The Pyramid of Souls

Copyright © 2010 by Erica Kirov

Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover illustrations © Eric L. Williams

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kirov, Erica.
Magickeepers : the pyramid of souls / by Erica Kirov.
p. cm.

Summary: Thirteen-year-old Nick Rostov and his large, extended family of Russian Magickeepers continue to battle the evil Shadowkeepers, who now seek a miniature pyramid of souls that once belonged to Edgar Allan Poe.

[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Magicians—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. 4. Families—
Fiction. 5. Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809–1849—Fiction. 6. Las Vegas (Nev.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
II. Title: Pyramid of souls.
PZ7.K6382Map 2010
[Fic]—dc22

2009049936

I would like to thank all of the children in my life, including those I have met while visiting classrooms. A very special thank you to Becky Mills, an extraordinary teacher. Your support of the book is very special. A shout-out to Mrs. Mills's class of 2008–2009. You guys totally rock. I hope middle school is being kind to each of you and that you will always be certain of the magic you store inside your hearts.

   I cannot possibly name all the kids who have written to me and those who are my friends, but…a few names: Tyler, Zachary, Tori, Cassidy, Pannos, Eva, Sofia, the gang from New Hope—you all know who you are. A special acknowledgment to Lauren (who always lets me know how excited she is when she is reading my books), Miranda (who got to be a character!), and of course, especially my friend Jacob P., who was the first kid I let see the galleys of Magickeepers Book 1.

   To my agent, Jay Poynor, who has always been my biggest fan and supporter. To Lyron Bennett, who first embraced the Magickeepers, and now to Daniel Ehrenhaft—his enthusiasm has been so terrific. An
enormous
thank you to the staff at Sourcebooks Jabberwocky. I feel like I am in author heaven with you guys—from the team that pulled together the incredible cover, to those who painstakingly edited the manuscript, to Heather Moore in publicity. Dominique Raccah has assembled one of the best teams in the publishing universe.

   To my best friend, Pammie, for being a beacon of support to me. Last, but never least, to my children, Alexa, Nicholas, Isabella, and Jack, who provide me with so much inspiration, in particular for this series…but also, quite simply, in life.

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

—Donald Wills Douglas

Edgar Allan Poe sat at his wooden desk and stared out the window at the starless midnight sky. His jumbled study reflected the scattered state of his mind. Books competed for space on shelves and had tumbled to the floor in small piles, their spines cracking. A lantern burned, its flames creating a flickering glow on the plain white walls.

   His wife, Virginia, was in the small back bedroom, coughing in her sleep. Consumption was ravaging her health, and Poe was even more desperate now for success. He was weary of fighting for every penny, every scrap of recognition. Though he'd made a living—barely—as a literary critic, he longed for success as a writer. He needed a poem or short story that would capture the imagination of both an editor and the nation: one that would make him wealthy, famous, and able to care for Virginia.

But inspiration would not come.

   He stared down at the paper, quill pen in his hand. The white page taunted him with its blankness. He clutched his temples, urging words to spring into his mind…then reached for the snifter on his desk. He took a deep, long swallow of amber cognac. More than he cared to admit, his inspiration flowed from the burning liquid—but tonight, the muse did not come.

   And if not now, then…would the muse ever?

   "Please," he whispered desperately; it was almost a prayer. "Inspiration. That is what I need."

   From the back bedroom, he heard Virginia's rattling cough. He felt as if his own lungs shuddered. He winced, then dropped his head in his hands, anguish etched in his pale face.

   
Tat-tat-tat.

   Poe jumped nearly out of his skin at the sound. He stared at the cognac bottle. Its color was so alluring, like a jewel. Was he now having hallucinations?

   But then he heard the sound again.

   Something was at the window.

   He felt a tingle, as if a cockroach skittered up his spine, and then a chill filled him with dread. How could something be at the window? He was on the second floor.

   Shaking, he stood and crept toward the panes of glass, peering out into the darkness. He wondered if a tree branch could have broken free from the oak across the way.

It was a more insistent sound. The pecking of a beak.

   Squinting in the lamplight, Poe cautiously opened the window. A large, black bird stared at him inquisitively from the sill. Blinking twice, it stepped in and alighted on the floor. Poe's heart thudded in his chest. The bird was not small. With its head erect, turning in nearly a full circle atop its neck, the bird easily stood taller than his knees.

   "Once upon a midnight dreary," the bird spoke in a voice as clear as Poe's own.

