Ahead the river forked, flowing around an island, a dense mess of underbrush and cypresses. A small piece of white cloth dangled from the low-lying bush, dead center of the river. In the past when Jim’s people had left markers, they were to the left or to the right, indicating which way we had to turn. This one was straight on.
“Island coming up,” I said. “I don’t think we’re going around this time.”
“Got it.”
Since last night, Raphael had said exactly sixteen words to me. He was distancing himself. It was probably better this way.
The boat slid into the muddy shore. I jumped out into the soggy soup of mud and water and pulled back the canvas covering the bottom of the boat. Guns stared at me, wrapped lovingly in plastic to keep the moisture out. Two shotguns. A Heckler & Koch UMP submachine gun. And my baby, a Parker-Hale M-85, my sniper rifle of choice. They didn’t make them anymore. She was a gift from my sniper instructor and she let me put a bullet into the center of a man’s forehead at nine hundred and sixty meters. She had never failed me.
I took the rifle and one shotgun, Raphael shouldered the backpack filled with ammunition and grabbed the UMP and the other shotgun. A moment later Roman docked and pulled back his own canvas, gathering up a giant rucksack filled with magic paraphernalia, and picked up my compound bow and two quivers filled with arrows. We set off through the swamp, moving as quietly as the wet ground allowed.
The ground climbed up. There must’ve been an outcropping of rock under all that mud. We kept going up the gently rising hill.
Raphael stopped. A moment later I smelled it, too—smoke. We bent low, moving up the hill in complete silence, until finally we went to ground at its end.
A small city spread out in front of the hill, stretching across the floodplain. Huts and shacks made of wood, tents, premanufactured buildings, all connected by wooden walkways, radiating from a circular channel in the center. Muddy water filled the channel, draining off into the floodplain. In its center a massive structure stretched to the sky. At least three hundred feet tall, it resembled a spiral of smooth coils, wide at the ground and narrow as it twisted about the base again and again, reaching to the flat top.
A clay spiral. Roman’s prophecy was coming true.
“They built an enormous dog turd,” Raphael murmured.
“It’s a snake,” Roman said. “Look, see the head is resting on the top, and the snake is curling down around the pyramid. They’ve made their god out of clay, and then they’ll animate him. It’s very clever, actually.”
The coils at the bottom of the pyramid were at least eighteen feet tall. I put the binoculars to my eyes. The top of the pyramid was flat. The head of a colossal clay snake rested on one side, its eyes closed, Roman’s coveted staff thrust through the beginning of the snake’s neck. Next to the serpent three clay man-shaped statues sat, their legs crossed, their arms resting on their knees. Behind them a short stubby altar rose. On the altar lay Anubis’s fang.
I shifted the view down to the huts and counted, two, five, eight, ten, twelve…Thirty-two buildings. People walked to and fro, both men and women. A group of kids carrying fishing rods jumped off the walkway and splashed through the muddy water, heading into the swamp. A woman and a younger girl cleaned fish on a wooden table. A cat sat by their feet, waiting for a handout.
Let’s say four people per structure. That’s a hundred and twenty-eight people. At least. Some buildings looked significantly larger than others.
They killed four of our people. We had come here with the idea to shoot every cultist in sight. This was a search-and-destroy type of mission. I had no problem killing the adults, but nobody ever said anything about children being present.
An unmistakable wail of an infant in distress tickled my ears. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Roman sighed next to me. “Why? Why do they always bring babies into it?”
“Probably to feed them to the snake,” Raphael said.
Our original plan waved good-bye at us, stuck its thumb in its mouth, strained, and exploded. We had to stop the ritual. We had to get revenge for Nick, his son, and the families of other shapeshifters. And we had to make sure not to murder any kids.
“We could try for the knife,” I said.
“What? We run all the way to the top in the open?” Roman stared at me.
“The magic is down. Now is the best time to hit them.” I glanced at Raphael, looking for support. “No knife, no Apep.”
“What did I miss?” Anapa popped out of thin air and crouched down next to Roman, oblivious to mud staining his thousand-dollar suit.
“We’re going to get your tooth,” Raphael told him.
“Excellent.” He lay down on his back and put his arms behind his head. “Go on. Do your thing.”
“We need a diversion.” Raphael looked at Roman.
The volhv furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you looking at me for? The magic’s down.”
“I have explosives in my bag,” I offered. “If someone sets them off, it would buy us some time.”
We looked at Anapa.
