Deep beneath the Pyramidion and the busy streets of Cairo, was the khertet netjer, hidden catacombs where the bodies of Medjai were prepared for their journey to the afterlife and then entombed for eternity. Every one of us who died, regardless of whether he or she had perished in battle or succumbed to natural causes, was given the same rites after death and the same spells were performed.
Once the bodies were placed within the preparation rooms, we dressed in ceremonial hem-netjer clothing. My dress was made of fine linen, my sandals of papyrus. A jeweled collar with a linen shawl wrapped around my shoulders and was pinned at the center of my chest. Women wore blue sashes over their dresses, while men were bare chested beneath their shawls and their skirts were held with a jeweled belt at their waists. Cyrene, as high priestess, wore an ancient leopard skin over her shoulders and atop her head were poised two falcon feathers.
As rituals were carried out, Cyrene read the spells from a modified version of the Book of the Dead written for Haya, ensuring she would live for eternity in the netherworld among the gods. We recited the incantations along with Cyrene and beside me, Sayer’s voice broke on several occasions. As his mother was wrapped in linen, he gazed upon her for what would be the last time, the expression on his face quiet and stoic.
When we finished, we returned to the surface and I to my room to change out of the ceremonial hem-netjer clothing. In my broken heart I knew this wouldn’t be the last funeral we’d conduct. I was as certain as the coming night that I would see more of my friends and family laid to rest within the many levels of the cold, dark catacombs.
Days and many hours of studying hieroglyphs and combat training later, Cyrene summoned me to the library of the Pyramidion. It was a gigantic hexagonal room large enough to rival the one boasted by the British Museum. Though it lacked the unique wagon wheel spoke bookshelves, every wall was packed to the ceiling with books. The dome above allowed elegant acoustics and was painted night-sky blue with a smattering of white stars. Egyptian and Hellenistic art decorated open spaces on bookshelves, desks, and end tables between plush, well-worn, leather couches and wood-and-iron desks filling the middle of the room. A stone Assyrian relief and Carthagian busts of women with pleated hair were also displayed with care and I wanted to take a closer look at them. In the center of the gleaming marble floor was a circular mosaic of elegant azure lotus blossoms emerging from the Nile, each tesserae glittering in the daylight.
Cyrene led me to a desk surrounded by a small crowd of Medjai, all of whom inspected two canopic jars. I recognized the baboon head of Hapy on the lid of the jar I found at the British Museum. The second, undoubtedly the one the Medjai had possessed all along, sported a human-shaped face as its lid.
“Imsety,” I said, pulling the information from my memory. “Inside is Nefertari’s liver.”
“Well done,” Cyrene praised.
“The translated hieratic on Imsety confirms Dr. Sweeney’s claim of finding Hapy at the Ramesseum,” Cyrene explained. “Imsety’s inscription tells us the third canopic jar, Qebehsenuef the falcon, was buried at the feet of Ramesses II.”
“We believe the inscription refers to the Ramesses II colossus discovered in 1820,” Tariq added. “It’s quite possible the referenced canopic jar may be the one in the Egyptian Museum’s possession. With luck, it will reveal the location of the fourth and final canopic jar—”
“—Which in turn should reveal the location of Nefertari’s heart,” Cyrene finished.
I frowned with worry and said what we all had to be thinking, “If the third canopic jar is at the Egyptian Museum, couldn’t there be a repeat of what happened in London?”
Sayer stiffened beside Nasira, whose gaze faltered for a second.
“We can’t allow that again,” Tariq said. “Not to anymore of our people. The curator in Cairo is Medjai. Surely there is an inconspicuous way to retrieve the artifact.”
“If he travels anywhere near the Pyramidion, he could be spotted by Set’s agents,” Sayer suggested. “He will be a target.”
“Then we’ll meet him elsewhere halfway,” I offered. “Someplace random, public and unremarkable. We’ll travel in small groups to avoid drawing attention. A couple of us will meet with the curator, pick up the artifact, while the others stand nearby.”
