrusted pectorals, and invaluable jewelry from antiquity. Iron chandeliers hanging from a concave limestone-inlaid ceiling, and glass lamps on end tables offered a warm glow to the long and narrow room.
“I understand this is your first time back in Egypt since you were born,” Tariq said as he led me around the peristyle and into a wide corridor with a very high, arched ceiling. “Cyrene has explained your situation to me. I’m also very sorry for the loss of your parents.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I wish I knew what happened to them.”
He cast me a reassuring smile. “They saved you.”
The corridor was very long, and I ventured this was one of the colonnade wings I’d admired from outside.
“I went ahead and prepared for you the rooms that had once belonged to your mother and father,” Tariq explained. “This was their home when they weren’t deployed in Kent or elsewhere. They were quite devoted to each other, your parents. They went everywhere together. Here we are.”
He stopped to open a door, revealing a beautifully ornate suite decorated in shades of bright turquoise and rich ochre. We stood in a sitting area full of brocade furniture and fabrics woven into beautiful, colorful patterns. The ceiling was high and inlaid with mismatched beveled wood, and the floor was cool stone beneath my boots. On the other side of a gorgeously carved marble archway was the adjacent bedroom with a fireplace against the golden ochre stucco wall. An armoire and a desk were placed on the wall opposite the enormous window and balcony which overlooked the courtyard.
“No one has told me what my parents were like, only what they did,” I admitted.
“Have you ever seen a picture of them?” he asked. When I shook my head, he beckoned me toward the nightstand by the canopied bed. He picked up a frame and handed it to me.
I greedily absorbed the image of my mother and father, Satiah and Qadir. They didn’t look much older than I was, and they smiled at the camera with their arms around each other. Tariq was right; I looked like my mother. Her face from my single memory of her flashed into my mind. Now that I saw her with such a happy, carefree expression, I could identify the naked anguish she wore when I saw her last. It hadn’t been raining. Her face was slick with tears. Why? Because she had to leave me? Because something terrible had happened, or would happen? Where had my father gone that day?
“Did they surprise you?” I asked, looking up at Tariq. “When they left?”
A peculiar expression came over him. His brow furrowed, and his gaze fell and darted around the floor a few times. When he lifted his head to look at me, he said, “That’s an interesting question. With perfect honesty, yes and no. I understood their decision, because I am a father, but I was astonished to find they went through with it. Your parents loved you even more than they loved each other.”
His words warmed my heart, and at the same time a sense of loss grew in my chest like a huge void. I was left with a feeling of longing, because I’d never know how much my parents had loved me. I ached to know what that felt like—to love and be loved, to know how it felt to have a love you’d kill and die for. How could anything possibly incite such a beautiful violence?
“Thank you,” I told him, knowing the simple words could never articulate the extent of my gratitude.
“Of course, darling girl.” He dismissed himself and turned to leave.
And I was alone in my parents’ suite. The air in the room had a soft, warm scent with a light, spicy musk beneath a breath of jasmine. Is this what they’d smelled like? The furniture was finely carved and gave an antique impression. The wood paneling alternated between engraved wood and hand-painted murals of Egyptian gardens. Stuffed bookcases stretched to the ceiling. Framed paintings depicting daily life in a Cairo souk hung on the sitting room wall on either side of the double doors leading back into the hallway.
In the bathroom, the wall sconce gave the cream marble flooring an amber glow. A few items sat on the vanity, including a cosmetics box. I peeked inside to find it neatly organized with brushes, a kohl pot, several lipsticks, and a palette of eye paint. I imagined my mother sitting at this very mirror and applying her purifying kohl for battle. These were her things, I was certain of it.
Thinking of my mother made me feel heartsick for Sayer and Nasira, who knew and loved their mother before she was torn from them so violently. Perhaps there was something that could be done. I had connections after all.
The jackal amulet was cool in my palm. “Anubis?” I said aloud, hoping he’d hear me.
“Yes?”
I jumped and spun around to find Anubis standing in the middle of the room wearing a serene expression. Something changed in his face after a moment and he looked around himself in bewilderment. “This is the Pyramidion. I’ve been summoned here once before, but I wasn’t aware it could still be done. There have been wards against immortals over the Pyramidion for eons.”
I cringed. “I didn’t break a rule, did I?”
“Not unless someone finds out,” he said, with a certain darkness in his playfulness.
