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To all my librarian friends, champions of books, true magicians in the House of Life. Without you, this writer would be lost in the Duat.
“Six years in England,” I muttered, “and she thinks she’s James Bond.”
“Manhattan has other problems. Other gods. It’s best we stay separate.”
“Fairness does not mean everyone gets the same,” Dad said. “Fairness means everyone gets what they need. And the only way to get what you need is to make it happen yourself.
“Oh, no,” I said, panic rising in my chest. “No, no, no. Somebody get a can opener. I’ve got a god stuck in my head.”
You know how hard it is to feel like an extreme falcon-headed combat machine when somebody calls you “chicken man”?
“I’m going to play basketball by myself now. I will not invite you because your lack of skill would make me throw up.”
“When the people needed to stop Sekhmet, they got huge vats of beer and colored them bright red with pomegranate juice.”
Far, far below, red liquid bubbled. Blood? Lava? Evil ketchup? None of the possibilities were good.
“I am Carter Kane,” I said. “Blood of the Pharaohs, Eye of Horus. And now, Set—brother, uncle, traitor—I’m going to crush you like a gnat.”
