Annabeth Neverending Read online

  “Regardless, I do wish I could help you, but my own position is too precarious as it is,” says Majesty Mother.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I fear that she shall surpass me as first wife.”

  “How can that be?” I ask, but it could happen. Things I never thought possible of late have been occurring with astonishing regularity.

  My mother sighs as Isetnofret enters the room and greets Ramses. She is wearing veritable sleeves of shimmering gold bangles and a dress of sheer silk. The gong is struck for the final time. It echoes throughout the palace, summoning any remaining stragglers.

  Majesty Father addresses the crowd before him:

  “I have some most excellent news to share with my people. As a climax to my celebration, I shall now be marrying Isetnofret of Luxor. It is a most prodigious match, one that is sure to provide me with many more heirs.”

  Heirs? Is that not the last thing he needs? There are already more than fifty males in line for the throne, and as crown prince, Amun is first in line.

  I see my mother eying Isetnofret, and though she tries to put on a brave face, she falters. Majesty Mother will have to pray for forgiveness, as jealousy is not something a queen is supposed to feel toward a romantic rival. It is a human emotion, and Majesty Mother has been deified. She is a Goddess Who Walks on Earth.

  Kha finds me, taking a position that is far too close. So close that I bristle at his touch.

  “You are lucky I had the…tools at my disposal to right the wrong you almost perpetrated against my sister.” I hear the dreaded sound of his voice as his sharp words stab into my ear.

  “Tell me more of these tools,” I say.

  “Once we are married,” breathes Kha with outrage. “Nefertari should have promised you to me when she had the chance,” he says, his eyes flashing.

  I turn and spy Sethe watching us. He must be trying to determine the tenor of our conversation. I smile, not wanting him to worry. He should not fret over my well-being, when my own actions have put me in this predicament.

  “Please. I was trying to honor my father.”

  “From this moment on, see that you honor me instead!” Kha smiles mirthfully. “This is just the beginning of the shift. It will be a new order. In time, my sister will take the place of Nefertari.”

  “I doubt that greatly, Kha,” I say, even though I’m plagued with that feeling. “Their love is celebrated throughout the kingdom.”

  “For now.”

  While I have always bought into the myth of the great and unbreakable love between my mother and father, I am beginning to realize that emotion is not always first and foremost when it comes to authority. The position of Majesty Mother, who is aging gracefully but aging nonetheless, is now threatened by this younger woman with powerful allies who have the pharaoh’s attention.

  Majesty Mother must have plotted for the marriage between Amun and myself in an effort to fortify her rank. I understand why she felt it necessary, yet I have never felt so betrayed. If only she had put my happiness above her own, I would not be facing marriage to such a heinous monster.

  But now Majesty Mother is paying dearly for using me, for trying to sacrifice her own daughter for personal gain. The gods have decided to deal with her harshly, for to her, being relegated to second wife would be a fate worse than death by heat stroke. I do not see how she could ever move beyond it.

  I watch on with the most powerful members of the realm as Ramses is joined in marriage to Isetnofret, which does not involve the exchange of loving words, only the signing of marital contracts. My mother, unable to witness the end of the ceremony, slips away. Surely my father will take umbrage with this, but I am sure she felt she would accidentally convey her sadness.

  Kha reaches over and grabs hold of my arm. To the rest of the world, including Sethe, it probably appears a sweet and romantic gesture. But he is squeezing it so hard the bones could very well break. The pain is unbearable, but I cannot scream at the wedding of my father. Such an act would make me a pariah. And so I find a way to withstand it. I may as well get used to it, for surely this will not be the last time.

  “Do not cross me again, Ana. Or you will be sorry.”

  “Princess, your mother is expecting you in her chambers,” Sethe cuts in and says authoritatively.

  Mercifully, Kha loosens his grip, and Sethe spirits me away. But not to my mother’s rooms. Instead he takes me on a labyrinthine journey through hallways that grow increasingly narrow, to clandestine areas of the palace a princess never would dare visit.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, dying to know what he has in store.

