R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

IT’S ALL VERY WELL AND GOOD to know that something’s cursed, but you still have to work out what on earth to do about it. Father has taught me that when all the clues fail to lead to a solid conclusion, there is research. Piles and piles of it. Of course, Father didn’t realize what I’d spend my time studying, but the fact of the matter was, research was my only defense.

When I was very young and first began to visit the museum, it terrified me, even though I was too young to understand why. Now, of course, I knew it was the evil curses and restless spirits I sensed wandering around the place. But all I knew back then was that if my parents learned of my fear, they wouldn’t let me come to the museum. Then I’d never get to see them! So I vowed to keep my fears to myself.

For years my parents thought I had a permanent chill, so badly did I shiver whenever I was near the museum. I still don’t know why the curses and spirits didn’t harm me. Although we did go through an astonishing number of junior curators and clerks. Most of them either had unfortunate accidents or took extremely ill. One or two of them appeared to have lost their minds completely. Fortunately, Mother and Father didn’t suffer the fate of those other employees. The only reason I could think that Mother was safe was because without her, the artifacts — and therefore the curses and spirits — would stay buried and obscure and never have a chance to wreak their havoc on mankind. It was almost as if by leaving her alone, they were thanking her for releasing them, although of course she had no idea what she’d done.

Father wasn’t as lucky. In fact, that’s how he injured his leg. He took a nasty tumble down all three flights of stairs. Afterward, he said it felt as if someone had just reached out and pushed him. I’m quite sure that someone — or something — did. Although I do think they went easy on him too, since he was the one who spent all his time restoring the artifacts to their former glory.

Of course, I didn’t understand any of this until I became old enough to read. Then I began researching everything we had in the museum, hoping that knowledge would replace my fear.

It wasn’t until I discovered the old, nearly forgotten volumes on ancient Egyptian magic that I began to understand. Once I’d read those I knew exactly what I was dealing with, and it wasn’t reassuring. Luckily, the old texts also listed ways to remove or nullify the curses. Slowly I began to learn of different antidotes and remedies. There were a few harrowing mistakes along the way, but mostly I’d been very lucky.

Since I spend so much time in the museum, I’ve claimed one of the small offices off the main reading room as my own study. (Our reading room is hardly ever used, as most everyone goes to the British Museum to do their research.) Father thinks I am attending to my studies, and I let him believe that. This morning I sat among arcane texts bound in leather and held together with buckles and straps, ancient clay tablets filled with rows and rows of hieroglyphs, and scrolls of parchment and papyrus on which ancient priests and sorcerers made their notations. I finally settled on Hidden Egypt: Magic, Alchemy, and the Occult, by T. R. Nectanebus. He seems to have picked up more bits about ancient spells and curses than anyone.

I took a bite of my jam sandwich and began to read. The cursed statuettes were often made of basalt, a hard black stone associated with the Underworld.

Now for the difficult part. I had to actually touch the thing with my bare hands. At least there wasn’t any moonlight and the curse lay quiet and dormant. Slipping off a glove, I reached out and tapped a fingernail against the statue. It was cold, hard stone, and definitely black. In fact, it looked exactly like the picture in the book. I pulled my glove back on and continued reading.

Once the statue had been inscribed with the necessary hieroglyphs, it was covered with magic spells and philters designed to transfer their power once the proper awakening agent was applied. This was primarily used for healing, but was occasionally used for evil purposes as well. If the statue was intended to curse instead of heal, the philter most likely contained snake oil (cobra or asp), which will give the object an exceptionally glossy texture. If cursed, the book said, the object will give off the faint scent of sulfur.

Curses did have a particular smell to them, and it wasn’t pleasant. I leaned forward and sniffed. It was hard to tell over the aroma of blackberry jam, but I was fairly certain I did detect a whiff of sulfur clinging to the statue’s glossy surface.

I resumed my reading, straining to make out the faded, spidery handwriting as dark gray clouds moved in and blocked what little light came in through the window. To neutralize the curse, make a small replica of the figurine out of wax, four-fingers-width tall. On the bottom of the figure, scratch the indicated hieroglyphs, then make a potion of the following ingredients. Say the indicated spell as you anoint the statuette with the potion. The potion will wake the spell and activate the curse, but the spell you chant will direct it into the small wax figurine, which must then be immediately consigned to flame. It is of critical importance to stay focused on the spell once it has begun.

Notice how Nectanebus didn’t say what the spell does once it’s activated. These ancient scholars always leave out the important stuff. Frankly, I’m not fond of surprises, as the ones around here tend to be rather wicked. When mucking about with ancient curses and black magic, I prefer to know just how bad things can get if they go wrong. Not that I’m certain I can fix them, but still, there is comfort in knowing.

Just then, Isis, who’d been curled up on the small couch warily eyeing the statuette, leaped to her feet. She arched her back and hissed at the door.

I slammed the book shut and glanced around, trying to find a hiding place for the statue. I snatched it off the desk and ended up shoving it back inside the rolled-up papyrus scroll.

The door burst open and Clive Fagenbush strode into the room. “Where is it, you pest?” he asked me.

You’d think the man was stalking me!

“Where is what?” I asked, taking a bite of jam sandwich, knowing it would disgust him and make him think of me as just a grubby little girl.

“The statuette of Bastet. Where is it?”

“Are you still going on about that? I told you, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Is Father looking for it?”

“No,” Fagenbush said with a snort. “He hasn’t even noticed it’s missing. But I have. It was an especially interesting artifact and I have… plans… for it. Now where did you put it?”

“Whatever would I be doing with a statuette?” I asked, trying to look as innocent as I could.

He took two long strides into the room until he was towering above me. His eyebrows drew together, forming a thick black V over his eyes. The cabbagy smell that clung to him, mixed with the sulfur fumes given off by the statue, made my eyes water.

“Give me that statue.”

I’d never seen him this furious before, and it took every speck of willpower to stand my ground. I would not back away, no matter how hard my knees knocked together. Refusing to let my eyes wander over to the rolled papyrus on the table, I gritted my teeth and stared back. “In case you’re hard of hearing, I do not have it. ”

Fagenbush drew in a deep breath and his long nose quivered. “I know you’re lying. I want that statue. I want it back where it belongs by sunset. Do you understand? I have plans for that statue.” His eyes raked over me. “And they do not include interference from a nasty, sticky little girl.” He smiled, and it was a chilling smile. “But that could change if you don’t cooperate,” he said meaningfully. Then he stormed across the room, muttering, “The child is a raving lunatic.”