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The Key
Peter Lerangis
“A high-octane mix of modern adventure and ancient secrets… I can’t wait to see what’s next.” Rick RiordanThe adventure continues… A new, thrilling journal in the epic Seven Wonders series.Read the stories. Join the quest. The Seven Wonders await.
Copyright (#ulink_2bbd8911-0806-5f7e-b90d-277d70e0ad41)
HarperCollins Children’s Books
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London, SE1 9GF
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Published by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015
Copyright © Peter Lerangis 2015
Cover design by Joe Merkel
Peter Lerangis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007586646
Version: 2015-01-21
Contents
Cover (#ua7ba335e-206f-59b4-86ad-62322fd8a215)
Title Page (#u2ad33f76-f646-58a9-9eef-29ef2185bf12)
Copyright (#ulink_e7fad148-482e-53c2-bc29-31db025ec7d3)
Private Journal: Aliyah Bartevyan (#ulink_3ad0a07d-a41f-5201-b3a7-a8052563a81d)
Excerpt from Seven Wonders: The Curse of the King (#litres_trial_promo)
Back Ads (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
(#ulink_aa153f6f-c8cc-5db2-8d97-73ec8e4ab1bf)
PRIVATE JOURNAL ALIYAH BARTEVYAN (#ulink_aa153f6f-c8cc-5db2-8d97-73ec8e4ab1bf)
(Osman, if you are even breathing within three feet of this, I will personally bash your head and rip up every Beatles poster you own!!!!!)
Tuesday, 11:00 P.M.
DIARY, I’M HAVING a bad night. My head is full of the Most-Girls thoughts. As in, Most Girls my age don’t live in a dirt hole like mine. Most Girls don’t live in shacks with stolen electricity via a rat-eaten wire from a neighbor. Most Girls go to school, buy nice clothes, read good books, help their mother with housework, take care of a pet.
I, Diary, as you know, am not Most Girls.
My school is the Khalid Bartevyan School of Crazy. I have no regular bedtime. My clothes and books come from other people’s trash. The clothes I hate, the books I like. Right now I am reading American History from 1776 to Now, but every page is missing after about 1910. With Mother gone, housework is optional, and the last pet I had was MoopaSoopa, that fat, snuggly rat who followed Father home from an exploration and met an untimely death by chewing through a live electrical wire.
Well, I have a pet now. Sort of. Her name is Safi, she’s a ferret my father borrowed for his latest scheme, and she’s about as snuggly as a drawer full of needles. But she has … Magical Properties! She will sniff out Treasures Untold from Hidden Places! She is a Millionaire Maker!
Do you believe that, Diary? I don’t. But Father does, of course. Safi is the latest scheme that is going to make us Rich, Rich, Rich!
Ughhh …
Do you know how Father described himself today? As a “Chief Officer of Bartevyan Antiquities Incorporated, Salvage Specialists.” Can you believe that? Bartevyan Antiquities? Some officer—he’s more of a Chief Babysitter to those four or five slovenly, useless men he works with. They come to our house, and when they leave, Father’s bottles are mostly empty.
Ah well, I don’t suppose he can say “Chief Tomb Robber of a Group of Jobless Drunks.” It doesn’t have the same ring.
But back to Safi. I do not like her. Or her owner, a wealthy one-eyed man named Feyyaz the Cyclops—who, by the way, is not snuggly either. They say his missing eye was taken in a rare playful moment by Safi. What Feyyaz lacks in looks, he makes up for in money—and nastiness. No one ever calls him Cyclops to his face, of course. It is said he once chopped off a man’s fingers for shaking his hand without bowing first.
Father will not tell us how Feyyaz got his wealth. Or how he got his charming personality or unique odor. Or why on earth he lent Safi to us.
Does Feyyaz really believe we will find a hidden ancient treasure? I worry he expects us to fail—and then he’ll blackmail us with something or other. Given Father’s track record, what else could he be thinking????
I know, Diary, if you were not a book, you would slap me—for being so disrespectful. And I would deserve it. But I can’t help but think there is something foul afoot.