  “Everyone is too concerned with the wedding; nobody shall look for us here.”

  Lit by a single oil lamp Sethe managed to secure along the way, we descend into a cramped tunnel, one that forces us to bend down in order to access it. This is a secret place that must only be known to the slaves and servants, as it resides in the underbelly of the palace. Hieroglyphics surround us, and I skim them, reading them because they are right in front of me, though not paying enough attention to them to fully grasp their meaning.

  Sethe pulls me into a tiny, hidden chamber that seems to be a storage room for pieces of art that are not currently on display. Those that have been taken out of rotation temporarily, or, more likely, that have been permanently retired, I decide, by the thick layer of dust upon them. This is further evidenced by the exaggerated bust of Akhenaten looming in the corner. He was a pharaoh so controversial that they attempted to remove his image from every façade in our empire that bore it. Sethe is correct; this is a room where we can truly be alone.

  And now, in a heartbeat, we are both free. The thought has me giddy, like I have drunken deeply from a sloshing fountain of wine. For Sethe is the only one who can put me at ease. It is with him alone that I can be my true self, my best self. He makes me aspire to be more, whereas Kha makes me feel like I am becoming smaller, weaker. I worry that if I am doomed to marry Kha, I may disappear altogether.

  Sethe looks at me, pausing thoughtfully. I know why he hesitates to kiss me. Not only is it expressly forbidden, but it will bind us together. Our breath will mingle, and our souls will connect, latching on to one another for eternity. Yet, if his feelings are as strong as mine, that is but a minor deterrent. He traces his finger down the side of my cheek.

  “My heart is yours. And it shall belong to you until the end of time.”

  “As will mine. I swear it.”

  And Sethe gently cups my face in his hands. Finally, this is the moment I have longed for, dreamed of, and it is about to come to pass. I will be able to relive it again and again. A happy recollection to hold close to my heart when Kha showers his fury down upon me.

  Sethe leans in, hesitating, moving toward me slowly to give me the opportunity to put this to an end before it starts, but I do not. I have never wanted anything so much. His lips are finally about to brush mine—

  I jump back into my body at York Hospital, and my mother is shrieking. But she’s lost in the crowd. A team of medics has filled the small space to capacity. They’re working on me—prodding and poking, having brought me back to this modern era against my will.

  I just can’t get a break.

  14

  When I first see C. J., I hurry toward him through the gray, locker-lined hallways, past the senior bench emblazoned with our roaring cat team logo. But I slow down when I realize how pitiful that might look.

  As far as everyone else is concerned, I just met the guy, even though I’ve burned through my minutes talking with him on the phone and passed away the too few visiting hours venting to him in person—mostly about how much I miss Gabriel. So I can’t go literally chasing after him at school. People would get the wrong idea. And I have a rep to protect. Sort of.

  Finally, I catch up to him, and we walk side by side, a united front against
a wave of harried, book-toting teens.

  “So, how did the allergy test go?” C. J. asks, his brow creased in worry.

  “I had a severe reaction. Like, seizure-level severe.”

  “You’re kidding? How are you feeling now?” demands C. J.

  “Fine. But they discharged me because I agreed to carry this with me. For…forever.”

  I pull out a plastic-encased EpiPen and wave it dismissively in the air.

  “Well, at least it’s tiny,” retorts C. J., offering up the most optimistic comment in reach.

  “How are you adjusting to York High?” I ask, the side of my mouth twitching oh so subtly.

  “Pretty well. Though I’m bummed that you weren’t here to help guide me through the first few days,” he says with a sigh.

  Wordlessly, C. J. takes the books out of my hands and adds them to his pile. I don’t protest because I know he wouldn’t have it. This kind of chivalry is pretty unusual in high school, at least in mine. Not that I should expect anything less. But I do feel like it’s unfair—I should be waiting on him for a change. He’s spent at least one lifetime completely at my beck and call.

