R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

After a few minutes had passed, I said, “Right. You can take your arm out now.”

Slowly, Danver lifted his arm from the dish. His entire limb was encased in soft warm wax, all the way up to his shoulder. “Perfect,” I said.

“Now what?” asked one of the medics.

“Now we wait,” I said.

Within minutes, the wax began to turn murky as it drew the curse from Danver’s skin. It quickly went from a dirty gray to a greeny-black color, and the smell of sulfur rose up into the air. As it hardened, it began to crackle, a soft sound that worked its way up Danver’s arm as the fouled wax crackled and peeled itself away from his skin, falling in a vile mess.

I caught the wax bits with the dish, then shoved it at the medic. “This needs to be thrown on a fire immediately.”

“But it will foul the hearth,” one man said.

Wigmere shut him up with one look.

I bent forward to examine the arm. The curse was gone. No lumps or bumps or boils or blisters, or—“I say, it took all your hair with it.” I stepped back and wiped my brow.

Wigmere skewered me with a look.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never done this before?” he said.

I gulped. “Well, yes. But not on a man with a hairy arm.” I rushed to explain. “In his writings from the Middle Dynastic Period, Hassam Fahkir said it would work. And it did, didn’t it?” I braced myself for his anger.

Wigmere’s sharp eyes studied me. “Rather quick thinking, that,” was all he said. Then he turned back to his injured operative. When he was satisfied the man was out of danger, he motioned for me to follow him to the infirmary.

I was shocked by how pale Stokes was. He looked well and truly dead. I was afraid there’d been a blunder and someone had mistaken his death rattle as a call for Wigmere. (Really, if you mumble the name Wigmere, it sounds quite like a death rattle.)

The man who’d been tending him stepped back from the bed. Wigmere pulled up a chair and eased himself into it. “Stokes? Wigmere here. They say you wanted to see me?”

Nothing happened, and I began to worry that I’d been right. But then there was a sort of gasping sound, like I imagine a fish makes when he swallows the hook.

“Steady now,” Wigmere said.

Stokes’s eyes fluttered open. “Chaos,” he said. “It was Chaos.”

He was right about that. The whole morning had been a madhouse, if you asked me.

“Blast,” Wigmere said softly. “Do you know who?”

Stokes nodded again, then fell silent. Once he’d gathered enough strength he said, “Von Braggenschnott.”

“Von Braggenschnott!” exclaimed Wigmere.

I knew that name! Where oh where had I heard it before?

Stokes nodded and tried to continue.

“What was that?” Wigmere leaned even closer.

“Forces… of chaos… are rising… once more,” Stokes managed to get out.

“Blast!” said Wigmere. He pushed to his feet and barked out orders regarding Stokes’s care, then headed back through Level Six toward the lift. I hurried to keep up. For someone who needed a cane, he could gallop along surprisingly well when he’d a mind to.

“What does that mean, The forces of chaos are rising once more ?” I asked when he finally paused to wait for the lift.

He glanced down at me as if weighing whether or not he should tell me. “It means bad things are going to happen for a while, until we can sort this mess out.” He stopped and ran his hand over his face. He suddenly looked ten years older and infinitely more weighted down by the cares of the world. “This Heart of Egypt situation has the power to topple our entire nation if not handled properly.”

The full implications of what he was saying struck me. “What exactly do you mean, topple ?” I have found it always best to be absolutely clear on death-and-destruction stuff.

Wigmere began pacing in front of the lift door. “The curse on the Heart of Egypt is designed to weaken a nation, to make it easy to conquer. It was very cleverly designed by Thutmose Ill’s minister of war—”

“Amenemhab.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Yes. Exactly. Anyway, it is extremely powerful. It was a way to guarantee the power and glory of Thutmose III’s kingdom, even after his death. Whoever lifted the Heart of Egypt from the tomb would bring down upon their head famine, plague, pestilence. Destruction.”

For once, I was speechless. I could barely fathom the enormity of it all. A little thread of worry began unraveling in my stomach. “It will topple the Germans now that Von Braggenschnott has it. Right?”

“No,” Wigmere said, running his hands through his thick white hair. “It was removed by a British subject—”

I squirmed as I realized the British subject in question was Mother.

“— who brought it to British soil. It is Britain that is in danger. We must retrieve the Heart of Egypt and return it to Thutmose’s tomb. That is the only way to stop the bloody curse. Then we need to make sure it stays there!” He pushed the lift ringer with considerable force.

We rode back up the lift in silence. I was in such turmoil over the news I didn’t even notice my stomach when it dropped down to my ankles.

“And another thing,” Wigmere finally said, staring straight in front of him.

“Yes?”

“You’ve got to keep quiet about all you’ve seen here today. We’re a very secret operation. Very few people know about us. You mustn’t tell a soul.”

“No one? But surely Henry, since he’s been here.”

“Not a soul,” Wigmere said firmly. “Not your brother, not your parents.”

“But surely I can tell Mother and Father what’s happened to the Heart of Egy—”

“No! It is of utmost importance that you tell no one.”

“Very well,” I said solemnly, my heart sinking at all these new secrets I had to keep. “My lips are sealed.”

No matter what it might cost me.

THORNLEIGH AND HENRY WERE WAITING FOR US in Wigmere’s office. According to their report, Will never returned to the churchyard. Worried, I reminded myself that Sticky Will was very good at taking care of himself. He’d had lots of practice, and if he could survive the Seven Dials, he could survive anything.

Wigmere sent me and Henry back to the museum in one of the Brotherhood’s coaches. Henry peppered Thornleigh with questions the whole way, but the man kept mum. He had the driver let us off at the corner so that no one at the museum would see the coach. “Bye, then,” he said, as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “Excellent job, saving Stokes and Danver.”

“Who’s Danver?” Henry asked as the coach drove away.

“Never mind,” I said. We climbed up the stairs to the museum’s front entrance, and just in time. Flimp was getting ready to lock up. He rocked back on his heels as he waited for us to clamber through the door. “Someone’s been looking for you two all afternoon, they ’ave,” he chided us.

Henry and I stood in the anteroom for a moment, trying to get our stories straight. We were still whispering, trying to think of a story that wouldn’t get us in too much trouble, when who should come thundering in but Fagenbush.

He strode over to where we stood and peered down his long beak directly into my eyes, as if he were trying to read my mind. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“We went to visit the British Museum. To get out of the way. Everyone seemed extra busy today.” When fibbing, it’s always best to stick as close to the truth as possible.