The Anubis Gates

Upon their return to Cairo the Master delayed Romanelli’s return to Turkey long enough to fashion a duplicate of him out of the magical fluid paut. The animated duplicate, or ka, was ostensibly made to travel to England with Fikee and assist him in performing the Anubis summoning, but all three knew that its main task would be to serve as a guard over Fikee and prevent any dereliction of duty. Since the odd pair would be living with Fikee’s tribe of gypsies until the arrival of the Book and the vial of their Master’s blood, Fikee dubbed the ka Doctor Romany, after the word the gypsies used for their language and culture.

Another howl broke from the tent downstream, this one sounding more like pieces of metal being violined against each other than an issue from any organic throat. The sound rose in volume and pitch, drawing the air as taut as a bowstring, and for a moment, during which Romany numbly noted that the river was holding still like a pane of rippled glass, the ringing, grating peak note held, filling the dark countryside. Then something seemed to break, as if a vast bubble over them had popped, silently but palpably. The ghastly howl broke too, and as the shattered bits of sound tumbled away in a mad, despairing sobbing, Romany could feel the air spring back to its usual pressure; and as though the molecules of the black fabric had all abruptly relaxed even their usual clench, the tent burst into bright yellow flame.

Romany sprinted down the bank, picking his footing with ease in the glare of the fire, and with scorching fingers flicked the burning entry curtain aside, and bounded into the smoky interior. Fikee was a huddled, sobbing bulk in the corner. Romany slammed the Book of Thoth shut and put it in the gold box, tucked that under his arm and stumbled outside again.

Just as he got away from the intense heat, he heard a barking, whimpering sound behind him, and turned. Fikee had crawled out of the tent and was rolling on the ground, presumably to put out his smoldering clothes.

“Amenophis!” Romany called over the roaring of the fire.

Fikee stood up and turned on Romany a glance devoid of recognition, then threw his head back and howled like a jackal at the moon.

Instantly Romany reached into his coat with both hands and drew out two flintlock pistols. He aimed one and fired it, and Fikee folded up in midair and sat down hard several feet behind where he’d been standing; but a moment later he had rolled back up on his hands and knees and was scuttling away into the darkness, now on two legs, now on all fours.

Romany aimed the other pistol as well as he could and fired again, but the loping shape didn’t seem to falter and soon he lost sight of it. “Damn,” he whispered. “Die out there, Amenophis. You do owe us that.”

He looked up at the sky—there was no sign of any gods breaking through; he stared toward the west long enough to satisfy himself that the sun wasn’t going to reappear. He shook his head in profound weariness.

Like most modern magics, he thought bitterly, while it probably did something, it didn’t accomplish what it was supposed to.

Finally he tucked the pistols away, picked up the Book and bobbed slowly back to the gypsy camp. Even the dogs had hidden, and Romany met no one as he made his way to Fikee’s tent. Once inside, he put down the gold box, lit a lamp, and then far into the night, with pendulum, level, a telescope and a tuning fork and reams of complicated calculations geometrical and alchemical, worked at determining to what extent, if any, the spell had succeeded.

CHAPTER 1

“In this flowing stream, then, on which there is no abiding, what is there of the things which hurry by on which a man would set a high price? It would be just as if a man should fall in love with one of the sparrows which fly by, but it has already passed out of sight.”

—Marcus Aurelius

When the driver swung the BMW in to the curb, braked to a quick but smooth stop and clicked off the headlights, Brendan Doyle hunched forward on the back seat and stared at the rubbled, fenced-in lot they’d arrived at. It was glaringly lit by electric lights on poles, and he could hear heavy machinery at work close by.

“Why are we stopping here?” he asked, a little hopelessly. The driver hopped nimbly out of the car and opened Doyle’s door. The night air was cold. “This is where Mr. Darrow is,” the man explained. “Here, I’ll carry that,” he added, taking Doyle’s suitcase.