“Who me?” He blinked.
“So you’re not going to help at all?” Roman chided him.
Anapa sighed.
I pulled the backpack open and took out flash grenades. “Look, this is simple. Pull the pins like this.” I pantomimed pulling the pins. “Throw. Run the other way. You’re the god of knowledge, you can do it.”
Anapa peered at the grenades. “Very well. Where do you want them thrown?”
I pointed to the left strand of trees. “There. In five minutes.”
“Very well.” Anapa took the grenades and walked off down the hill into the brush, looking absurdly out of place.
“Think he will do it?” Roman asked.
“We’ll find out.” Raphael was looking at the pyramid with the intense focus of a predator. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder.
I pulled my sniper rifle out of its plastic, chambered a round, and looked through the scope. Two people were guarding the path to the snake pyramid, two more were up on the slope, and then one last one was only a few feet under the snake’s head.
I took deep even breaths. Steady.
The man under the snake’s head was looking straight at me. He was older, with a careworn face and wrinkles. He looked so ordinary. What the hell was he even doing here on the slope, trying to resurrect an ancient god?
Steady.
The explosion flared on the left, tearing the silence with its thunder. It’s funny how a sudden threat separates people: two-thirds of the swamp city ran to their huts like good little civilians in danger, while the remaining third, armed with rifles and bows, dashed toward the explosion, trying to eliminate the danger.
I fired. A wet, red flower blossomed in the middle of the older man’s forehead. He pitched back and crumpled onto the clay body of his god.
I sighted the second sentry, midway up, a blond woman, and squeezed the trigger.
Two more shots. Two more people turned into corpses. Minimal casualties. People like to note “minimal” and forget about “casualties,” but it’s the casualties that wake you up at night.
I picked off another guard, close to the path, and jumped to my feet. We ran straight ahead, single file, Raphael in the lead, his knife out, the wicked curve sharp.
A man noticed us and swung his rifle, blocking our way. Before he could pull the trigger, Raphael sliced and kept moving. The man crumpled down.
We kept going, pounding our way down the wooden walkway. A woman shot into our way, eyes wide and terrified. She opened her mouth, baring twin fangs, and lunged at Raphael. His knife flashed again. The woman fell against the side of a house.
A shout rang from the left—another guard had noticed us. Two rifles snapped up. I fired faster than they did.
The walkway ended. We jumped into the mud, sinking in up to midshin, and waded through toward the pyramid looming ahead.
Bullets whistled past me. I turned around. A woman with a rifle at two o’clock. Aim, squeeze, take half a second to confirm that her body splashed into the mud.
Roman lagged behind. He was moving fast for a human, but not for a shapeshifter.
“Raphael!” I called.
He turned around and doubled back.
“No, I’ve got this,” Roman said.
Raphael picked him up out of the mud and we raced to the pyramid.
The clay body of Apep wound about the structure, and I finally realized why the entire thing wasn’t collapsing under its terrible weight—steel beams and the edge of concrete poked out from beneath the clay. The cultists had used some sort of structure as a base. How the hell had they gotten it down into the swamp?
Raphael set Roman down and they began climbing. I lingered. The sentries had done an about-face and were running toward us. I fired. The bullet took the first man in the stomach. He dropped into the mud. I fired again, knocking the second runner out of the lineup. They scattered, taking cover behind the huts.
I turned around and followed the men up the pyramid.
Shots rang out. A bullet bit into my side. Argh. Not silver, but it hurt like hell. My body clenched and expelled it. I kept climbing.
Another bullet burrowed into the mud an inch from my head. I shifted sideways, moving along the side of the structure, trying to put the thickness of the pyramid between me and the shooters.
A hail of gunfire tore from one of the huts.
“Honey!” Raphael called. He was above me, shielding Roman with his body.
I turned, pressing my back against the mud, and raised my rifle. The muzzle flash gave the shooter away—third hut on the left, in the window, a faint outline of a man’s head. I squeezed the trigger. The rifle barked, and a man’s head jerked back. The gunfire died. I turned around and kept climbing.
Above me Raphael and Roman climbed up onto the flat top of the pyramid. I grabbed the edge, pulled myself up, just as Raphael stepped toward the altar…
The magic wave drowned us. Oh no.
The clay statue of a man in front of me opened its eyes. Its human eyes. The clay figures weren’t statues. They were actual people, smeared with a thick layer of mud and left to bake, motionless, under the sun.