   Poe blinked.
That voice! It was deep, familiar…but entirel
y alien at the same time. He took three steps backward and fell into a chair.

   "I
am
hallucinating," he muttered to himself.

   "Nothing of the sort," the bird replied. "I am here to bring you your deepest desire."

   "A raven…to answer my deepest desire? How do you propose that?" Poe asked. He scarcely believed he was talking to a bird, still half-certain it was all a dream or a bad batch of cognac.

   "My name is Miranda. I have come as an answer to your prayer. Write down what I say, and you will be rewarded."

   Poe stared.
Miranda. Her beak was ebony and forbidding
. Its point appeared dagger-sharp.

   "Your pen. Begin writing," the bird insisted. She took several hops and preened her feathers, which shone like mica in the lamplight. She spread her wings, blocking the light, casting Poe in shadows.

   Poe returned to his desk, still not certain of anything— including his own sanity. He dipped his quill in ink and began copying down the raven's words.

   "While I nodded, nearly napping…" the bird spoke. Her voice was throaty, clear, and haunting.

   Poe scribbled as the bird dictated.

   "But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling…" She flitted and hopped toward the long-cold fireplace. The log Poe had burned was now nothing more than ash.

   "What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore…meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'"

   As Poe wrote down "Nevermore," he felt a spark of recognition.
Nevermore…sounded
precisely like a raven's autumnal call.
Brilliant!
he thought.

   The bird continued, "'Is there—
is
there balm in Gilead?— tell me—tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'"

   As if in a trance, Poe continued to write, terrified that he might miss a perfect word of this gem-like utterance, this masterful poem.

   "'Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'"

   Poe gasped as the poem started to draw to a close. "And

my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor… shall be lifted—nevermore!"

   When the bird was finally done speaking, Poe stared down at eighteen stanzas of poetry, six lines each. It was perfection— the greatest poem he had ever written, even if the words filling the previously blank page weren't his own creation.

   "That poem shall make you famous, Edgar Allan Poe," the raven said proudly. She stretched her wings and shook her tail feathers.

   "Why have you come to me?" Poe whispered, unconsciously turning toward the room where his wife lay coughing. His eyes flashed back over the poem, still marveling at its genius.

   Miranda flew and landed on his desk. Her eyes shone like two black diamonds.

   "In exchange for this poem, someday I shall return to you and ask you for a favor. You may not refuse me, Edgar Allan Poe, or you will experience ruin and death. Is that understood?"

   "But what kind of favor?" Poe asked.

   "A magical favor. I may need you to hold something for me—for safekeeping. From forces you cannot understand. Forces nearly as old as sand and time. Shadows."

   Poe swallowed. Could this bargain be worth it? But there, staring at him, were the words on the paper, so magnificent. He thought of his life, moving from city to city for jobs as an editor, begging for money from benefactors so he could write or keep afloat the literary magazines he worked so hard to create. These words were worth any bargain. Surely they were.

   But then he felt that reptilian chill again.

   From the back bedroom, Virginia coughed once more—a rattling sound, as if she'd begun to drown. Poe winced. Just that afternoon, she'd coughed into a lacy handkerchief, and spots of blood had formed an ominous pattern.

   Sweating, frightened, and desperate, he nodded at the bird. "We have a deal."

   "Do you swear it? On your honor and word as a gentleman?"

   "I swear it," Poe breathed, his voice hollow.

   "Excellent," spoke the raven.

   Outside, a fierce wind rose up from nowhere, filling the room and rustling Poe's books and papers.

   "They are near," the bird whispered. She took flight and soared out the window, her call echoing through the night. "They are near! They are near! Nevermore! Nevermore!"

   Edgar Allan Poe ran to the window and shut it, locking it in fear for his life.

   He returned to his desk, sweating nervously despite the cold air. What kind of deal had he just made? Had his bargain been struck with the forces of evil? Had he gone mad? A bird with supernatural powers…

   He pulled his silver pocket watch from his vest pocket and pressed the fob. The watch opened, revealing a photo of Virginia and a small lock of her hair.

   "I would do anything for you, my love," he whispered. "I always will."

   But what would it cost him?

On the very top floor of the Winter Palace Hotel and Casino, Nick Rostov and his younger cousin Isabella sat on his immense four-poster bed playing cards at midnight—long past both their bedtimes. Isabella rested her head on her enormous Siberian tiger, Sascha, as if the ferociously huge yet tame cat was a furry pillow. The tiger purred as loud as an outboard motor.