Rick Riordan - The Red Pyramid

My spirit floated up to the steamboat’s wheelhouse, but it wasn’t Bloodstained Blade at the wheel. Instead, a young man in leather armor navigated the boat. His eyes were outlined with kohl, and his head was bald except for a braided ponytail. The guy definitely worked out, because his arms were ripped. A sword like mine was strapped to his belt.

“The river is treacherous,” he told me in a familiar voice. “A pilot cannot get distracted. He must always be alert for sandbars and hidden snags. That’s why boats are painted with my eyes, you know-to see the dangers.”

“The Eyes of Horus,” I said. “You.”

The falcon god glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were two different colors-one blazing yellow like the sun, the other reflective silver like the moon. The effect was so disorienting, I had to look away. And when I did, I noticed that Horus’s shadow didn’t match his form. Stretched across the wheelhouse was the silhouette of a giant falcon.

“You wonder if order is better than chaos,” he said. “You become distracted from our real enemy: Set. You should be taught a lesson.”

I was about to say, No really, that’s okay.

But immediately my ba was whisked away. Suddenly, I was on board an airplane-a big international aircraft like planes my dad and I had taken a million times. Zia Rashid, Desjardins, and two other magicians were scrunched up in a middle row, surrounded by families with screaming children. Zia didn’t seem to mind. She meditated calmly with her eyes closed, while Desjardins and the other two men looked so uncomfortable, I almost wanted to laugh.

The plane rocked back and forth. Desjardins spilled wine all over his lap. The seat belt light blinked on, and a voice crackled over the intercom: “This is the captain. It looks like we’ll be experiencing some minor turbulence as we make our descent into Dallas, so I’m going to ask the flight attendants-”

Boom! A blast rattled the windows-lightning followed immediately by thunder.

Zia’s eyes snapped open. “The Red Lord.”

The passengers screamed as the plane plummeted several hundred feet.

“Il commence!” Desjardins shouted over the noise. “Quickly!”

As the plane shook, passengers shrieked and grabbed their seats. Desjardins got up and opened the overhead compartment.

“Sir!” a flight attendant yelled. “Sir, sit down!”

Desjardins ignored the attendant. He grabbed four familiar bags-magical tool kits-and threw them to his colleagues.

Then things really went wrong. A horrible shudder passed through the cabin and the plane lurched sideways. Outside the right-hand windows, I saw the plane’s wing get sheared off by a five-hundred-mile-an-hour wind.

The cabin devolved into chaos-drinks, books, and shoes flying everywhere, oxygen masks dropping and tangling, people screaming for their lives.

“Protect the innocents!” Desjardins ordered.

The plane began to shake and cracks appeared in the windows and walls. The passengers went silent, slumping into unconsciousness as the air pressure dropped. The four magicians raised their wands as the airplane broke to pieces.

For a moment, the magicians floated in a maelstrom of storm clouds, chunks of fuselage, luggage, and spinning passengers still strapped to their seats. Then a white glow expanded around them, a bubble of power that slowed the breakup of the plane and kept the pieces swirling in a tight orbit. Desjardins reached out his hand and the edge of a cloud stretched toward him-a tendril of cottony white mist, like a safety line. The other magicians did likewise, and the storm bent to their will. White vapor wrapped around them and began to send out more tendrils, like funnel clouds, which snatched pieces of the plane and pulled them back together.

A child fell past Zia, but she pointed her staff and murmured a spell. A cloud enveloped the little girl and brought her back. Soon the four magicians were reassembling the plane around them, sealing the breaches with cloudy cobwebs until the entire cabin was encased in a glowing cocoon of vapor. Outside, the storm raged and thunder boomed, but the passengers slept soundly in their seats.

“Zia!” Desjardins shouted. “We can’t hold this for long.”

Zia ran past him up the aisle to the flight deck. Somehow the front of the plane had survived the breakup intact. The door was armored and locked, but Zia’s staff flared, and the door melted like wax. She stepped through and found three unconscious pilots. The view through the window was enough to make me sick. Through the spiraling clouds, the ground was coming up fast-very fast.

Zia slammed her wand against the controls. Red energy surged through the displays. Dials spun, meters blinked, and the altimeter leveled out. The plane’s nose came up, its speed dropping. As I watched, Zia glided the plane toward a cow pasture and landed it without even a bump. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed.

Desjardins found her and gathered her in his arms. “Quickly,” he told his colleagues, “the mortals will wake soon.”

They dragged Zia out of the cockpit, and my ba was swept away through a blur of images.

I saw Phoenix again-or at least some of the city. A massive red sandstorm churned across the valley, swallowing buildings and mountains. In the harsh, hot wind, I heard Set laughing, reveling in his power.

Then I saw Brooklyn: Amos’s ruined house on the East River and a winter storm raging overhead, howling winds slamming the city with sleet and hail.

And then I saw a place I didn’t recognize: a river winding through a desert canyon. The sky was a blanket of pitch-black clouds, and the river’s surface seemed to boil. Something was moving under the water, something huge, evil, and powerful-and I knew it was waiting for me.

This is only the beginning, Horus warned me. Set will destroy everyone you care about. Believe me, I know.

The river became a marsh of tall reeds. The sun blazed overhead. Snakes and crocodiles slid through the water. At the water’s edge sat a thatched hut. Outside it, a woman and a child of about ten stood examining a battered sarcophagus. I could tell the coffin had once been a work of art-gold encrusted with gems-but now it was dented and black with grime.

The woman ran her hands over the coffin’s lid.

“Finally.” She had my mother’s face-blue eyes and caramel-colored hair-but she glowed with magical radiance, and I knew I was looking at the goddess Isis.

She turned to the boy. “We have searched so long, my son. Finally we have retrieved him. I will use my magic and give him life again!”

“Papa?” The boy gazed wide-eyed at the box. “He’s really inside?”

“Yes, Horus. And now-”

Suddenly their hut erupted into flames. The god Set stepped from the inferno-a mighty red-skinned warrior with smoldering black eyes. He wore the double crown of Egypt and the robes of a pharaoh. In his hands, an iron staff smoldered.

“Found the coffin, did you?” he said. “Good for you!”

Isis reached toward the sky. She summoned lightning against the god of chaos, but Set’s rod absorbed the attack and reflected it back at her. Arcs of electricity blasted the goddess and sent her sprawling.

“Mother!” The boy drew a knife and charged Set. “I’ll kill you!”

Set bellowed with laughter. He easily sidestepped the boy and kicked him into the dirt.

“You have spirit, nephew,” Set admitted. “But you won’t live long enough to challenge me. As for your father, I’ll just have to dispose of him more permanently.”

Set slammed his iron staff against the coffin’s lid.

Isis screamed as the coffin shattered like ice.

“Make a wish.” Set blew with all his might, and the shards of coffin flew into the sky, scattering in all directions. “Poor Osiris-he’s gone to pieces, scattered all over Egypt now. And as for you, sister Isis-run! That’s what you do best!”