I can’t really complain to Osman. Whenever I try, he looks at me as if I’ve grown donkey ears. He thinks our life is perfect. Sometimes I can’t believe he and I are twins. He seems so much younger than me. In fact, he believes in this Safi nonsense! Argghhh! (Well, he also believes that the TV sitcom I Dream of Jeannie is a documentary and that Father is a serious archaeologist.)
Both of the men in my life confuse reality and fantasy.
I’m Mother’s daughter, Diary—strong, practical, loyal, smart, modest, AND IF ANYONE EVER STEALS THIS DIARY AND REPEATS THAT CONCEITED-SOUNDING STATEMENT, I WILL PERSONALLY VANQUISH YOU, AND THAT ESPECIALLY INCLUDES MY SNEAK OF A BROTHER KNOWN AS OSMAN!
Sorry, had to include that disclaimer.
Mother always said Father’s stories would get us in trouble. “Just find a job, Khalid,” she would tell him. “Ordinary people don’t chase after treasure. Ordinary people have jobs.”
“Who wants to be ordinary?” was his response.
He had a point. But so did she. I miss Mother sooooo much, Diary.
Last night I dreamed about her. Again. Which is what I wanted to write about. Because I am still shaking and I do not think I shall ever sleep again.
Wednesday, 12:09 A.M.
SORRY. HAD TO put you away. Father fell off the bed and I had to wake him up, which took a while.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, the dream.
Okay, all I saw was Mother’s back. She was walking along the shore, wearing a long, brocaded gown. I shouted to her but she didn’t turn around. No! Her pace picked up … and she was headed directly into the sea. Of course I followed, screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to pull her away, but she wouldn’t even turn to face me. Next thing I knew, we were both underwater.
Diary, I was breathing—and nothing scared me! Not even the eels and jellyfish (who you know I hate with a passion)! They were tickling me like the softest feathers as I walked along the ocean bottom. I could hear a voice, coming from Mother, saying over and over …
“You have such a strong soul, my dear …”
“You have such a strong soul, my dear …”
Strong soul? Really? I giggled. It sounded like one of the scary voices Mother used when telling us ghost stories. When I finally caught up to her, I tugged on her hand. “Where are we going?” I asked.
My fingers slid away. The skin had just … slipped off like dried masking tape. I sprang back, holding it in my fingertips. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
Then she turned. It wasn’t Mother at all, but a haggard old witch with a mummy’s face and a smile like a stab wound. “Let me see the back of your head, my dearie,” she said, as if that made perfect sense.
I couldn’t answer. My mouth just flapped open and shut like a fish.
“Do you have it?” Her voice was growing less patient, sharper.
“Have … what?” I asked.
I backed away, shaking my head. I didn’t know what she meant. Before I could run, she grabbed my arm, turned me around, and let out a shriek …
The next thing I knew, Father was shaking me awake. His eyes were bloodshot and desperate. Osman, of course, was fast asleep. But there was someone else in the room—Father’s ugly friend, Gencer. I could recognize him even in the dark. His back is curved like an S, and one tuft of hair juts from his head like a sprig of scorched grass.
I caught my breath. That thing was not Mother … that thing was not Mother … that thing was not Mother … I repeated to myself over and over.
I thought about Mother’s smile. I thought about the way she could make Father—all of us—happy.
Then I thought about how much she disliked Gencer. How she’d banned him from our house. “What are you doing here?” I asked, gathering up my courage.
Old Gencer leaned forward, into the light that reflected off the wall from Father’s flashlight. As always, his face was twisted in agony, as if he’d bitten down on a razor blade. “Either the girl is possessed,” he said, “or she ate your cooking last night, Khalid. Heh! Now be silent, girl. How can you expect a man to think in peace …”
He turned to leave, waving a half-empty bottle, before falling down and passing out at the doorstep. And I realized he hadn’t said the word think after all, but a much uglier word that rhymes with it. And begins with dr.