Cyrene nodded and exchanged glances with Tariq. “This ought to work.”
“Very stealthy,” he agreed. “Where should we meet?”
“Baklava,” I said without thinking. Everyone stared at me. “Let’s meet at a baklava café, in someplace crowded like a souk. If the curator were to stop for something sweet after a work day, that wouldn’t be unusual, would it?”
“All right,” Tariq said. “I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Let’s move in pairs on motorcycles,” Nasira suggested. “We’ll be more maneuverable in case we run into trouble.”
“Motorcycles?” I asked, backpedaling.
“You noticed the traffic, yeah?” Sayer asked, smiling.
“I’ll need your help then,” I told him.
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
I folded my arms. “I’ve never driven one before.”
Sayer led me into the sprawling subterranean garage beneath the Pyramidion. We passed rows of sleek black sedans sitting in silence, mostly Duesenbergs with mean faces and whitewall tires, and approached a dozen or so motorcycles all bearing the blue-and-white-check BMW emblem on their fenders. Their black paint was shiny and flawless—not precisely as inconspicuous as I’d had in mind, but that didn’t matter as long as they were fast.
“We’ll still stand out on these,” I warned him.
“We don’t exactly have time to go bike shopping,” he said. “So . . . baklava, hmm?”
I knew what he was getting at. “It was the first thing I thought of.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll stop there long enough for you to try some.”
“You don’t even know me,” I teased. “Fine. I confess. This was my plan all along.”
“How diabolical of you.” Sayer rounded the machine, tilting his head to gaze down at it, his expression growing serious. Strands of his dark hair pulled loose from their tie and fell over his eyes. “Come here. Sit.”
I obeyed, lifting my leg over the seat and sliding onto the leather. I found a comfortable position and leaned forward to grasp both handles. He stepped close to my left side, his heat radiating against me. He smelled like earth and leather and soap. The planet slowed its rotation; time came to a stop. A low, deep pang struck my belly.
His boot tapped my left one. “Feet on the pedals. Get used to the forward shift in your balance.”
His hands wrapped over mine and he kicked out the stand from beneath me. He leaned against me, his broad chest leaving me in his shadow, and he held the motorcycle still.
He squeezed my left hand. “This is your clutch.” He squeezed my right. “And your throttle. This silver lever is your brake. Be gentle with them or you’ll eat dirt. Be gentle as though they’re reins attached to the horse you’re riding.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse,” I admitted.
“Then be gentle as though this bike is a lover,” he suggested coolly.
No matter how hard I tried to stop my smile, it managed to break free in one corner of my mouth. I didn’t want to tell him I hadn’t had one of those either. My focus drifted to his body over mine, his heat and delicate, musky scent surrounding me, his cheek so close to brushing mine. The thought of him moving his hands to my hips released savage butterflies in my stomach.
“Now, steering and balance are much like riding a bicycle,” he advised, getting serious again. “Have you ridden one of those before?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“But do not lean into your turns at first or you’ll eat dirt,” he warned. “Or rather, the dirt will eat you. Slow down and turn the handles for now. After you’ve taken a few rides, you can try leaning.”
He directed my hands, his fingers tight over mine. I practiced turning the handles left and right, but my efforts were jerky and lacked confidence. I needed to get a feel for the bike in motion, certain the action of steering and stopping was the only way I would truly learn.
“If you don’t feel comfortable, Zee, you’re very welcome to ride with me,” Sayer offered.
“You just want me to ride with you like I’m your girl,” I dared to tease him. No one had ever used a nickname for me before. I’d never had one. Sayer made me feel like I had a place in his world, like I belonged. No one had ever made me feel like I belonged with them. My smile began to grow again. Zee. I liked that. I’d let him call me Zee.
His brow raised as he considered this, and he grinned. I loved when he smiled at me. “I wouldn’t say no. But you wouldn’t ride with someone because you’re their girl.” He paused and took a deep breath. “. . . Even if you were my girl.”
