With no other options presenting themselves, I leap back down into the lukewarm water. It buoys along the tops of my thighs now, closing in on my hips.
I quickly search for the same pattern of hieroglyphs like before. I don’t find any symbols on his chest this time, though. I drag my fingers across the smooth stone, as if they might appear simply by my willing it. They don’t. I slam the side of my fist against it to see if violence might solve this. Again, nothing happens. I grunt in frustration.
Worth a shot.
The water floats at my chest now, weighing down my pack—I’m running out of time. True panic threatens to pull me under before the water does. It’s not that I don’t know how to swim, but I only recently learned how to dog paddle, and I’m not confident I won’t drown.
The chances of me getting out of here alive dwindle with each inch the water consumes my body.
“Come on, Mel, think.”
Hardening my resolve, I throw the amulet over my head and tuck it beneath my shirt, flicking my blonde braid over my shoulder. I remind myself I’ve been in worse situations than this—dangling from a rotted tree root over the raging Colorado River comes to mind. Being acutely aware of my mortality in times like these hones my senses.
Usually.
As I think this, the water eases up my neck.
Shit.
I manage to suck in one final breath before it surges over my head.
The water draws my feet up from under me, despite my wet pack weighing me down like a bag of rocks. My eyes fly open underwater, and the catfish I noticed earlier slinks past me, an omen of my own demise. I ignore it.
I’m too stubborn about the whole wanting to live business to give up just yet.
If I make it out of here alive, I’m picking up swimming lessons again.
Kicking my legs toward the wall, I feel my way along the rough stone of his crown first, then down to his face, his chin. It’s not until I find his shepherd’s crook and flail, however, that I recognize the same raised edges as before. I gasp, letting out too many air bubbles, my chest tightening from the lack of oxygen.
The water chooses this moment to devour the oil ledge; the fire goes out, plunging the room into darkness.
I can’t catch a goddamn break.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Lungs aching, I concentrate on my last shot at not dying.
Sifting through my lessons on ancient Egypt, I recall how the Egyptians believed that the crook and flail symbolized many different things: spirituality through the connection between Osiris and all other Egyptian deities, Osiris’s judgment in the afterlife, the balance between power and protection in a pharaoh’s rule. Most of all, though, they symbolize mercy—the crook—and—punishment—the flail.
Given that escaping this place would be a true mercy, the crook is my best option.
I grip the edges of his crook and turn it to the right.
Nothing happens.
Praying I’m not wrong, I spin it to the left in the direction of the flail instead, my chest clenching in search of air. Then, my chest warms uncomfortably at the site of the amulet, now flat against my chest.What in the hell—
A moment later, the sound of a mechanism clicks inside the wall. Stone grating against stone echoes dully around me.
Before I can second-guess myself, the water below me grabs my feet and yanks me forward so quick, it forces out the rest of the air from my lungs. I struggle against the current, but I can’twin this fight. I have no choice but to let the water drag me away into darkness—
—and spit me out onto the hot Egyptian sand.
My backside hits the sand hard, sending painful jolts up my spine. I throw my arms out in an attempt to stop myself from falling over, forcing my pack off my shoulders.
Jesus H. Christ.
Coughing and sputtering, my lungs burn, desperate for air. I squeeze the scorching desert beneath me and open my eyes—and immediately toss a sand-crusted arm over my face. After being inside the dark temple for so long, the sweltering sunlight burns my corneas.
