The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles #2)(31)

A year ago, Liz, Emma, and I would’ve been riding this train to Funland or the cinema. We would’ve been laughing at the ridiculous ring tones on Liz’s phone or Emma’s Photoshopped pictures of the girls we hated at school. The most dangerous things in my life had been Gran’s cooking and Gramps’s temper when he saw my marks for the term.

Now Gramps was a giant baboon. Gran was an evil vulture. My friends were regarding me as if I’d dropped from another planet, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Even with my magic supplies in hand, I had no idea what I was going to do. I didn’t have the full power of Isis at my command anymore. If I tried to fight Babi and Nekhbet, I might injure my own grandparents and would likely get myself killed. But if I didn’t stop them, who would? Godly possession would eventually burn out a human host. That had almost happened to Uncle Amos, who was a full-fledged magician and knew how to defend himself. Gran and Gramps were old, frail, and quite unmagical. They didn’t have much time.

Despair—much worse than the vulture goddess’s wings —overwhelmed me.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Liz put her hand on my shoulder. “Sadie, dear, we’re sorry. It’s just a bit…strange, you know? Tell us what’s the matter. Let us help.”

I took a shaky breath. I’d missed my mates so much. I’d always thought them a bit odd, but now they seemed blissfully normal—part of a world that wasn’t mine anymore. They were both trying to act brave, but I could tell they were terrified inside. I wished I could leave them behind, hide them, keep them out of harm’s way, but I remembered what Nekhbet had said: They’ll make lovely appetizers. Anubis had warned that the vulture goddess would hunt down my friends and hurt them just to hurt me. At least if they were with me, I could try to protect them. I didn’t want to upend their lives the way mine had been, but I owed them the truth.

“This will sound absolutely mad,” I warned.

I gave them the shortest version possible—why I’d left London, how the Egyptian gods had escaped into the world, how I’d discovered my ancestry as a magician. I told them about our fight with Set, the rise of Apophis, and our insane idea to awaken the god Ra.

Two stations passed, but it felt so good to tell my friends the story that I rather lost track of time.

When I was done, Liz and Emma looked at one another, no doubt wondering how to gently tell me I was bonkers.

“I know it seems impossible,” I said, “but—”

“Sadie, we believe you,” Emma said.

I blinked. “You do?”

“’Course we do.” Liz’s face was flushed, the way she got after several roller coaster rides. “I’ve never heard you talk so seriously about anything. You—you’ve changed.”

“It’s just I’m a magician now, and…and I can’t believe how stupid that sounds.”

“It’s more than that.” Emma studied my face as if I was turning into something quite frightening. “You seem older. More mature.”

Her voice was tinged with sadness, and I realized my mates and I were growing apart. It was as if we stood on opposite sides of a widening chasm. And I knew with gloomy certainty the breach was already too wide for me to jump back across.

“Your boyfriend is amazing,” Liz added, probably to cheer me up.

“He’s not my…” I stopped. There was no winning that argument with Liz. Besides, I was so mixed up about that bloody jackal Anubis, I didn’t know where to begin.

The train slowed. I saw the signs for Waterloo Station.

“Oh, god,” I said. “I meant to get off at London Bridge. I need a bridge.”

“Can’t we backtrack?” Liz asked.

A roar from the tunnel behind us answered that question. Looking back, I saw a large shape with glittering silver fur loping along the tracks. Its foot touched the third rail, and sparks flew; but the baboon god lumbered on, unfazed. As the train braked, Babi started to gain on us.

“No going back,” I said. “We’ll have to make it to Waterloo Bridge.”

“That’s half a mile from the station!” Liz protested. “What if it catches us?”

I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my new staff. Instantly it expanded to full length, the lion-carved tip blazing with golden light. “Then I suppose we’ll have to fight.”

Should I describe Waterloo Station as it was before or after we destroyed it? The main concourse was massive. It had a polished marble floor, loads of shops and kiosks, and a glass-and-girder ceiling high enough so that a helicopter could fly about inside comfortably.

Rivers of people flowed in and out, mixing, separating, and occasionally colliding as they made their way to various escalators and platforms.

When I was small, the station building had rather frightened me. I worried that the giant Victorian clock hanging from the ceiling might fall and crush me. The announcers’ voices were much too loud. (I prefer to be the noisiest thing in my environment, thank you very much.) The masses of commuters standing mesmerized under the departure boards, watching for their trains, reminded me of a mob in a zombie movie—which, granted, I shouldn’t have watched as a young child, but I was always rather precocious.

At any rate, my mates and I were racing through the main station, pushing our way toward the nearest exit, when a stairwell behind us exploded.