Wednesday, 1:00 A.M.
RAKI.
No, whiskey.
No, raki.
Father is curled up on the floor, snoring. Each of his breaths wafts over me like a gust from a drainage pipe. I’m pretty sure it’s raki, because of the faint licorice smell.
I used to like licorice. But not anymore. I have smelled it one too many times in our shack, in the form of a foul alcoholic drink that changes Father’s personality.
Yup, still awake, Diary. Will this night ever end??? In a few hours, just after sunrise, we go to the beautiful city of Fethiye on another Great Adventure—a search for the Missing Ring of the Great King Harpagus of Lycia. Apparently it is worth gazillions.
Wait, you say, there are holes in this logic! Well, yes. First of all Harpagus was not a king, because Lycia was not its own country—part of the Persian Empire, technically. So he was technically a satrap. A lesser ruler. Second, no one knows where this ring is, or if it ever existed at all.
And that is where Safi the Magical Ferret comes in. She will find the Ring That May Not Ever Have Been, which belonged to the Guy Who Was Not a King. And we will live happily ever after.
Is this just insane? Have we heard this kind of story before?
Yes. Last month it was missing pinkie of the Statue of Zeus from Olympia. Six weeks ago it was King Tut’s mustache. Three months ago, Cleopatra’s golden toenail clippers.
All wild-goose chases.
Okay, I admit, I’m a little excited. I have never been to Fethiye but it sounds wonderful, all beaches and seaside cafés. Whoa, here come the Most-Girl thoughts, as in when Most Girls go to the beach with their fathers, they’re not robbing tombs with a smelly ferret. Of course, Osman says
Sorry, Diary, had to put you away for a few minutes. Father woke up. I think he saw you. You know what he said to me? “Aliyah, promise me you will keep your brother safe.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Of course I will,” I stammered. “Why do you—?”
“He will be a great man,” he said. “But his soul is wild, untamed, and incautious. And you will need him someday …”
I was on the verge of saying So what am I, chopped liver? when he smiled, and his eyes seemed to gain a sharp focus I hadn’t seen since Mother died.
“… Because you, my daughter,” he said, “you will save the world …”
At that last word, his eyes closed and he drifted to sleep.
I am smiling now. Sometimes Father’s dreams reveal the foolishness in his head but also the love in his heart.
I think I will sleep now, Diary.
Wednesday, 10:32 P.M.
UCCCH. SORRY, DIARY, for the coffee stain.
Yes, yes, I know, I hate coffee. But as the others yammer and argue around the fire, I need to stay awake and write down what happened today. Because I am worried about all of us.
We set off shortly after dawn. Osman was the only one wide awake. He sang a horrible little song called the “Hunt for the Ring of Asparagus” to the tune of “Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.” I thought Gencer would clock him over the head. I (almost) wouldn’t have minded.
We were trudging up a hill to find the ruined tomb where the ring was supposed to be hidden. Gencer was huffing and puffing, a cigar dangling from his lip. (Father buys the cigars, of course, even though Gencer is the only one who smokes them.) “So when that wretched animal finds the ring,” Gencer grumbled, watching Safi relieve herself in the middle of the trail, “then what? Maybe we can use our profits to invest in an oracular animal of our very own! Maybe, say, a three-legged goat who will eat its way to the Holy Grail?” He blew our way a puff of cigar smoke that smelled like someone had replaced the tobacco with manure.
“Have a little faith, my wise and wizened incompetent,” Father said.
Gencer looked momentarily confused (as he usually does when Father uses words of two syllables or more), then quickly regained his sarcasm. “You know, Khalid,” he finally said, “there was a time when you had a knack for finding a little something here and there, but this ferret business makes me think you’re just grasping at straws.”
“Ah,” Father replied. “And you, of course, have a better idea. Like your splendid scheme to pose as a statue by painting yourself silver, thereby suffocating yourself in public—”
“I was younger then!” Gencer snapped, wincing at the memory. “I do have an idea, you know. And it’s far better than this elongated rat—”
