Annabeth Neverending (11 page)

“Get up, dear one. It is no matter. It is but a mere dress,” I say, noting the frightened countenance of the girl. What do I care for material objects? They used to be the cornerstone of my existence, but now they are meaningless.

Because the ripped material of my gown is hanging strangely, I tear the bottom off with my hands. It is a much shorter affair, and I can tell by Kha’s expression that he is furious. His inverted eyebrows betray his disapproval. But our attention is soon diverted to the solar event that is about to take place, that which the temple was built to accommodate.

“Come. Let us watch the solar spectacle together,” he says with an indignant edge to his voice.

I start to follow Kha but hang back just long enough for Sethe to catch up to me. I watch with trepidation as the sun’s rays creep into the interior of the building’s innermost chamber. Though we are standing outside the temple, its depths are now visible. A loud noise pierces my eardrums, and I am invigorated as the light bores into the mountainside like an archer aiming a bow directly at
its target. I feel as though I am communing with Ra. If only he could light my way.

There is a bright flash, and then a pushing, a twisting…

Sethe and I explore the cavernous rooms of the large temple, which are lit with narrow flaming torches and broad
-
based oil lamps. When Sethe’s head is turned for but a second, I run off as fast as my legs can carry me, which is the benefit of my new skirt length.

I have done this before, though never with Sethe. So far, I have behaved myself in his care. And though it is not wise, sometimes I purposely separate from whomever is guarding me. I will admit I enjoy the chase that ensues. But for the most part, I just need a moment to myself. Now that my world has been turned upside down, and I shall marry Kha, I must go and contemplate in private. It is a right most Egyptians hold dear. Yet it is one I am consistently denied.

“I need to be alone! For once…for once,” I murmur, not so much to Sethe as to myself.

“Your Majesty Princess! Come back!” Sethe repeats in frantic yet hushed tones.

I weave through the hall and lose him by hiding behind one of the titanic pillars of Osiris, god of the dead. I only come up to the ankles of the structure. I watch as Sethe checks every pillar for me, but I expertly dodge him. The moon is bright and the sky clear, so I decide to take a chance and slip outside.

I head toward what I believe to be the offering vestibule, but when I turn a corner, I spy Kha. I believe
—
I hope
—
that I am obstructed from his view, even though I can see everything from where I stand. He is with the maid who spilled the wine. Her arms are tied, and she is facing away from me. She has been secured to the horns on the cow
-
headed statue of Hathor. The goddess of joy would be appalled to know that her likeness is being used in such a way.

The girl’s dress has been pulled down so far that the whole of her rich brown back is showing. She would surely scream, but when she turns her head around, I can see that she has been gagged. Even though Kha is standing several feet away from her, and is only mimicking the movement of a whip in hand, the maiden’s skin is erupting in a torrent of grisly slash marks that ooze with blood so dark it looks like ebony. She writhes in misery.

“You must learn your lesson. You are never again to humiliate my Ana!”

Dear Ma’at! He is torturing her on my account? For shredding some cloth? For spilling some drink? What evil exists within him? And what black magic does he command? Does a god move through him? Am I doomed? Perhaps we are all doomed.

I am about to run over to stop him, but he has already finished his chore. Or is it his pleasure? Kha raises his hand into the air, and her dress flies back into place and secures itself. He swipes his finger in the air, and she is freed from her ties.

Should I voice my horror now or speak to Majesty Father first? I consider my sorry options, but gasp when I feel a hand tapping my shoulder. I turn and see Sethe, his fingers to his lips, shaking his head to silence me.

I’m torn from the frightening scene and plummeted into consciousness, where I’m met by the ear
-
piercing sound of screaming.

“She’s not responding! She’s not responding!” my mother cries.

The room is so devoid of light I can barely see Howie as he stands behind my mother, dangling the ankh necklace in his hand.

This’ll be hard to explain.

11

M
y teeth tap against each other so hard the sound can be heard above the din of the hospital’s grinding machines. Numerous fleece blankets have been piled upon me, but I’m quaking beneath them.

I’m rigged to an IV drip. My lips have been slathered with layers of Vaseline, but they still flake with dryness. The room buzzes with extra florescent lamps. My last vision amplified my side effects, which I’m experiencing simultaneously. Cumulatively, they’ve reached a whole new level, one that was impossible to hide.

How did I touch the ankh? I don’t even remember doing it! Did I take a hold of it while I was asleep? Or did it somehow move into my hand all by itself?

“At first glance, the seizures seem to be indicative of epilepsy. But none of the other symptoms
—
the hypothermia, the dehydration, the impaired vision
—
seem to point in that direction.”

