Alex and his mom were inside the shallow alcove of the Temple of Dendur. The Lost Spells were spread out across the floor, and the letters of the ancient text glowed softly as she chanted the first few lines in a rhythmic, almost trance-like voice. The power of the Spells had saved him once, but now it was taking a heavy toll. His vision was speckled with stars and phantom symbols, and his head was woozy. He sat gracelessly, legs straight out, shoulders against the side of the temple for support.

Suddenly, his mom stopped chanting and looked up. The glow began to fade, and Alex’s head began to clear ever so slightly. “I can’t do it,” she said.

Alex struggled to understand her through the slowly lifting fog in his mind. “You need the scarab,” he said, reaching for the chain around his neck with clumsy fingers.

“No,” she said. “It’s not that. The scarab lets you read the language, understand the spells — that’s how it lets you use the Book of the Dead. But I already read this language and understand these spells. It’s … you. Alex, you’re my son.”

As overwhelmed as his mind was, he knew exactly what she meant. But he also remembered the sacrifice the others were making to buy them this time. “I know, but —”

She cut him off. “If I close these doorways, if I undo the damage that I did … ”

She didn’t have to finish. Alex knew the rest all too well: She could snuff him out like a birthday candle. How could he convince his own mother to risk his life? “But if you don’t … ” he began. He didn’t need to finish that sentence, either. They both knew how it ended: in a death-shadowed world ruled by madmen.

He met her eyes through the nebula of tiny stars that lit his vision.

“I am proud of you,” she said, “and I love you, and … I will try.”

He saw a single tear roll down her cheek, and then he saw a huge figure looming up behind her.

“Oh no,” he gasped, but it was already too late. The leader reached down and plucked the woman who had once been his wife from the floor by her shoulder.

She screamed and kicked back at him with her boots. It was useless. “Alex,” she called. “The amulet.”

Yes, he thought. He’d seen her use it before and knew she was a more experienced and powerful Amulet Keeper than he was. But as he reached up for the chain once again, the leader spared a quick glance for his son. He flicked his free hand in Alex’s direction, and an invisible wave of force slammed Alex back into the temple wall. Alex’s head bounced off stone with the sound of a coconut considering cracking. A jolt of pain shot through him, and he fought to stay conscious. As his eyes fluttered half closed, he saw his mom tossed across the tile platform in front of the temple. She landed on her injured side and slid like a broken toy.

“No!” he called weakly.

He struggled to stand, but battered from the blow and woozy from the Spells, he was like a boxer who couldn’t peel himself from the canvas. His legs twitched and jerked but refused to gather underneath him. One numb hand pawed his chest, managing only to push the scarab around, not grasp it.

His mom’s body was still now, and as he stared at it, hoping for any sign of movement, the room began to fill up behind her. He caught snatches of it through his peripheral vision. The hulking figures of Ta-mesah and Peshwar, the ornate robes of the Stung Man, the sea of ragged wrapping as the mummies followed, the growing buzzing in the air. He didn’t know if they’d been called back by their leader or if their chase was simply over.

Finally, he saw his mom’s hand twitch open and closed. Her legs straightened out and she flopped over onto her back. Alex could let himself breathe again.

Meanwhile, The Order’s forces had massed beneath the temple’s raised platform, staring up at their leader. Alex saw something move out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Ren and Luke rush into the room last, following the forces they’d been trying to lead away, still trying to get their attention. They stopped cold inside the entrance, just short of the undead army in front of them.

Alex saw the look of shock on Ren’s face as she spotted his mom’s crumpled body. Then he saw her face collapse as she spied him slumped inside the alcove.

“It is over, Amulet Keepers,” called the leader, his booming voice echoing through the massive space.

Ren’s small voice rose up in response: “Then give us our friends and we’ll leave.”

A layer of mummies moved in between his friends and the door they’d come through, sealing off any escape. “You will get nothing,” said the leader, “and you will go nowhere.”

Alex tried again to stand but succeeded only in flopping back to the floor — and attracting Peshwar’s attention. “The boy is alive, and near the Spells,” she hissed from her place near the edge of the platform. “Kill him now.”

The leader looked back. “He can’t even rise to his feet in the presence of the Spells,” he said. “Much less give voice to the chants. He is no danger to us.”

“Your weakness for the boy puts us in danger,” said Peshwar.

The leader stared down at her. “Are you challenging me?”

She bowed her head, pointing the empty sockets of the lioness skull at the floor, but still she spoke. “Kill them all,” she said. “It’s easy. Like this.”

She tossed something toward the platform. As it clattered to a stop at the leader’s feet, Alex recognized Todtman’s walking staff.

The realization that Todtman was dead hit him like a punch to the heart. But under Peshwar’s cruel gaze, he felt that sorrow turn to something else. Anger and loyalty and loss mixed in his battered body — and it gave him strength. His fingers found his amulet and finally closed around its familiar form. The ancient energy flowed through him. He looked over at the Lost Spells. He pulled himself closer.

His father was right: He couldn’t stand in their presence or chant their words. But as he edged closer to the old scroll, he thought he just might be able to read them. The Spells were specialized, his mom had said. They dealt with the afterlife, with its gateways and guardians.

As Alex’s vision filled with fresh pinpricks of light and his head lolled limply on his neck, he looked for the name of one guardian in particular.

“Behind you!” called Peshwar.

“The boy!” growled Ta-mesah.

Alex knew the leader was turning toward him, knew he had only seconds left, but he dared not look up — and there it was! The name he was looking for.

With all his remaining strength and all the breath left in his lungs, he called that name. Just one word, but he filled it with all the anger and sadness and helplessness he felt. His enemies had broken the rules, not just the laws of this world, but the laws of life and death. And they had done so cruelly and for the basest of all reasons: power. As full of stars as his vision was, it was hard to tell, but he thought the word might even have glowed a little, flickered on the page, as he said it.

A moment later, a fresh wave of force from the leader sent Alex flying backward across the tile. He slammed hard into the back of the alcove. He managed to protect his head this time, but he felt something crack in his chest.

Just like my mom, he thought as he once again teetered on the edge of consciousness. He peered out of the alcove and saw his father staring in. The Spells were between them, ten feet away. It might as well have been ten miles.

The room was quiet, save for the buzz of the spirits, and still, save for the gentle swaying of the mummies.

“He has failed,” Peshwar hissed into the calm.

The reply came almost immediately, but it wasn’t from the leader or any of the other Walkers. It wasn’t from any of the Keepers, either. It wasn’t in words at all, in fact. Peshwar got her answer in the form of a great and terrible roar. The cry shook the room.

Part lion.

Part crocodile.

Part thunder.

Alex leaned his battered frame back against the temple wall and smiled.

His call had been answered.