The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles #2)(66)

“You’re a god!” Zia said. Then she turned to me. “And if you summoned him, you’ll be put to death!”

“Listen, girl,” Bes said. “You were hosting the spirit of Nephthys. So if anyone gets put to death—”

Zia snatched up her staff. “Be gone!”

Fortunately, she wasn’t back to full strength. She managed to shoot a weak column of fire at Bes’s face, but the dwarf god easily swatted the flames aside.

I grabbed the end of her staff. “Zia, stop! He’s not the enemy.”

“Can I punch her?” Bes asked. “You punched me, kid. Seems only fair.”

“No punching,” I said. “No blasting with flames. Zia, we’re on the same side. The equinox starts tomorrow at sunset, and Apophis will break out of his prison. He means to destroy you. We’re here to rescue you.”

The name Apophis hit her hard. She struggled to breathe, as if her lungs were filling with water again. “No. No, it isn’t possible. Why should I believe you?”

“Because…” I hesitated. What could I say? Because we’d fallen for each other three months ago? Because we’ve been through so much together and saved each other’s lives? Those memories weren’t hers. She remembered me—sort of. But our time together was like a movie she’d watched, with an actress playing her role, doing things she never would’ve done.

“You don’t know me,” she said bitterly. “Now, go, before I’m forced to fight you. I’ll make my own way back to the First Nome.”

“Maybe she’s right, kid,” Bes said. “We should leave. We’ve worked enough magic here to send up all kinds of alarm bells.”

I clenched my fists. My worst fears had come true. Zia didn’t like me. Everything we’d shared had crumbled with her ceramic replica. But as I may have mentioned, I get stubborn when I’m told I can’t do something.

“I’m not leaving you.” I gestured at the ruins of her village. “Zia, this place was destroyed by Apophis. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t your dad’s fault. The Serpent was targeting you. Iskandar raised you because he sensed you had an important destiny. He hid you with the pharaoh’s crook and flail for the same reason—not just because you were hosting a goddess, but because he was dying and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to protect you anymore. I don’t know what your destiny is, exactly, but—”

“Stop!” She reignited the tip of her staff. It blazed more brightly this time. “You’re twisting my thoughts. You’re just like the nightmares.”

“You know I’m not.” I probably should’ve shut up, but I couldn’t believe Zia would actually incinerate me. “Before he died, Iskandar realized the old ways had to be brought back. That’s why he let Sadie and me live. Gods and the magicians have to work together. You—your shabti realized that, when we fought together at the Red Pyramid.”

“Kid,” Bes said more urgently. “We really should go.”

“Come with us,” I told Zia. “I know you’ve always felt alone. You never had anyone but Iskandar. I get that, but I’m your friend. We can protect you.”

“No one protects me!” She shot to her feet. “I am a scribe in the House of Life!”

Flames shot from her staff. I grabbed for my wand, but of course I’d lost it in the river. Instinctively my hands closed around the symbols of the pharaoh—the shepherd’s crook and the war flail. I held them up in a defensive X, and Zia’s staff shattered instantly. The fire dissipated.

Zia stumbled backward, smoke curling from her hands.

She stared at me in absolute shock. “You dare to use the symbols of Ra?”

I probably looked just as surprised. “I—I didn’t mean to! I just want to talk. You’ve got to be hungry. We’ve got food and water back at the pickup truck—”

“Carter!” Bes tensed. “Something’s wrong…”

He turned too late. A blinding white light exploded around him. When the spots cleared from my eyes, Bes was frozen in a cage of bars glowing like fluorescent tubes. Standing next to him were the two people I least wanted to see:

Michel Desjardins and Vlad the Inhaler.

Desjardins looked even older than he had in my vision. His graying hair and forked beard were long and unkempt. His cream-colored robes hung loosely on him. The leopard-skin cloak of the Chief Lector was slipping off his left shoulder.

Vlad Menshikov, on the other hand, looked well rested and ready for a good game of Torture-the-Kane. He wore a fresh white linen suit and carried a new serpent staff. His silver snake necklace glinted against his tie. On his curly gray hair sat a white fedora, probably to cover the head injuries Set had given him. He smiled as if he were delighted to see me, which might’ve been convincing—except he didn’t have his sunglasses anymore. Through the wreckage of scar tissue and red welts, those horrible eyes gleamed with hatred.

“As I told you, Chief Lector,” Menshikov rasped, “Kane’s next move would be to find this poor girl and attempt to turn her.”

“Desjardins, listen,” I said. “Menshikov’s a traitor. He summoned Set. He’s trying to free Apophis—”

“You see?” Menshikov cried. “As I predicted, the boy tries to blame his illegal magic on me.”