I’m the patient, but I’m painstakingly evaluating my doctor. He’s changed a bit since I’ve seen him last. He looks older, and the pepper
-
to
-
salt ratio in his hair has flipped. But this doesn’t make him look distinguished; it makes him look tired. That’s probably typical of most overworked hospital doctors, I reason, though it doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. Luckily, I’m not really relying on his medical expertise.

He makes some notations on my chart, his face emotionless, though I imagine Mom and Dad are searching hard to see if his blank expression will betray anything.

“Could this be connected to the sleepwalking?” asks my mother as she chews on her lip.

“Yes, I suppose it could be related. But I’d like to do an MRI to be sure.”

He’s probably afraid of being overly decisive in case he gets sued. Or the likelier reason is that he just doesn’t know what to do with me. He never has. But in all fairness, who would?

My parents hover around my hospital bed, my mother sobbing while my father puts his arm around her. From their reaction, you’d think I was terminal. Even Howie seems upset, judging from the way he’s avoiding all eye contact with me. In a bid to keep occupied, he’s inspecting the contraption I’m hooked up to, something called an
electroencephalogram
machine
. Apparently, it records the electrical impulses traveling through my scalp.

If the machine could read my mind, it would find it on a continual loop: Does Gabriel have Kha’s powers? If so, does he plan to use them for nefarious purposes, just as his precursor did? Because ultimately, I’m not supposed to end up with the bad guy. Even though it appears as though my former self might have married him.

I thought committing incest was the worst prospect imaginable, but marrying an evil sorcerer isn’t a great option either. Even if he’s a dangerously sexy one. Even if I care for him deeply in this incarnation. Is it all part of his despicable plan?

On the slippery slope of terror so far, seeing Kha practice black magic is at the pinnacle. Just thinking about Kha and his powers causes the base of my neck to tingle, as though it’s been stuck with a thousand tiny needles. And yet, I long to see Gabriel at this very moment. Did he cast some sort of evil spell on me?

It took the ankh to reawaken my memories, but maybe Kha’s latest incarnation brought his powers with him. If he was a sorcerer, he may have been able to take more of his previous consciousness with him into new lives than I have. That’s the worst
-
case scenario, and unfortunately it sounds kind of plausible.

I’ve never prided myself on my good judgment, but getting involved with a black
-
magic
-
wielding villain takes poor decision making to a whole new low. But I must be missing something, misinterpreting something. This isn’t how sweeping romances are supposed to work. In the absence of the hero, the heroine should not fall in love with the bad guy…though I guess everything gets reimagined in time. But now the hero is back. How will that affect this “happily ever after”?

My mother sweeps the bangs away from my face. She grabs my hand while sniffling erratically.

I feel guilty. My family is so worried. How do I explain to them that my problems aren’t due to a failing in my brain but a failing with my body? How do I tell them that I can’t withstand my own past
-
life memories without getting committed?

“It isn’t epilepsy,” I state with confidence.

“Really? Because I heard that you’ve developed a history of seizures,” says Dr. Zaki accusingly.

“Can epilepsy bring on hallucinations?” I ask desperately.

“It can. People who have epilepsy often have an ‘aura’ before a seizure. They may see a bright light, smell something strong, or have other perceptually real experiences.”

Now I’m regretting that I asked. My visions occurred during the seizures instead of beforehand, but maybe they could still classify as “auras.” What if my memories are nothing more than an elaborate invention of my diseased mind? And Sethe and Kha are merely two sets of handsome synapse misfires? What if Gabriel doesn’t have the potential to be an evil villain after all? Maybe he’s just your everyday archaeology student, one with slightly eccentric personal style.

Part of me, the piece that aches for Gabriel, is hoping that it’s epilepsy because then there would be no questions, no mystery. Everything would be…simple. Yes, having a seizure disorder would make my life much easier.

“Our other tests already ruled out the more common potential causes, like diabetes,” the doctor says.

My parents look only somewhat encouraged, and I’m not comforted at all. Howie continues to poke around with the machinery. Dr. Zaki’s mouth puckers in exasperation and looks like he’s about to reprimand my brother when my mother dives in.

“Don’t, Son! You could break that!”

“Maybe an environmental factor is to blame. An extreme allergic reaction,” Dr. Zaki suggests.

Uh
-
oh.

“She was holding a necklace when I found her,” Howie blurts out.

“No! Please don’t,” I urge.

“You have to hand it over. We need to get this tested,” says the doctor while putting out his hand.

Howie looks torn, but that doesn’t stop him from considering it. How could he think of giving my amulet, my dear pendant, to this doctor? A medical practitioner whom I’ve never much cared for. Never much trusted.

I shoot a pained nod toward Howie. I’ve been backed into a corner just as he has. It isn’t like my parents will give me a choice in the matter at this point. Now that they know of the existence of my precious…

My precious.

