“Thou providest their daily food, every man having the portion allotted to him. Thou dost compute the duration of his life. The young bird in the egg speaketh in the shell, thou givest breath to him inside it to make him to live. Thou makest him so that he can crack the shell. He cometh forth from the egg, he chirpeth with all his might, he walketh on his two feet.”
The light was growing stronger and stronger, the sun climbing inevitably toward the horizon. Exhaustion pulled Alistair down like the weight of gravity, as though the gush of magic was blood. But footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“Thou settest in the horizon of the west, the earth is in darkness, in the form of death. Men lie down in a booth wrapped up in cloths, one eye cannot see its fellow. Yet when thou riseth, life is restored. As one season gives way to the next, as night becomes day, as the chick quickens and emerges from the egg, as?—”
A small robin hurtled through the air, smashing into the paper and knocking it from Sullivan’s hands. At the same moment, a tiger roared from the top of the stairs.
Help had arrived.
“Boss, wait!” Turner called from the top of the stairs. “The familiars aren’t doing so good, and this—I’m not sure?—”
Alistair tried to push himself to his feet and failed, too drained by the loss of magic. But it seemed his attempt to talk to Turner last night had done some good. Enough that he’d let Doris and Philip up here with him.
Philip sprang to one of the beams overhead, crouching and snarling. Doris didn’t have the snow leopard’s grace, but her roar was more than enough to make anyone hesitate.
The robin circled around and landed in front of Wanda, shifting into human form as she did so. “What the hell are you doing?” Holly demanded. “This isn’t worth it! You’re putting everyone’s lives at risk just to save The Pride. But The Pride is gone, and it’s not coming back.” She blinked, tears welling in her dark eyes. “But I am. I’m here. So you’ve got to choose—me, and Philip, and Doris, and everyone else who loves you, or a dream whose time has come and gone.”
Wanda wobbled as she shifted, and Joel had to catch her elbow to keep her from falling. She reached out a manicured hand toward Holly. “Songbird, I…”
“No one move,” Sullivan ordered. His face was twisted into an expression of pure rage, and he’d snatched up the dropped paper in one hand. With the other, he’d pulled a gun from his pocket.
Alistair bristled. Sam was too close to Sullivan, seeming frozen in shock, still holding the golden disc aloft. “Stay still—don’t draw his attention.”
Sam’s gaze flicked to him, signaling he understood. If they could keep Sullivan distracted long enough, the ritual’s moment would pass. That would give them time to either figure something out or flee.
Sullivan leveled the gun at Turner. “How dare you,” he said. “You know what this means to me, Lenny.”
“I know, boss, and I’m sorry.” Turner held empty hands out toward him. “But something isn’t right here.”
“He’s right,” Doc said frantically. “I’ve been trying to tell you—it won’t work the way you think it’s going to! I opened Neferneferuaten’s coffin, there was a painting inside the lid, hieroglyphs warning she was killed by?—”
Sullivan turned and shot him.
Doc screamed and collapsed, the trouser leg over his left shin going red with blood. He gripped it with both hands, trying to stem the flow, writhing like a half-squashed bug on the floor.
“The next one is going through your head,” Sullivan said, before swiveling back to Turner. “As for you, traitor?—”
Philip sprang from the pinnacle beam, but a falcon flew into his face, and he hit the floor beside Sullivan instead of on top of him. Doris roared again—and then there was a confusion of familiars and witches, some loyal to Sullivan, some running for the stairs before gunfire could erupt, others too drained to move. Alistair shifted and heaved himself up, though it took a monumental effort. He had to get to Sam?—
He froze. Sullivan aimed the gun at Sam. “Keep holding the disc!” he commanded, and began to chant again, the words coming in a rush to make up for lost time. “When thou riseth, life is restored! As one season gives way to the next, as night becomes day, as the chick quickens and emerges from the egg, as the man casts off his cloth wrappings and stands for the day, let these dead rise and breathe in your life-giving rays, O Great Aten!”
And on the name of the god, the first beam of the rising sun cut across the lake and rested on the golden disc in Sam’s hands.
The bodies began to stir beneath their shrouds.
32
The golden disc in Sam’s hands grew suddenly hot, as if the sun’s touch was the fire of a forge. With an involuntary cry, he let go—and the disc continued to hang in mid-air, supported by the rays of the sun itself.
His heart slammed against his ribs, and he turned to Sullivan—but Sullivan’s attention was no longer on him, but instead fixed on his son’s coffin.
On the small body that stirred even now.
Alistair’s hand closed on Sam’s arm. “We have to get out of here!”
Oh God, Alistair. His olive skin had taken on a grayish hue, and he was practically swaying on his feet. He held his wounded arm tight against his body, clearly in pain.
“You go,” Sam urged. “Get out of here, make sure everyone else goes with you.”
