Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) by Elise Stokes Page A
Authors: Elise Stokes
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showcased artifacts recovered from the queen’s tomb: ornate gold necklaces and armlets encrusted with precious stones, a shrine box with figurines depicting the queen, a carved wooden head coming out of a blue lotus representing her divine birth. There were alabaster jars for perfume, beetle rings symbolizing the afterlife, a model of the solar boat transporting her to the afterlife, a slew of shawabty helper statues that looked like mini-mummies, and of course, real mummies, too.
The queen lay in a gilded gold mummy case carved with hieroglyphics. A golden death mask covered her face, and her crown rested on her chest. The crown was stunning, with inlaid emeralds that showcased a large amber stone centered in the golden circlet. Over her coffin hung a translation of the curse.
It said, They that shall remove the crown will meet a swift death by the hands of seven.
Seven coffins that looked like packing crates were lined up on the other side of Queen Kiya. Each held a mummy, save for the seventh coffin. These mummies were disgusting, obviously not having been wrapped with the care that their queen had been. Ashy-looking decay peeked out from strips of tattered linen, and what had once been flesh was piled around each body like gray sand. It seriously made me want to hurl.
“This is so gross,” I said to my friends.
“They look like something from a horror movie,” remarked Carli.
“Totally,” Lucretia agreed. “You expect them to leap up or something.”
“And grab one of those.” Shana pointed to machetes in a display case.
“Or those.” I aimed my finger at hooks that were used to remove innards.
“Ewww,” the girls said.
Carli announced, “I’m going to the restroom, anyone wanna come with?”
Lucretia and Shana did. I opted out. When my friends left, I moved closer to the case to take a look at the other items. I was examining limestone jars that guts and brains were once stored in when a familiar face caught my attention in the display’s glass. Because it was such a surprise to see him there, it took me a second to place him.
“Mr. Phil–” I started to call out, stepping out into the open. A split-second evaluation of Emery’s dad, and I quickly ducked back behind the display case, squatting down.
I peeked between the falcon and jackal head jars and observed Mr. Phillips through the glass. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a turtleneck and slacks, he leaned casually against the wall near the tomb, his sharp eyes surveying the room. His expression was stony, not friendly in the least. He hardly looked like the same person from yesterday. This Mr. Phillips looked dangerous.
He moved to the tomb’s entrance, unhooked the chain across the closed exhibit, and stepped to the other side. Refastening the chain, he went into the tomb.
To avoid drawing attention, I forced myself to stroll to the tomb’s entrance. Whistling, I glanced around to ensure no one was watching. No one was. Quickly, I ducked under the chain and slipped in behind him. The soles of Mr. Phillips’s dress shoes echoed through the dimly lit tomb; voices droned farther down. I was too stressed to tune them in. Plastering my back against the hieroglyphic-laden wall, I slid down the corridor after Mr. Phillips. At the end was a narrow doorway, giving passage into the Treasure Room. I stopped here.
“Everything secure, Meyer?” asked a man with a French accent.
“Yes,” Mr. Phillips responded.
Meyer? I thought. An alias? This can’t be good.
“Now, my friend, if you please,” said the Frenchman.
I ducked through the doorway, crawled behind a long, painted chest, and peered around the edge.
Mr. Phillips, a robust museum guard, and a lithe blond man with the build of a dancer stood in the burial chamber at the back of the room. The security guard handed a thumb drive to the blond man, who slipped it into his overcoat pocket and produced a cell phone. He struck an elegant finger against the keypad and brought
The queen lay in a gilded gold mummy case carved with hieroglyphics. A golden death mask covered her face, and her crown rested on her chest. The crown was stunning, with inlaid emeralds that showcased a large amber stone centered in the golden circlet. Over her coffin hung a translation of the curse.
It said, They that shall remove the crown will meet a swift death by the hands of seven.
Seven coffins that looked like packing crates were lined up on the other side of Queen Kiya. Each held a mummy, save for the seventh coffin. These mummies were disgusting, obviously not having been wrapped with the care that their queen had been. Ashy-looking decay peeked out from strips of tattered linen, and what had once been flesh was piled around each body like gray sand. It seriously made me want to hurl.
“This is so gross,” I said to my friends.
“They look like something from a horror movie,” remarked Carli.
“Totally,” Lucretia agreed. “You expect them to leap up or something.”
“And grab one of those.” Shana pointed to machetes in a display case.
“Or those.” I aimed my finger at hooks that were used to remove innards.
“Ewww,” the girls said.
Carli announced, “I’m going to the restroom, anyone wanna come with?”
Lucretia and Shana did. I opted out. When my friends left, I moved closer to the case to take a look at the other items. I was examining limestone jars that guts and brains were once stored in when a familiar face caught my attention in the display’s glass. Because it was such a surprise to see him there, it took me a second to place him.
“Mr. Phil–” I started to call out, stepping out into the open. A split-second evaluation of Emery’s dad, and I quickly ducked back behind the display case, squatting down.
I peeked between the falcon and jackal head jars and observed Mr. Phillips through the glass. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a turtleneck and slacks, he leaned casually against the wall near the tomb, his sharp eyes surveying the room. His expression was stony, not friendly in the least. He hardly looked like the same person from yesterday. This Mr. Phillips looked dangerous.
He moved to the tomb’s entrance, unhooked the chain across the closed exhibit, and stepped to the other side. Refastening the chain, he went into the tomb.
To avoid drawing attention, I forced myself to stroll to the tomb’s entrance. Whistling, I glanced around to ensure no one was watching. No one was. Quickly, I ducked under the chain and slipped in behind him. The soles of Mr. Phillips’s dress shoes echoed through the dimly lit tomb; voices droned farther down. I was too stressed to tune them in. Plastering my back against the hieroglyphic-laden wall, I slid down the corridor after Mr. Phillips. At the end was a narrow doorway, giving passage into the Treasure Room. I stopped here.
“Everything secure, Meyer?” asked a man with a French accent.
“Yes,” Mr. Phillips responded.
Meyer? I thought. An alias? This can’t be good.
“Now, my friend, if you please,” said the Frenchman.
I ducked through the doorway, crawled behind a long, painted chest, and peered around the edge.
Mr. Phillips, a robust museum guard, and a lithe blond man with the build of a dancer stood in the burial chamber at the back of the room. The security guard handed a thumb drive to the blond man, who slipped it into his overcoat pocket and produced a cell phone. He struck an elegant finger against the keypad and brought
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