  I begin to notice the two-toned glances we’re drawing from my schoolmates. C. J. is attracting looks of lust, while I’m earning unwarranted looks of jealousy.

  “Luckily, everyone’s been really friendly.”

  “I’ll bet,” I reply, slightly annoyed that he’s a big man on campus, even though it’s no surprise.

  How can I compete? Though I remind myself that I’m not playing. I still have feelings for Gabriel, though they’re getting clouded, corrupted, compromised.

  It’s no wonder C. J.’s been attracting so much attention. Not only is he a novelty but he’s extraordinarily handsome in either lifetime. I note the subtle variations between C. J. and Sethe. It’s like they’re different makes of the same model.

  C. J.’s chestnut hair is a bit longer than Sethe’s. C. J.’s is shaggy, while Sethe’s was more closely shorn. And their coloring is different. C. J. is lighter complected than Sethe was. Sethe had more of a deeply bronzed look, but C. J. is almost as white bread as I am. They both have those unforgettable hazel eyes and that infectious smile, which he’s flashing at me right now, causing me to lower my defenses.

  Causing me to vaguely, in the abstract, consider…us.

  I find my eyes traveling down to C. J.’s lips, wishing that I could remember what it was like to kiss them. That was the worst kind of cliffhanger because I have no idea if or when it will ever pay off. But there’s no need to feel ashamed or guilty. A girl can window shop.

  After all, Gabriel is over. Done.

  That doesn’t mean I’m going to jump on top of C. J. Even though it’s very tempting.

  I put an end to my mental waffling when some guys from the wrestling team strut over to C. J., and there’s a flurry of fist bumps and high fives. Even though the football team is more obvious and in your face, wrestling is the sport that actually matters. So for C. J. to just waltz in off the street and make varsity is a coup. But then he’s always been a wrestler. It must be encrypted into his metaphysical DNA.

  I assess the varsity players, and my palms begin to sweat. I feel completely out of my element with these boys, and so I fade into the background. Most would consider them the coolest group in school. But I’ve never cared for them, and with good reason. Bernadette says they poke fun at me, but I think they make fun of me. Especially the freckle-faced, snub-nosed Billy Jacoby, Kerry’s ex. He’s sure got a lot of attitude, considering that unsightly cauliflower ear he’s got going, a disgusting hazard of the sport. Hopefully C. J. won’t succumb to it.

  C. J. and I resume our walk to my locker, and I can see the vibrant letters popping from their drab background on my approach. My jaw clenches, my eyes burn in anticipation of the tears. As I get closer, I can clearly make out the word FREAK on my locker door in bold red spray paint.

  C. J. looks at the graffiti inquisitively. I try to swallow my shocked horror, my blazing anger, as I take a hold of my combination lock and turn the ticking number wheel. I indignantly crack the locker open. It’s obvious to all passersby that the freak in question is…me.

  From the careful way the wrestlers are watching us, it seems that one of them was the vandal. Though we aren’t on the edge of our seats long. Billy puts out his arms while doing a stereotypical zombie walk. His tongue hangs from his mouth as he moves jerkily down the hallway. Billy dissolves into a fit of laughter, and his teammates join in.

  “Oh, are you gonna hit me now? I heard you can do that in your sleep too. What else can you do?”

  I turn toward my locker door while sobbing into my hands. I hiccup slightly, which adds another dimension to my mortification.

  “I’ll take care of this,” announces C. J.

  Darkness falls over C. J.’s brow, fury drawing it into a deep scowl. He springs at Billy and grabs a hold of his shirt collar, jerking it upward in a swift motion. C. J., who’s considerably larger and more muscle bound, pulls Billy’s face up to his, and Billy suddenly transforms from an aggressor to a coward as the scared whites of his eyes become fully visible.

  “Leave her alone,” C. J. says through gritted teeth.

  15

  A humbled, broken Billy nods and turns away, along with the rest of the teammates, the goons. My body grows stiff, my face long. Being disgraced in this way seems more than I can take. But having C. J. stand up for me somehow negates it.

