Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(60)

Oliver marched through the doorway, and he did not bother to dampen our bond. His anticipation rolled off him.

I scurried after . . . but quickly stumbled to a halt—for Oliver had paused between two statues, his head cocked as if listening.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“This room is . . . waiting.” He tipped his head in the other direction. “There is magic, and it will soon be triggered.”

I moved closer to him, a confused question on my tongue, but as soon as I crossed the first pair of statues, a loud snap! grated through the chamber—and dust billowed.

Instantly, I had my pulse pistol out and trained on the statue to my right. Its spear was now extended.

I held my breath, my pistol trembling, and when I glanced back, I saw Joseph with his crystal clamp up.

None of us moved. None of us breathed. The only sound was the flapping of the fans.

“Keep moving,” Oliver hissed. “They respond to you. You are what the room waited for.”

“Why?” I asked, locked in my stance.

“They serve you,” Oliver said with a flicker of meaningful emotion across our bond. “Pharaon, recall?”

With a tight swallow, I nodded and stepped carefully onward. Snap! The next set of statues and spears shot out; dust exploded off them, and they did not move again.

Sand clogged my nose and mouth, yet as I stood there waving the air, I could just make out the various air currents. Dust twirled and twisted, carried away by the cloth fans.

“Again,” Oliver ordered. So again I crept ahead until all sixteen statues had their spears thrust out.

Until I stood before a final pedestal with a stone chest on it. I motioned for Oliver, Daniel, and Joseph to join me; and as they warily stepped near, I hunched over the chest.

Its lid was shoved off, just like the open sarcophagus at the museum. Yet when I peered inside, there was nothing more than a thick coating of grime.

“It’s empty,” I said as the three young men materialized beside me.

“Excludin’ all the dust,” Daniel muttered.

Joseph bent closer. “It looks to have been empty for many years.”

“Because it has,” said a new voice. “It has been empty for many centuries.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I spun around . . . and jolted.

In the center of the chamber, hobbling with the aid of a cane, was a gnarled man with a stringy, white beard. His tattered gray robe was streaked with stains, and if not for the power oozing off him, I would have thought him nothing more than a beggar.

The Old Man in the Pyramids had arrived.

And the jackal now sat, tongue hanging out, by the room’s entrance.

My pulse pistol was ready as the Old Man shuffled toward us, and Daniel’s also stayed aimed at him—while Joseph held out his crystal clamp.

But then the Old Man paused ten feet away, lifting his chin to sniff the air like a dog.

His eyes landed on me—eyes that glowed golden. “Forgive me, Emperor, if I do not bow. I am old and have been for millennia.”

None of us moved. None of us answered—until a sudden, incredulous laugh broke from Oliver’s lips. “You are a demon, aren’t you? Bound in this world?”

“Not quite.” The Old Man’s eyes shifted to Oliver. “I was once a man, and I looked just as you see me now. But then I was blessed—or some might say cursed—with a demon soul. If you stripped away my skin, you would find a spirit like yours.”

“But how is that possible?” Oliver frowned and approached the Old Man. “How can you have a demon soul?”

“In the same way that you could have a man’s soul, demon boy.” He bared a toothless grin. “All that separates man from demon is the size of our souls. When I was granted a second spirit, I stopped aging. Disease could no longer touch me.”

My breath caught—something about his words sent all the pieces twirling into place. “The Black Pullet,” I breathed. “That’s what it does, isn’t it? It grants a longer life by giving you a larger soul.”

The Old Man nodded, his beard wiggling. “A second soul, to be precise.” He flourished his hands like a performer. “I have twice the magic and twice the soul that you have. I can still be killed, certainly, but only if the injury is so vast I cannot heal. Disease . . .” He smiled. “It never ails me.”

“What of the endless wealth?” Joseph asked, his expression tensed and his body ready. “How does the Black Pullet provide that?”

“It is not a magical reason,” the Old Man answered. “Or even very interesting. Its feathers are made of gold.” He shuffled toward me, passing by Oliver. “But you are not here for immortality or wealth, are you, Pharaoh?”

I shook my head slowly. “We are here to find you—so that we may learn how to destroy the Pullet.”

“Hmmm.” The Old Man twirled a knobby finger in the air. “Well, you have found me. Your first step is complete.”

“Then tell me how we may dest—” My voice cut off, teeth chomping on my tongue. In a single, slamming heartbeat, rage crashed over me.

Oliver.

“It didn’t work,” he snarled, advancing on the Old Man. “Why didn’t it work? I have found you, so why am I still in pain?” He lunged at the Old Man, grabbing for his throat.