My heart pounded, but I forced myself to find courage. “I have a request, or maybe it’s even a deal, if that’s how these things are done. I’d like to make a deal with you.”
He eyed me, not with suspicion, but cool interest. “I don’t make deals with mortals, but you may make your request.”
“I need to learn a particular magic,” I elaborated. “And it’s not for me. I have nothing to gain from it.”
“What kind of magic?” he asked, intrigued, but cautious now.
“Creation.”
Anubis frowned, his brow wrinkling over those beautiful eyes. “Ziva, the only way for mortals to create life is to have a child. No magic can do what a woman can.”
“Then you must do it,” I begged him. “Bring Haya back. There must be something that can be done. Nefertari died thousands of years ago and she can be resurrected. Why not Haya? Her family needs her. The ritual for her entombment is tonight and I’m out of time to make this right.”
“Set used very, very dark magic to enable Nefertari’s resurrection,” Anubis explained. “Magic we don’t fully understand yet and could be darker than we can even imagine. A Medjai can use creation magic to bring a wax bird to life, but it has only a life force.”
“But it would be alive,” I insisted.
He shook his head. “If you were to use magic to give life to a human body, the mortal flesh, the heart might beat but the person isn’t there. There is no unique character or self, no soul. They possess no emotion or intention. Those creatures are shells. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I felt heavy, deflated and sorrowful. “It would be cruel.” I remembered the poor cats I resurrected at the British Museum. They had become monsters. I couldn’t imagine doing that to someone I cared about.
“I’m sorry,” Anubis said. “Truly. I know why you want this magic and I sympathize. Those who’ve died can’t return to the mortal world without a powerful god’s interference and that interference has consequences.”
I nodded. “Nefertari can only be resurrected in a very specific way in order to be whole.”
“I wish I could help your friends too,” the god of death admitted, and I believed him. “Try not to despair. Death is only the beginning. It’s the gateway of a mortal’s transcendence to immortality. Death is not always beautiful to behold, but the endless peace awaiting a soul is indeed.”
“And for those left behind?” I asked. “They suffer. Nasira and Sayer suffer. What about all the experiences they’ll never have with their mother? What about everything I never had with my own parents? Death is the end of dreams.”
His voice and expression gentle, he replied, “Death is not the end, but only a change. Those left behind will bear the weight of sadness, but you bear it and walk on. This is what makes life so precious. You must remember nothing would bring more happiness to the loved ones you’ve lost than for you to live a beautiful life. Miss them, but live.”
Anubis’s compassion filled my heart with so much love and hope and peace. I had imagined the god of death to be dark and fearsome, rather than more human than us all. And I understood what he tried to explain. Sadness was all right to feel. I had my own life to live and couldn’t let that sadness bury me. My own dreams would continue, as my life would continue, even when those of my parents and Haya had died with them. And yet—who decided what was worth the death of dreams?
“Ziva.” Anubis frowned. “You look troubled. What’s the matter?”
“Nasira said something to me I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget,” I told him. “She said I don’t know what’s worth dying for, because I’ve never loved anyone before. She’s right. I had a friend in New York, but Jean wasn’t my mother. Losing her isn’t like Nasira losing her mother. I had hoped to find family when I agreed to go with her and Sayer. I want friends. Someone to love. Someone to love me back.”
My eyes burned from the salty sting of tears I knew were coming. I supposed that was the trouble with holding in all your emotions. One day they’d break free, all of them at one time, a broken dam. I sputtered through my tears and loosed a long wail, mourning everything I should’ve had and was stolen from me, mourning what I could’ve had with Jean if I’d let her become my family, mourning what my friends had brutally lost. I couldn’t have been the only person in the world who felt so desperately alone that they’d do anything not to be. My fists were so tight my fingers grew numb and cold; relief came when his warm hands pried mine apart. Anubis let me squeeze his hands as hard as I needed to until I’d cried myself out. When I calmed down and all my tears were smeared across my cheeks, I opened my eyes and looked into his face.
“You aren’t alone,” Anubis urged, his hands tightening on mine. “I am so deeply sorry you have hurt like this your whole life.”