  When C. J. is finished posturing, he looks at me apologetically. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  “No need to apologize. After that…Well, I can’t believe you’re still standing here,” I say with a meek smile.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I find myself growing quiet, falling into my thoughts. Seeing C. J. run to my aid just like Sethe would’ve done is making me melt. And I don’t want to feel so very weak. So very vulnerable.

  “Let’s forget about Billy. After all, he’s got enough to deal with…like that ear. Just make sure you wear your headgear when you wrestle. I don’t want you getting all cauliflowered!” I say as I playfully tug on C. J.’s lobe.

  “I swear,” he says with a slow and convincing nod.

  “Where are you headed now?” I ask, hopeful.

  He glances at the schedule in his hand, his teeth sparkling even in the glare of the overhead fluorescent bulbs.

  “Algebra II with Albertson?”

  “We’re in the same class. Why am I not surprised?”

  I try to keep my eyes averted. I tell myself that I cannot stare at C. J. for the entirety of class, even though he’s sitting in the half desk next to me. I’m not allowed to look at the manly curve of his jaw or the way his broad shoulders fill out his shirt…even though he just stood up for me—against his own teammates—and probably caused some trouble for himself in the process. But somehow, already I matter that much to him.

  Before, he was impossibly far away. But now he’s distractingly close. I don’t see how I’ll be able to concentrate. And I have a hard enough time with that already. The thing is, I was doing all right in math before letters got involved.

  I watch Mr. Albertson, the faculty’s youngest but most uptight teacher, write some problems on the dry-erase board. I flip around the cover of my spiral-bound notebook and set it on my desk. I write down the problems, but this quickly evolves into drawing. I fill the page with hieroglyphics, and I glance up and notice C. J. watching me with interest.

  At first, I work at a leisurely pace, drawing slowly and meticulously, but in no time the hieroglyphics force themselves into existence with considerable speed. I feel as though another hand has overtaken mine. It reminds me of using the Ouija board with Kerry and Bernadette. Only this time, there isn’t another person to blame for what’s happening. It’s all me.

  While the process seems a l
ittle bizarre at first, in time it becomes downright disturbing. I gasp as I spill the ancient symbols onto the college-ruled pages. It’s like somebody’s turned on a faucet and the handle’s broken off. The images are cascading from my hands with such momentum. As my scribbling grows faster, it also grows louder. I gaze around and find that all eyes in the classroom are now upon me—including C. J.’s. Especially C. J.’s.

  I have to swallow my building fright, my looming distress. Don’t cry, even though you know you want to, because this new habit is especially weird, especially disruptive. I never should’ve assumed I’d avoided the side effects altogether. I suppose that because I wasn’t exposed directly to the ankh itself, my reaction was delayed.

  “What’s going on?” C. J. asks. I try to look up and can tell that his face is lined with worry, even though I can scarcely tear my eyes away from my notebook.

  “Not much,” I say while drawing some hieroglyphs on top of others.

  I fill my notebook in no time and start attacking my desk, when C. J. gently puts his notebook under my hand to catch the overflow. I quickly lay waste to that one as well. As the images appear, I can read every sign, every symbol. Leopards, elephants, owls. Feathers, leaves, stars. Gods, pharaohs, slaves. All forming pictures of historic events, family occasions.

  “Could you please stop doodling, Ms. Prescott?” asks Mr. Anderson rather sternly.

  I try to come up with a good excuse for my behavior.

  “They’re hieroglyphics. They’re almost equations of a sort, you know, picture plus symbol plus letter equals word, so this relates to your lecture.”

  Mr. Anderson purses his lips in disbelief. I can’t blame him for not buying it. It’s a bit of a stretch.

  The only thing I can figure is that having gone through yet more sensory overload, my body is looking to expel unnecessary information. It’s like I’m ridding myself of all the hieroglyphics I viewed in my memory to make more space in my brain. A mental spring cleaning or something.