Bones of the Sun God (Volume 2) (Pyramid Hunters, Band 2) - Softcover

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Peter Vegas lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with his wife, daughter, two dogs, and a motorbike. He draws and writes at night and practices the dark arts of advertising during the day. His little corner of the Internet is PeterVegas.com. Peter Vegas is the author of the Pyramid Hunters series.

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Bones of the Sun God
One week later

1

SINGLED OUT

SAM BROKE OUT IN A sweat as all eyes turned in his direction. Behind him, he heard Andrew Fletcher snickering. They hadn’t been friends since Sam beat him to a spot on the four-man rowing team.

“I said come here, Force.”

Mr. Stevenson’s voice filled the classroom, and yet he hadn’t seemed to speak very loud at all. Sam got to his feet, wondering if voice projection was a skill they taught at teachers college. He pushed in his chair, taking care not to scrape the legs on the floor. It was one of Mr. Stevenson’s pet peeves. No point in making the situation worse than it already was.

Mr. Stevenson watched Sam approach, holding the note distastefully between two fingers. He waved it in the direction of the nervous junior who had delivered the message. The boy understood the meaning and scuttled for the door.

As Sam got to the front row, Mr. Stevenson screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it into the wire basket in the corner of the room. It was a good shot, no rim. Sam hoped the mutterings of appreciation breaking out around the room might be enough to snap the teacher out of his foul mood. But they weren’t.

“Settle down,” Mr. Stevenson growled. “If you are not Mr. Force, then you should be attempting this!” He waved the black marker in his other hand at the algebra equation scrawled across the whiteboard.

“But you, Mr. Force, have been summoned to the headmaster’s office.”

Sam heard Andrew Fletcher mutter something from the back of the class.

“An urgent matter, no doubt. Can you think of anything important enough to warrant the interruption of your lesson in Advanced Algebra?”

Sam assumed he wasn’t meant to reply, but he could think of hundreds of reasons to interrupt Advanced Algebra. For him, math ranked even higher than bathroom cleaning on his list of hated tasks at his boarding school.

“Well?” Mr. Stevenson pointed the marker at Sam accusingly.

“No, sir,” Sam replied.

For a moment the man regarded him with the same look he’d given the headmaster’s note, then he jabbed his marker at the door. “Off you go, then.”

As Sam left the room, Mr. Stevenson spoke again, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You’ll have a lot to catch up on, Mr. Force. See Mr. Fletcher this evening. He can take you through the work you’ve missed.”

Sam grinned as he heard Andrew Fletcher’s muttered protests. He wouldn’t make a very good study partner, but it served him right. As Sam walked down the deserted corridor, he reflected on his teacher’s words. Mr. Stevenson was right. You weren’t called for during class unless it was very important. So what was he walking into?

THE LONG OAK BENCH CREAKED as Sam sat down. Looking around the office, with its floor-to-ceiling oak panels, old paintings, and grandfather clock, Sam realized that nearly everything in the place was creaky. That included Miss Ingle, the headmaster’s secretary. According to one of the boarders, whose older brother had also attended St. Albans, Miss Ingle had been at the school since it was founded. Sam didn’t think that was possible. It would mean she was . . . He couldn’t work it out—maybe he could have if he’d paid more attention in algebra—but he knew it would make her very old.

St. Albans was a grand school, if you were into that sort of thing. Huge old oaks and big stone buildings covered with moss dotted a well-manicured lawn. Sam thought it belonged in England, fifty years ago, not modern-day Boston. Not that Sam had ever been to an English boarding school. He could hardly remember anything about England. His last trip to that country had been over five years ago, before his parents died. No, not died, he corrected himself—disappeared.

Five years ago, Sam’s life changed forever when his parents were murdered. He’d been left to spend summer vacations in Cairo, with his uncle Jasper, and the rest of the year at St. Albans School for Boys.

But in July, everything changed again. In just a few days he had uncovered a conspiracy involving pyramids around the world and the famous Ark of the Covenant. He had learned his parents were involved, but more important for Sam, he’d been given hope that they were alive. His world had turned upside down, but almost as quickly as it had changed, he’d had to go back to being a schoolkid. It was impossible. Not with what he knew.

After his Egyptian adventure, he’d been desperate to keep going, to stay on the trail of his parents. But days had passed by with no progress. His uncle convinced him to return to Boston—a temporary situation, he had promised Sam, until he was able to get the appropriate resources in place. That had been six long weeks ago. Even Mary, who had been so keen to help him solve the mystery of his parents and the secret behind a worldwide network of pyramids, had lost interest. After Sam had returned to Boston, they had been in touch almost every day via e-mail, as they researched the information they had uncovered in Egypt. But in the last couple of weeks, things had changed. Her messages were less frequent, and the subject matter had become routine stuff about school and music. It was as if she had put their adventure behind her and moved on.

But Sam couldn’t. Not while there was still hope his parents were alive.

Sam had a nagging feeling that his summons to the headmaster’s office was to do with the events in Egypt. Since his return, he hadn’t felt the same about anything, especially schoolwork. His grades were dropping almost as fast as his bangs. And both had become a source of tension.

St. Albans liked its boys’ hair to look as well-groomed as its lawns, and both were cut often. Sam’s hair had already grown beyond an acceptable length when he returned from Egypt. It had been one of the first things the head teacher had commented on: “Be sure you’re front of the line when the barber visits this weekend, Force,” he had commanded. After that, it had become a thing for Sam.

He found an excuse to miss the barber’s school visit that weekend, and the next visit a few weeks later. In the outside world, Sam’s hair would not have even received a second glance, but within the pristine walls of St. Albans he began to turn heads. It was a small thing, but to Sam it had become a symbol of defiance. A personal reminder that he didn’t belong there anymore. Not when there were so many unanswered questions waiting for him in the outside world.

By the time the door to the headmaster’s office opened, Sam had prepared himself for a showdown about his hair. So he was totally unprepared when the two men inside greeted him with a round of applause.

The headmaster was clapping politely, but the man beside him looked like he was about to cry with joy as he slapped his small hands together so fast they were a pink blur. He was a short man, but anyone looked short next to the towering Mr. Billington, St. Albans’s headmaster.

“Come in, Sam, have a seat,” Mr. Billington said. He immediately sat down, looking relieved to have an excuse to stop clapping.

Sam eyed the chair in front of him, but the short man darted forward,...