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.
Raphael picked up Anubis’s fang off the altar.
“Raphael!” I screamed.
The statues jumped, breaking their coats of clay, and grabbed Raphael. He clamped the one in front of him in a death grip. I rushed them from one side, Roman from the other. The clay-covered man in front of me unhinged his jaw and sank his fangs into Raphael’s side. My hands closed about his neck. I squeezed, crushing bone and cartilage, and jerked the corpse aside, hurling if off the pyramid. Roman stabbed his staff into the spine of the second man and then Raphael opened his hands and the third cultist fell, lifeless.
Raphael fell. I caught him and lowered him down.
His blue eyes were wide open. “It’s hot.”
I jerked my knife from my belt, grabbed Raphael’s ACU top and cut it, stripping it off. Two bites, one on the right arm and the other on the torso. I yanked my backpack open, grabbed Doolittle’s antivenom gun, and shot it into the first bite.
“Don’t move.” Don’t die. Don’t die, Raphael. Don’t die.
I sank two more shots into him and then three more into the other bite.
“Behind you,” Raphael barked.
I whipped around. The fourth statue snapped upright right next to the snake’s head, half-hidden by the serpent’s skull. Roman charged it.
The clay-smeared man howled something wordless and angry. Roman shoved his staff into the man’s chest. The scream turned to a gurgle, as blood spilled from the cultist’s mouth. Roman freed the staff with a sharp jerk, stumbled back, and slid down, leaving a bloody smudge on the clay Apep’s neck.
“The knife,” Raphael squeezed out. His body bucked in my hands, rigid.
I shot more antivenom into him. It was all I could do.
“The knife,” he croaked.