Rick Riordan - The Red Pyramid

“Wonderful,” Thoth said. “There is an item of power I require from a magician’s tomb. Bring it to me.”

“Which magician’s tomb?” I asked.

But Thoth took a piece of chalk from his lab coat and scribbled something in the air. A doorway opened in front of him.

“How did you do that?” I asked. “Bast said we can’t summon portals during the Demon Days.”

“Mortals can’t,” Thoth agreed. “But a god of magic can. If you succeed, we’ll have barbecue.”

The doorway pulled us into a black void, and Thoth’s office disappeared.

S A D I E

“WHERE ARE WE?” I ASKED.

We stood on a deserted avenue outside the gates of a large estate. We still seemed to be in Memphis-at least the trees, the weather, the afternoon light were all the same.

The estate must’ve been several acres at least. The white metal gates were done in fancy designs of silhouetted guitar players and musical notes. Beyond them, the driveway curved through the trees up to a two-story house with a white-columned portico.

“Oh, no,” Carter said. “I recognize those gates.”

“What? Why?”

“Dad brought me here once. A great magician’s tomb…Thoth has got to be kidding.”

“Carter, what are you talking about? Is someone buried here?”

He nodded. “This is Graceland. Home to the most famous musician in the world.”

“Michael Jackson lived here?”

“No, dummy,” Carter said. “Elvis Presley.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. “Elvis Presley. You mean white suits with rhinestones, big slick hair, Gran’s record collection-that Elvis?”

Carter looked around nervously. He drew his sword, even though we seemed to be totally alone. “This is where he lived and died. He’s buried in back of the mansion.”

I stared up at the house. “You’re telling me Elvis was a magician?”

“Don’t know.” Carter gripped his sword. “Thoth did say something about music being a kind of magic. But something’s not right. Why are we the only ones here? There’s usually a mob of tourists.”

“Christmas holidays?”

“But no security?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s like what Zia did at Luxor. Maybe Thoth cleared everyone out.”

“Maybe.” But I could tell Carter was still uneasy. He pushed the gates, and they opened easily. “Not right,” he muttered.

“No,” I agreed. “But let’s go pay our respects.”

As we walked up the drive, I couldn’t help thinking that the home of “the King” wasn’t very impressive. Compared to some of the rich and famous homes I’d seen on TV, Elvis’s place looked awfully small. It was just two stories high, with that white-columned portico and brick walls. Ridiculous plaster lions flanked the steps. Perhaps things were simpler back in Elvis’s day, or maybe he spent all his money on rhinestone suits.

We stopped at the foot of the steps.

“So Dad brought you here?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Carter eyed the lions as if expecting them to attack. “Dad loves blues and jazz, mostly, but he said Elvis was important because he took African American music and made it popular for white people. He helped invent rock and roll. Anyway, Dad and I were in town for a symposium or something. I don’t remember. Dad insisted I come here.”

“Lucky you.” And yes, perhaps I was beginning to understand that Carter’s life with Dad hadn’t been all glamour and holiday, but still I couldn’t help being a bit jealous. Not that I’d ever wanted to see Graceland, of course, but Dad had never insisted on taking me anywhere-at least until the British Museum trip when he disappeared. I hadn’t even known Dad was an Elvis fan, which was rather horrifying.

We walked up the steps. The front door swung open all by itself.

“I don’t like that,” Carter said.

I turned to look behind us, and my blood went ice cold. I grabbed my brother’s arm. “Um, Carter, speaking of things we don’t like…”

Coming up the driveway were two magicians brandishing staffs and wands.

“Inside,” Carter said. “Quick!”

I didn’t have much time to admire the house. There was a dining room to our left and a living room-music room to our right, with a piano and a stained glass archway decorated with peacocks. All the furniture was roped off. The house smelled like old people.

“Item of power,” I said. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” Carter snapped. “They didn’t have ‘items of power’ listed on the tour!”

I glanced out the window. Our enemies were getting close. The bloke in front wore jeans, a black sleeveless shirt, boots, and a battered cowboy hat. He looked more like an outlaw than a magician. His friend was similarly dressed but much heftier, with tattooed arms, a bald head, and a scraggly beard. When they were ten meters away, the man with the cowboy hat lowered his staff, which morphed into a shotgun.

“Oh, please!” I yelled, and pushed Carter into the living room.

The blast shattered Elvis’s front door and set my ears ringing. We scrambled to our feet and ran deeper into the house. We passed through an old-fashioned kitchen, then into the strangest den I’d ever seen. The back wall was made of vine-covered bricks, with a waterfall trickling down the side. The carpet was green shag (floor and ceiling, mind you) and the furniture was carved with creepy animal shapes. Just in case all that wasn’t dreadful enough, plaster monkeys and stuffed lions had been strategically placed around the room. Despite the danger we were in, the place was so horrid, I just had to stop and marvel.

“God,” I said. “Did Elvis have no taste?”

“The Jungle Room,” Carter said. “He decorated it like this to annoy his dad.”

“I can respect that.”

Another shotgun blast roared through the house.

“Split up,” Carter said.

“Bad idea!” I could hear the magicians tromping through the rooms, smashing things as they came closer.

“I’ll distract them,” Carter said. “You search. The trophy room is through there.”

“Carter!”

But the fool ran off to protect me. I hate it when he does that. I should have followed him, or run the other way, but I stood frozen in shock as he turned the corner with his sword raised, his body beginning to glow with a golden light…and everything went wrong.

Blam! An emerald flash brought Carter to his knees. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d been hit with the shotgun, and I had to stifle a scream. But immediately, Carter collapsed and began to shrink, clothes, sword and all-melting into a tiny sliver of green.

The lizard that used to be my brother raced toward me, climbed up my leg and into my palm, where it looked at me desperately.

From around the corner, a gruff voice said, “Split up and find the sister. She’ll be somewhere close.”

“Oh, Carter,” I whispered fondly to the lizard. “I will so kill you for this.”

I stuffed him in my pocket and ran.

The two magicians continued to smash and crash their way through Graceland, knocking over furniture and blasting things to bits. Apparently they were not Elvis fans.

I ducked under some ropes, crept through a hallway, and found the trophy room. Amazingly, it was full of trophies. Gold records crowded the walls. Rhinestone Elvis jumpsuits glittered in four glass cases. The room was dimly lit, probably to keep the jumpsuits from blinding visitors, and music played softly from overhead speakers: Elvis warning everyone not to step on his blue suede shoes.

I scanned the room but found nothing that looked magical. The suits? I hoped Thoth did not expect me to wear one. The gold records? Lovely Frisbees, but no.