“Yeah, I’d like my own bike,” I admitted, my veins singing at his word. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who needed me to need him so he could feel important. I got the impression he wanted me try on my own. He knew I could do anything on my own.
When I felt a sliver of courage, I seized it and added, “Even if I was your girl.”
He exhaled. “In all seriousness, it’s your call,” he said soberly. “I want you to feel safe.”
“I am serious,” I told him, searching his eyes for anything that would give away what my words meant to him. My silly grin faded but my pounding heart remained at full speed.
Sayer brought down the kickstand and eased the machine to a rest. I swung my leg back over the seat and found solid ground. I shut my eyes and the closeness and warmth of his body radiated against me. I felt everything inside me slow down—my heartbeat, my breathing. He was my whisperer when the world around me was screaming.
I dared to touch the edge of his open jacket and tilted my head back to look up at him. His eyes, soft and dark like staring into an endless night sky, fell on my exposed throat and lifted to meet mine. That one eyebrow again—always the same brow—oh the effect it had on me. The way he looked at me made me ache. How could he do this to me? Unravel me from the inside out with just a gaze?
I smoothed one hand across the hard ridges of muscle in his abdomen, sending a sharp shock through my nerves. His breathing became slow and deep. He took hold of my free wrist, magic warming his fingertips, and pulled me even closer until our bodies touched. He had only ever been kind and friendly before. Now, the way he held me, his thumb tenderly brushing over the delicate skin of my wrist, his gentle gaze studying the touch with curiosity before rising to my face, felt more than friendly to me. The sensation he gave me was strange and electric in my body, honeybees zipping through the hollows of my bones.
Sayer licked his lips and dipped his head as I held my breath, waiting for him to kiss me. He hesitated, his richly dark eyes dancing left and right across my face. He exhaled and kissed my cheek instead, the short hair along his jaw prickling my skin. His nose and mouth brushed my ear and my hair as his hand tucked a stray lock. He pulled back, his heavy gaze roving over my face. His other hand wrapped around the curve of my waist and he closed the remaining space between our bodies.
I felt right at home in his arms, like this was how we were supposed to be. Like he’d held me a thousand times before, even if this was the first. He brushed his other hand across my throat, gently as he would touch a rose in full, delicate bloom. He traced the line of my jaw and tilted my chin up and my head back. He leaned over me and paused, searching my face for hesitation. He wasn’t sure what I wanted either. Did I want to change who he and I were? Would a kiss be the next step or our undoing?
He drew back and lifted his hands to cup my flushed face. His dark gaze met mine, questing deep and filling with purpose. “I’m with you, Ziva,” he said. “Never forget that. I will stand by you and protect you. Always.”
I searched his eyes for answers to why he pulled away from me, my need for him physically painful. “I’m with you too,” I told him.
At the clank of an opening door, we sprang apart. Adrenaline flooded through my blood, kicking my pulse back into a race.
“How is the lesson getting on?” Tariq asked, striding toward us and fastening the buckles over the chest of his jacket. Its tail waved behind him. His footsteps on the stone floor echoed through the garage.
I swallowed hard and reached out to the handlebars of the machine I’d tried. “I feel good about it.”
“You’ll do famously, I’m sure,” Tariq told me. The closer he came, the harder he stared at Sayer and me, his eyes darting back and forth between us. He wasn’t a fool. He knew he’d interrupted something. I couldn’t read Tariq’s expression, but he didn’t seem angry, and that was good. At least he didn’t catch more than what he had. Sayer, in turn, watched me from behind loose strands of his hair, head lowered, chest rising and falling with slight breathlessness.
“I’ll gear up,” I said. “May I keep the scarf you gave me?”
Sayer nodded briskly and said nothing. He swallowed hard, his eyes hot on me.
I left him with his father and headed back to my room to prepare myself for battle.
