The Complete Kane Chronicles by Rick Riordan Page B

shimmering golden form with wings instead of arms. I was some kind of bird. [No, Sadie, not a chicken. Will you let me tell the story, please?]
    I knew I wasn’t dreaming, because I don’t dream in color. I certainly don’t dream in all five senses. The room smelled faintly of jasmine. I could hear the carbonation bubbles pinging in the can of ginger ale I’d opened on my nightstand. I could feel a cold wind ruffling through my feathers, and I realized the windows were open. I didn’t want to leave, but a strong current pulled me out of the room like a leaf in a storm.
    The lights of the mansion faded below me. The skyline of New York blurred and disappeared. I shot through the mist and darkness, strange voices whispering all around me. My stomach tingled as it had earlier that night on Amos’s barge. Then the mist cleared, and I was in a different place.
    I floated above a barren mountain. Far below, a grid of city lights stretched across the valley floor. Definitely not New York. It was nighttime, but I could tell I was in the desert. The wind was so dry, the skin on my face was like paper. And I know that doesn’t make sense, but my face felt like my normal face, as if that part of me hadn’t transformed into a bird. [Fine, Sadie. Call me the Carter-headed chicken. Happy?]
    Below me on a ridge stood two figures. They didn’t seem to notice me, and I realized I wasn’t glowing anymore. In fact I was pretty much invisible, floating in the darkness. I couldn’t make out the two figures clearly, except to recognize that they weren’t human. Staring harder, I could see that one was short, squat, and hairless, with slimy skin that glistened in the starlight—like an amphibian standing on its hind legs. The other was tall and scarecrow skinny, with rooster claws instead of feet. I couldn’t see his face very well, but it looked red and moist and…well, let’s just say I was glad I couldn’t see it better.
    “Where is he?” the toadie-looking one croaked nervously.
    “Hasn’t taken a permanent host yet,” the rooster-footed guy chided. “He can only appear for a short time.”
    “You’re sure this is the place?”
    “Yes, fool! He’ll be here as soon—”
    A fiery form appeared on the ridge. The two creatures fell to the ground, groveling in the dirt, and I prayed like crazy that I really was invisible.
    “My lord!” the toad said.
    Even in the dark, the newcomer was hard to see—just the silhouette of a man outlined in flames.
    “What do they call this place?” the man asked. And as soon as he spoke, I knew for sure he was the guy who’d attacked my dad at the British Museum. All the fear I’d felt at the museum came rushing back, paralyzing me. I remembered trying to pick up that stupid rock to throw, but I hadn’t been able to do even that. I’d completely failed my dad.
    “My lord,” Rooster Foot said. “The mountain is called Camelback. The city is called Phoenix.”
    The fiery man laughed—a booming sound like thunder. “Phoenix. How appropriate! And the desert so much like home. All it needs now is to be scoured of life. The desert should be a sterile place, don’t you think?”
    “Oh yes, my lord,” the toadie agreed. “But what of the other four?”
    “One is already entombed,” the fiery man said. “The second is weak. She will be easily manipulated. That leaves only two. And they will be dealt with soon enough.”
    “Er…how?” the toadie asked.
    The fiery man glowed brighter. “You are an inquisitive little tadpole, aren’t you?” He pointed at the toad and the poor creature’s skin began to steam.
    “No!” the toadie begged. “No-o-o-o!”
    I could hardly watch. I don’t want to describe it. But if you’ve heard what happens when cruel kids pour salt on snails, you’ll have a pretty good idea of what happened to the toadie. Soon there was nothing left.
    Rooster Foot took a nervous step back. I couldn’t blame him.
    “We will build my temple here,” the