The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles #2)(51)

To my surprise, Set didn’t kill me on the spot. He just smiled and tossed me Vlad Menshikov’s sunglasses. “I hope you live, after all, Sadie Kane. You’re quite amusing. But if they do kill you, at least enjoy the experience!”

“Gosh, thanks.”

“And just because I like you so much, I have a free piece of information for your brother. Tell him Zia Rashid’s village was called Makan al-Ramal al-Hamrah.”

“Why is that—”

“Happy travels!” Set disappeared in a cloud of blood-colored mist. A block away, the two white sports cars barreled toward us. A magician stuck his head out the sunroof of the lead car and pointed his staff in our direction.

“Time to leave,” Bes said. “Get in!”

I will say this for Bes: he drove like a maniac. And I mean that in the best possible way. Icy streets didn’t bother him at all. Neither did traffic signals, pedestrian pavements, or canals, which he twice jumped without bothering to find a bridge. Fortunately, the city was mostly empty that time of morning, or I’m sure we would have mowed down any number of Russians.

We wove through central St. Petersburg while the two white sports cars closed behind us. I tried to hold Carter steady next to me in the backseat. His eyes were half-open, his corneas the most awful shade of green. Despite the cold, he was burning with fever. I managed to tug off his winter coat and found his shirt soaked with sweat. On his shoulder, the puncture wounds were oozing like… Well, it’s probably best I don’t describe that part.

I glanced behind us. The magician in the sunroof aimed his staff—not an easy task in a high-speed car chase—and a glowing white javelin shot from the tip, hurtling toward us like a homing missile.

“Duck!” I yelled, and pushed Carter against the seat.

The javelin broke the rear window and flew straight through the windshield. If Bes had been normal height, he would have gotten a free head piercing. As it was, the projectile missed him completely.

“I’m a dwarf,” he grumbled. “I don’t duck!”

He swerved to the right. Behind us, a storefront exploded. Looking back, I saw the entire wall dissolve into a pile of living snakes. Our pursuers were still closing.

“Bes, get us out of here!” I yelled.

“I’m trying, kid. Egyptian Bridge is coming up. It was originally built in the eighteen hundreds, but—”

“I don’t care! Just drive!”

Truly, it’s amazing how many Egyptian bits and bobs there are in St. Petersburg, and how little I cared about them. Being chased by evil magicians throwing javelins and snake bombs does tend to clarify one’s priorities.

Suffice it to say: Yes, there really is an Egyptian Bridge over the Fontanka River, leading south out of central St. Petersburg. Why? No idea. Don’t care. As we raced toward it, I saw black stone sphinxes on either side—lady sphinxes with gilded pharaoh crowns—but the only thing that mattered to me was that they could summon a portal.

Bes barked something in Egyptian. At the top of the bridge, blue light flashed. A swirling sand vortex appeared.

“What did Set mean,” I asked, “about holding my breath?”

“Hopefully won’t be for long,” Bes said. “We’ll only be thirty feet under.”

“Thirty feet under water?”

BANG! The Mercedes careened sideways. Only later did I realize another javelin must have hit our back tire. We spun across the ice and flipped, sliding upside-down into the vortex.

My head slammed against something. I opened my eyes, fighting for consciousness, but either I was blind or we were in complete darkness. I heard water trickling through the javelin-shattered glass, and the roof of the Mercedes crumpling like an aluminum can.

I had time to think: A teenager for less than a day, and I’m going to drown.

Then I blacked out.

12. I Master the Fine Art of Name-Calling

IT’S DISTURBING TO WAKE UP as a chicken.

My ba floated through dark water. My glowing wings flapped as I tried to figure out which way was up. I assumed my body was somewhere close by, possibly already drowned in the back of the Mercedes, but I couldn’t figure out how to return to it.

Why on earth had Bes driven us through an underwater portal? I hoped poor Carter had somehow survived; perhaps Bes was able to pull him free. But dying from poison rather than drowning didn’t seem much of an improvement.

A current caught me and whisked me into the Duat. The water changed into cold fog. Wailing and growling filled the darkness. My acceleration slowed, and when the mist dissipated, I was back in Brooklyn House, floating just outside the infirmary door. On a bench against the wall, sitting together like old friends, were Anubis and Walt Stone. They looked like they were waiting for bad news. Walt’s hands were folded in his lap. His shoulders slumped. He’d changed clothes—a new sleeveless tee, a new pair of running shorts—but he looked like he hadn’t slept since returning from London.

Anubis talked to him in soothing tones, as if trying to ease his grief. I’d never seen Anubis in traditional Egyptian clothes before: bare-chested with a gold and ruby collar around his neck, a simple black kilt wrapped around his waist. It wasn’t a look I’d recommend for most guys, but Anubis pulled it off. I’d always imagined he would look rather skinny with his shirt off (not that I imagined that a lot, mind you) but he was in excellent shape. They must’ve had quite a good gym in the underworld, bench-pressing tombstones and whatnot.