Strange and Ever After (Something Strange and Deadly #3)(84)

And then the monster was to me. Its enormous, train-sized body was rearing up, and I was darting forward. My sword slipped between black, velvety scales . . .

But I had severely misjudged. The Pullet’s neck was wider than I was. My sword was a mere bee sting. The creature lurched back, taking my sword with it.

I bolted. Away, over the sand and to the back edge of the temple. Then its front legs slammed onto the temple roof. Sand bounced, burning up my nose, into my eyes—and I bounced too. My legs crumpled beneath me. I had just enough time to wriggle onto my knees before the Pullet hefted its entire body onto the temple. Blood pooled around my embedded sword, and I briefly considered trying to retrieve the weapon. . . .

But then a loud crack tremored through the sand. The Pullet paused. I paused.

The roof collapsed.

In a roar of crunching bricks and dust, the temple caved in beneath us. The Pullet fell with an ear-shattering screech—and I fell too.

I hit a ground of rubble and bricks. A fall of twenty feet in less than a second. Debris knocked into me, and dust choked my vision, my lungs. But I kicked free easily—unlike the Pullet, which was too heavy and too layered beneath the broken roof. As it writhed ineffectually, I scrambled to my feet. Then, in a flash, I took in my surroundings. I was in a catacomb, but it was narrow and shallow like the dogs’ tunnels.

And I had two options: try to climb out, which would require getting past the Black Pullet’s maw.

Or descend into the tunnels behind me.

The decision was easy, for at that moment the Pullet was rapidly gaining purchase and digging itself out from under the broken roof, and though my sword had been slammed even farther into its neck, the monster was no worse off than before. Its claws knocked away bricks bit by bit, and its breath heaved hotter than the wind and reeked of carrion.

So, in a burst of speed, I threw myself into the lightless depths of a catacomb unknown.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Moonlight from the caved-in roof did not extend into the catacombs. I instantly cast an awareness spell, silent words trilling over my tongue and the net flying out, out—

It hit the Pullet.

And the spell exploded. Magical threads shriveled up and tangled through my muscles.

I stumbled, choking. I couldn’t cast that spell—I didn’t think I could use any magic on the creature. It would simply backfire again.

I lurched to the left wall and, using my one hand to guide me, I scurried farther into the tunnel. If this was like the bull temple, I would hit queens’ guards soon—and maybe I could hide behind one. If this was like the dogs’ catacombs . . .

I prayed it was not.

A shrill scream pierced the darkness behind me. It bounced off the limestone walls.

Ice rolled down my spine. The Pullet was still coming after me.

I hurried my steps. Soon I could see absolutely nothing, and the heavy air clogged my lungs. But I jogged on—I had no other choice. If I could just reach something, I might have a chance. . . .

Yet nothing came. For all I knew I was walking right by potential hiding spots, but my feet and my one hand touched nothing except chalky stone.

And behind me, talons tapped, golden feathers shook, and breath huffed. The creature was close, but how close was impossible to gauge.

Faster, I ordered myself. Faster.

My toes suddenly bumped something. My hand lurched out—and connected with stone. Fear shot up my throat, and I had to bite back a scream. Was this a wall?

I sidled right, dragging my hand . . . dragging . . .

Until I tumbled forward. It was not a wall—thank God—and when I crept forward, I found something even better than a queens’ guard: an alcove.

It was narrow, barely enough space for me to squeeze into, but it was there nonetheless.

Just as I wrestled my body into the tiny space, my back knocking against something strangely soft and familiar; a yellow light filtered into the tunnel.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, trying to stifle my breaths. To contain my pounding heart.

The glow brightened, sweeping side to side, and I realized with twisting horror that the Black Pullet could see in the dark. Like Oliver, it had yellow, glowing eyes.

Its scuttling claws slowed as it neared me.

Then it was in front of me, talons clacking and head swinging from side to side. It paused, black scales quivering and so close I could pluck a golden feather from its wing.

For several endless moments the tunnel was sprayed in pale light, and I stared with trembling eyeballs at the wall opposite me. Vivid murals spanned from the floor to the ceiling: paintings of a farmland crowded with the usual, rigid Egyptian people. Yet between each person there was a black-and-white ibis, its beak curved and majestic.

My breath hitched in, my eyes widening. Oliver had mentioned a god with an ibis head: Thoth. This was Thoth’s temple . . . and this had to be the bird catacomb that Oliver could not find.

Then another thought hit, and my eyes bulged even wider—for what had Oliver told me about the ibis? They once protected Egypt from a great winged serpent. A great winged serpent like the Black Pullet.

And at that moment the winged serpent was resuming its stalking steps and carrying its yellow light away. But not before I glimpsed a shadowy alcove across from me . . . and a small, canvas-wrapped mound inside.

A mummy, and if I was right, there was one directly behind me too. And more throughout, if this catacomb was anything like the others.