Howie reluctantly pulls out the ankh and gives it to the doctor, who turns it over in his hands. I wish I could do the same, but I’ll never have the chance. Especially now.

It was one thing when I put distance between us by locking my necklace in the hope chest, but it’s quite another to be separated by force. As if that isn’t bad enough, I have no clue about what their “testing” entails. For all I know, the lab could destroy my pendant beyond all recognition, leaving nothing left for me to cling to, nothing for me to hold. If something happened to the ankh, my past would no longer inform my present. And then where would I be?

“It won’t be harmed, will it?” I demand wildly, imagining acid baths and vials of melted gold as my heart
-
pressure monitor begins beeping loudly.

“Doctor, she’s getting too upset!” cries my mother.

“I’ll make sure that it isn’t damaged,” the doctor insists as he puts my ankh into a plastic bag. He labels it with stereotypically illegible handwriting and drops it into the pocket of his white lab coat.

“Please! That means everything to me,” I cry, tears coursing down my cheeks.

“Your health should mean more.”

My mother strokes my arm to calm me, and the monitor’s noise slowly subsides. But I must believe it’ll come back to me. Even if it isn’t true.

It’s a good thing I don’t have claustrophobia. Otherwise I’d lose my grip while lying inside this tiny, coffin
-
like apparatus. Machinery buzzes around my head, mapping my cranium, causing me to sweat, making me worry as a terrible thought emerges. What if something
is
wrong with my brain? What if the problem isn’t psychological or supernatural
—
but medical? My brain could be so damaged that there’s no knowing just what is and isn’t real.

This could be like one of those badly written books, predictable in its unpredictability, where the final twist is that
it’s all in my head
. Isn’t that more likely than the other explanation, that I’m a reincarnated princess? That I was promised to an ancient Egyptian evildoer? Doubt creeps over me, poisoning my thoughts and settling into my insides like a rock.

Things continue to snowball when I’m informed that I need to convalesce in the hospital indefinitely. Stuck in this dreary hellhole for an unspecified amount of time.

“I’m under quarantine? You’re acting like I have Ebola or something!”

“It’s doctor’s orders,” my father chimes in.

“Look, you can never be too careful. It’s just until all your symptoms have gone away and we’ve heard about the pendant’s composition,” says my mother.

“But…but…,” I stutter.

“And no phone or computer either. I want you to relax,” my mother commands.

“Relax or suffer?”

My mother’s eyebrows raise in surprise. She probably didn’t realize she was being this passive
-
aggressive herself. I guess she wants to teach me a lesson for not cluing her in on the seizure thing.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You know that you can come to me with anything!” she says, her hurt evident.

“I didn’t want to burden you. You’ve gone through enough with me already.”

“Is there anything else you’re keeping from me? I want the truth,” she says sternly, her arms crossed.

Now would be the time to put it all out there. Take the weight from my shoulders and place it squarely on hers. But there’s no way she’d believe me anyway. Confessing at this point would be a one
-
way ticket to therapy, in addition to all the other medical procedures I’m forced to endure.

“No,” I say. Now I’m lying about lying. “Can’t I go home and recover there? I know how much it costs to keep me here. We’re still in debt from my sleepwalking treatments!”

“Annabeth, we’d gladly spend every cent we have if it helps you get well,” my father says while patting my shoulder.

“You’ve wasted enough on me already. Besides, I think you’re worrying too much. This isn’t necessary,” I maintain.

“Your family’s medical history is a mystery to us because you were adopted. You have to understand that we can never worry enough,” Mom explains, though this doesn’t exactly put me at ease.

“Dad, are you sure we need to do this?” I ask, my eyes pleading.

“We should do what the doctor thinks is best.” My dad’s pinched expression shows he doesn’t necessarily think Dr. Zaki knows what’s right, but he doesn’t argue either. If only my dad had a little more backbone. He always caves. I don’t want to be with a guy who blindly gives in to all my whims. Although a practitioner of black magic is probably going too far in the other direction.

My eyelids snap open like rubber bands that have been pulled to their limit and released. I’m doubled over, my arms curled into my torso while lying in a rumpled lump on the hard, speckled linoleum. While my stomach doesn’t hurt, exactly, it feels like it should be aching. It’s as though there’s a phantom pain emanating within me. Wracking my innards, pulsating through my midsection.

There are several nurses lying on the ground, surrounding me, crying softly to themselves. I run to give each of them aid in turn, struggling a bit as I yank them to their feet. Their joint gratitude leaves something to be desired. They thank me in a decidedly low
-
key, unappreciative fashion.

Why are they eying me so angrily? Why do they bristle at my touch? It’s obvious that I sleepwalked, but what exactly did I do?

“You attacked us,” says one of the nurses stiffly.