Covering as much skin as possible with my pants, boots, and long coat would protect me from the wind and sun. I fastened my buckles tightly and stopped at the mirror to touch up the kohl around my eyes. I felt the magic working, tingling my skin and sharpening my eyesight. The scarf Sayer had given me was black and somewhat sheer, but thick enough to cover the vulnerable parts of my face and neck. After securing my asaya and several was daggers, I was ready, and I rushed down to the garage where the others had already assembled.
The Medjai were all dressed in their gear—black boots, pants, buckled coats, and scarves—like me. Nasira handed me a round helmet with a pair of padded steel goggles.
“Two down,” she said.
“Two to go,” I added. “Then it’s the home stretch.” This was the first verbal exchange we’d had since her mother died, a detail I hadn’t missed.
“Look,” Nasira started, drawing her voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about that night and what I said to you. It was terrible and no matter what had happened to me, I had no right to say that. And I’m sorry it took all this time for me to say this. I hadn’t known how to.”
My heart grew heavy in my chest. “No, it’s all right. There’s nothing to apologize for. We’re friends. There’s nothing I couldn’t forgive you for.”
“Famous last words,” she warned me with a playful wink. She smiled and after a moment, she threw her arms around my shoulders and hugged me tight. She’d caught me by surprise, but I gathered my senses and embraced her.
Perhaps I was on my way to understanding what it was like to have someone or something I’d die for. I would certainly kill for Nasira. I would kill Kauket for her and for Sayer.
The roar and growl of a motorcycle’s engine tore us from the moment. The smell of diesel fuel filled the garage. Tariq lifted the tall, wide doors to reveal a violet twilight hanging over Cairo.
Sayer fitted his helmet over his head and said to me as he buckled the strap beneath his chin, “Remember not to lean into your turns. Take it easy. Play daredevil another day.” He slid his goggles over his eyes.
“Nasira,” Cyrene called above the engines. “You’re with your father. Stand by two blocks from the rendezvous point. Sayer, go with Ziva. I will secure a perimeter. Pick up the package and meet here. No scenic routes, no pit-stops. Move out.”
Nasira and Tariq sped from the garage first. I started my machine gently as Sayer had instructed me. He nodded to me in approval and gestured for me to go ahead of him.
I charged forward, climbing a slope to emerge at ground level and along the Pyramidion’s exterior wall. I passed through the rear entrance’s open gates and purposefully took a deep, leaning turn into the busy streets. I didn’t look over my shoulder to make sure Sayer had seen, but the revving of his engine assured me he had. I weaved through traffic, handling my machine quite well enough to impress myself.
Sayer pulled up beside me at the next intersection. “How do you feel on that bike?” he called to me.
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Five by five! You ready to take the lead?”
“As long as you’re good to follow. You’ve memorized our route, yeah?”
“Yes—there and back.”
He nodded in acknowledgment and kicked his bike into gear. We zigzagged, making quick work of the much slower motorcars and trucks. I tried not to ride too closely to any of the donkeys or camels to save from spooking them, but the animals were so accustomed to the Cairo chaos they didn’t even notice us. Overhead, zeppelins, twin-engine planes, and compact airships passed, blanketing us in shadows. We passed centuries-old mosques, a beautiful madrasa, and Roman-era churches. Shopkeepers lit oil lamps beside their signs and around terraces. Tobacco and rug stands didn’t appear to be closing up their wares anytime soon. In that sleepless way, Cairo reminded me a lot of New York.
Another large protest filled the street outside a municipal building guarded by British soldiers. The people screamed in several languages, yet they remained a safe distance from the armed guards. I couldn’t make out their words beneath the roar of our engines. Their anger was plain on their faces; they wanted freedom—demanded it—and they would fight for it.
Our trek took us to a bustling souk filled with street food vendors, shops, restaurants, and cafés. The scent of spices made me forget all about the constant haze of diesel fuel and animal dung. We passed an aromatic coffee shop I’d love to have stopped in. Perhaps the baklava spot served coffee too. It sounded like the perfect combination to me. With regret, I reminded myself Sayer and I weren’t out for a night on the town. This was business. The dangerous kind.