The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone. The Tablet’s decay was worst here. A sphinx sneezed and crumbled into sand. A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell over like dominoes. And in the center, standing before a broken, unopened sarcophagus, was the man they needed: Merenkahre. But he wasn’t a wise old pharaoh. He was a ghost—a flickering, translucent projection of rage.
The magic returned. But only for one.
They raced past a hall of suits of armor, where the gauntlets clanked in alarm. They zipped under the legs of a towering Moai statue, whose stony face seemed to frown at them. CJ fired his little pistol—pop! pop!—the sound like someone snapping a twig. It bounced off Lancelot’s metal backside. The knight didn’t even notice. night at the museum 3 cj
The plan was desperate: find the tomb of Ahkmenrah’s father, Merenkahre, somewhere in the labyrinthine depths of the British Museum. Only the Pharaoh’s spirit could reforge the magic. But the British Museum at night wasn’t like their home. It was a chaotic, snooty, and terrifyingly vast maze of culture. The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone
CJ looked at his hands. The rust was spreading up his arms, turning his painted leather into brittle, brown dust. He could feel himself lightening. Not heavy with sleep, but hollowing out like a log eaten by termites. He looked over at Larry, whose face was a mask of horror. Then he looked at the ghost of Merenkahre. A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell
And somewhere in a diorama back in New York, a miniature horse whinnied in its sleep.