I pulled my hands from his and wiped my tears, unable to shake my embarrassment. I hadn’t wanted anyone to see so deeply into my heart, to see all of the vulnerability spilling out of me. Now that I had, I saw the value in letting someone see my pain. I’d always been so afraid that receiving someone’s pity and sympathy would make me feel weak and sorry for myself. I’d been so wrong. This was compassion, and it made me feel like I wasn’t alone anymore.
“Why do you hide your feelings from people who care about you?” Anubis asked.
I shrugged, sniffling. “They have their own problems to deal with. I don’t want to be one more.”
He studied my face earnestly, his gaze digging deep. “You’re not a burden, Ziva. Your pain doesn’t make you unworthy of love. You’ve survived, and you’ll always live with it. Wear your past and your pain like a medal of honor. Your friends can help you with whatever you’re going through if you communicate with them.”
“Thank you,” I told him, sniffling like a child. “I know I’m not alone. Even though Sayer is going through so much, he’s looking out for me. It ought to be the other way around right now.”
Anubis softened with sympathy. “He cares for you because he’s a good friend. I’m sure your presence comforts him too. Everyone needs to have that person.”
“Who’s yours?” I asked, but I wasn’t prepared for the startled and unsure look on his face.
“My mother, I suppose,” he replied.
“Do you have any friends?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve known mortals, been familiar with them, but they die.”
I couldn’t believe I’d asked him such a thing, to remind him of all that he’d lost. But that had never occurred to me. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Death is natural,” he assured me.
My cheeks felt hot. “I know someday I’ll die . . . but if you need a friend . . . I’ll be there for you.”
He smiled, and his gaze faltered for a moment before raising to meet mine again. He was a terribly beautiful creature and so much more human than I would have expected. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
“What’s she like?” I asked. “Your mother.”
His expression grew pensive. “Nephthys is the powerful Nile, and nothing can control her. She is the beautiful and imperishable and loyal moon illuminating the night. She is the stars, promising endlessness to the universe and guiding us through the dark and the desert.”
“I’d love to meet her someday,” I said with a smile. “What is your father like?”
A troubled look came over him and his brow bunched tightly, darkening his eyes. “My father . . . is not my mother’s husband. She is married to Set. Has been since nearly the dawn of creation. Not long after they were united, the netherworld was threatened by the great serpent Apophis. Set was the greatest warrior of the immortals and he destroyed Apophis, but he betrayed us all with a terrible act of greed. He subsumed Apophis’s power—and the evil along with it. Set made himself a monster.
“My mother continued to love him, but he had changed,” Anubis continued. “She tells me of how sad and lonely she was. She longed for a child’s love, not because she thought it would save their relationship, but because she wanted to save herself. After what he’d done, Set had been corrupted and couldn’t give her a child. She turned to Osiris, the King of the Dead. Already jealous of Osiris’s position and power, Set discovered Nephthys had conceived, and he murdered Osiris. He tore the corpse into a thousand pieces and those thousand pieces still weren’t enough to slake his fury. His unconditional love for Nephthys let him forgive her. He’d saved every last drop of his rage for Osiris.”
I swallowed hard, troubled by Anubis’s story and the despair it brought him. “But your mother has you. And she’s happy now.”
He mustered a weak smile. “Yes. I believe she’s happy. Magic resurrected Osiris, at a cost, but Set would love to tear him apart again.”
A thought struck me, one that chilled my bones. “The queen’s heart Set was promised when he made the deal with Nefertari . . . It possesses a great power, one that could immortalize her. Possibly make her a goddess. What if Set wants to use it to go after Osiris once more—for the last time?”
“We all believe Set would do anything to take from Osiris all he holds dear, especially the throne,” Anubis agreed. “If Set could channel the power of the queen’s heart to do so, then his actions would make a dark quantity of sense.”
“The queen’s heart must have limitless powers if Set would use it to destroy another immortal,” I said, my voice low with fear. “He seems desperate to get it before Nefertari’s resurrection. Perhaps it will lose its magic afterward, or she will become too strong for him to carve it from her chest himself.”
“This may seem hard to believe, but,” Anubis said, “even though Set’s nature is dark, he is not inherently evil. He was terribly betrayed by those he loved. He was wronged, and he has done wrong in return.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s allowed to drag innocent people into his vendetta,” I told him. “I won’t let him hurt anyone else.”
A knock came, and I looked at the door. Cyrene’s voice called, “Ziva. It’s time.”
“Coming!” I replied.
When I turned back, Anubis was gone.